
[Illustration]




Sense and Sensibility

by Jane Austen

(1811)


Contents

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




CHAPTER I.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No sooner was his father’s funeral over, than Mrs. John Dashwood,
without sending any notice of her intention to her mother-in-law,
arrived with her child and their attendants. No one could dispute her
right to come; the house was her husband’s from the moment of his
father’s decease; but the indelicacy of her conduct was so much the
greater, and to a woman in Mrs. Dashwood’s situation, with only common
feelings, must have been highly unpleasing;—but in _her_ mind there was
a sense of honor so keen, a generosity so romantic, that any offence of
the kind, by whomsoever given or received, was to her a source of
immovable disgust. Mrs. John Dashwood had never been a favourite with
any of her husband’s family; but she had had no opportunity, till the
present, of showing them with how little attention to the comfort of
other people she could act when occasion required it.

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

Elinor, this eldest daughter, whose advice was so effectual, possessed
a strength of understanding, and coolness of judgment, which qualified
her, though only nineteen, to be the counsellor of her mother, and
enabled her frequently to counteract, to the advantage of them all,
that eagerness of mind in Mrs. Dashwood which must generally have led
to imprudence. She had an excellent heart;—her disposition was
affectionate, and her feelings were strong; but she knew how to govern
them: it was a knowledge which her mother had yet to learn; and which
one of her sisters had resolved never to be taught.

Marianne’s abilities were, in many respects, quite equal to Elinor’s.
She was sensible and clever; but eager in everything: her sorrows, her
joys, could have no moderation. She was generous, amiable, interesting:
she was everything but prudent. The resemblance between her and her
mother was strikingly great.

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

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




CHAPTER II.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“To be sure it would.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“To be sure it will. Indeed, to say the truth, I am convinced within
myself that your father had no idea of your giving them any money at
all. The assistance he thought of, I dare say, was only such as might
be reasonably expected of you; for instance, such as looking out for a
comfortable small house for them, helping them to move their things,
and sending them presents of fish and game, and so forth, whenever they
are in season. I’ll lay my life that he meant nothing farther; indeed,
it would be very strange and unreasonable if he did. Do but consider,
my dear Mr. Dashwood, how excessively comfortable your mother-in-law
and her daughters may live on the interest of seven thousand pounds,
besides the thousand pounds belonging to each of the girls, which
brings them in fifty pounds a year a-piece, and, of course, they will
pay their mother for their board out of it. Altogether, they will have
five hundred a-year amongst them, and what on earth can four women want
for more than that?—They will live so cheap! Their housekeeping will be
nothing at all. They will have no carriage, no horses, and hardly any
servants; they will keep no company, and can have no expenses of any
kind! Only conceive how comfortable they will be! Five hundred a year!
I am sure I cannot imagine how they will spend half of it; and as to
your giving them more, it is quite absurd to think of it. They will be
much more able to give _you_ something.”

“Upon my word,” said Mr. Dashwood, “I believe you are perfectly right.
My father certainly could mean nothing more by his request to me than
what you say. I clearly understand it now, and I will strictly fulfil
my engagement by such acts of assistance and kindness to them as you
have described. When my mother removes into another house my services
shall be readily given to accommodate her as far as I can. Some little
present of furniture too may be acceptable then.”

“Certainly,” returned Mrs. John Dashwood. “But, however, _one_ thing
must be considered. When your father and mother moved to Norland,
though the furniture of Stanhill was sold, all the china, plate, and
linen was saved, and is now left to your mother. Her house will
therefore be almost completely fitted up as soon as she takes it.”

“That is a material consideration undoubtedly. A valuable legacy
indeed! And yet some of the plate would have been a very pleasant
addition to our own stock here.”

“Yes; and the set of breakfast china is twice as handsome as what
belongs to this house. A great deal too handsome, in my opinion, for
any place _they_ can ever afford to live in. But, however, so it is.
Your father thought only of _them_. And I must say this: that you owe
no particular gratitude to him, nor attention to his wishes; for we
very well know that if he could, he would have left almost everything
in the world to _them_.”

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




CHAPTER III.


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

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

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

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

Some mothers might have encouraged the intimacy from motives of
interest, for Edward Ferrars was the eldest son of a man who had died
very rich; and some might have repressed it from motives of prudence,
for, except a trifling sum, the whole of his fortune depended on the
will of his mother. But Mrs. Dashwood was alike uninfluenced by either
consideration. It was enough for her that he appeared to be amiable,
that he loved her daughter, and that Elinor returned the partiality. It
was contrary to every doctrine of hers that difference of fortune
should keep any couple asunder who were attracted by resemblance of
disposition; and that Elinor’s merit should not be acknowledged by
every one who knew her, was to her comprehension impossible.

Edward Ferrars was not recommended to their good opinion by any
peculiar graces of person or address. He was not handsome, and his
manners required intimacy to make them pleasing. He was too diffident
to do justice to himself; but when his natural shyness was overcome,
his behaviour gave every indication of an open, affectionate heart. His
understanding was good, and his education had given it solid
improvement. But he was neither fitted by abilities nor disposition to
answer the wishes of his mother and sister, who longed to see him
distinguished—as—they hardly knew what. They wanted him to make a fine
figure in the world in some manner or other. His mother wished to
interest him in political concerns, to get him into parliament, or to
see him connected with some of the great men of the day. Mrs. John
Dashwood wished it likewise; but in the mean while, till one of these
superior blessings could be attained, it would have quieted her
ambition to see him driving a barouche. But Edward had no turn for
great men or barouches. All his wishes centered in domestic comfort and
the quiet of private life. Fortunately he had a younger brother who was
more promising.

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

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

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

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

“You may esteem him.”

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

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

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

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

“Oh! Mama, how shall we do without her?”

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

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


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

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

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




CHAPTER IV.


“What a pity it is, Elinor,” said Marianne, “that Edward should have no
taste for drawing.”

“No taste for drawing!” replied Elinor, “why should you think so? He
does not draw himself, indeed, but he has great pleasure in seeing the
performances of other people, and I assure you he is by no means
deficient in natural taste, though he has not had opportunities of
improving it. Had he ever been in the way of learning, I think he would
have drawn very well. He distrusts his own judgment in such matters so
much, that he is always unwilling to give his opinion on any picture;
but he has an innate propriety and simplicity of taste, which in
general direct him perfectly right.”

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

“I hope, Marianne,” continued Elinor, “you do not consider him as
deficient in general taste. Indeed, I think I may say that you cannot,
for your behaviour to him is perfectly cordial, and if _that_ were your
opinion, I am sure you could never be civil to him.”

Marianne hardly knew what to say. She would not wound the feelings of
her sister on any account, and yet to say what she did not believe was
impossible. At length she replied:

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

“I am sure,” replied Elinor, with a smile, “that his dearest friends
could not be dissatisfied with such commendation as that. I do not
perceive how you could express yourself more warmly.”

Marianne was rejoiced to find her sister so easily pleased.

“Of his sense and his goodness,” continued Elinor, “no one can, I
think, be in doubt, who has seen him often enough to engage him in
unreserved conversation. The excellence of his understanding and his
principles can be concealed only by that shyness which too often keeps
him silent. You know enough of him to do justice to his solid worth.
But of his minuter propensities, as you call them you have from
peculiar circumstances been kept more ignorant than myself. He and I
have been at times thrown a good deal together, while you have been
wholly engrossed on the most affectionate principle by my mother. I
have seen a great deal of him, have studied his sentiments and heard
his opinion on subjects of literature and taste; and, upon the whole, I
venture to pronounce that his mind is well-informed, enjoyment of books
exceedingly great, his imagination lively, his observation just and
correct, and his taste delicate and pure. His abilities in every
respect improve as much upon acquaintance as his manners and person. At
first sight, his address is certainly not striking; and his person can
hardly be called handsome, till the expression of his eyes, which are
uncommonly good, and the general sweetness of his countenance, is
perceived. At present, I know him so well, that I think him really
handsome; or at least, almost so. What say you, Marianne?”

“I shall very soon think him handsome, Elinor, if I do not now. When
you tell me to love him as a brother, I shall no more see imperfection
in his face, than I now do in his heart.”

Elinor started at this declaration, and was sorry for the warmth she
had been betrayed into, in speaking of him. She felt that Edward stood
very high in her opinion. She believed the regard to be mutual; but she
required greater certainty of it to make Marianne’s conviction of their
attachment agreeable to her. She knew that what Marianne and her mother
conjectured one moment, they believed the next—that with them, to wish
was to hope, and to hope was to expect. She tried to explain the real
state of the case to her sister.

“I do not attempt to deny,” said she, “that I think very highly of
him—that I greatly esteem, that I like him.”

Marianne here burst forth with indignation—

“Esteem him! Like him! Cold-hearted Elinor! Oh! worse than
cold-hearted! Ashamed of being otherwise. Use those words again, and I
will leave the room this moment.”

Elinor could not help laughing. “Excuse me,” said she; “and be assured
that I meant no offence to you, by speaking, in so quiet a way, of my
own feelings. Believe them to be stronger than I have declared; believe
them, in short, to be such as his merit, and the suspicion—the hope of
his affection for me may warrant, without imprudence or folly. But
farther than this you must _not_ believe. I am by no means assured of
his regard for me. There are moments when the extent of it seems
doubtful; and till his sentiments are fully known, you cannot wonder at
my wishing to avoid any encouragement of my own partiality, by
believing or calling it more than it is. In my heart I feel
little—scarcely any doubt of his preference. But there are other points
to be considered besides his inclination. He is very far from being
independent. What his mother really is we cannot know; but, from
Fanny’s occasional mention of her conduct and opinions, we have never
been disposed to think her amiable; and I am very much mistaken if
Edward is not himself aware that there would be many difficulties in
his way, if he were to wish to marry a woman who had not either a great
fortune or high rank.”

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

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

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

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

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

Elinor had always thought it would be more prudent for them to settle
at some distance from Norland, than immediately amongst their present
acquaintance. On _that_ head, therefore, it was not for her to oppose
her mother’s intention of removing into Devonshire. The house, too, as
described by Sir John, was on so simple a scale, and the rent so
uncommonly moderate, as to leave her no right of objection on either
point; and, therefore, though it was not a plan which brought any charm
to her fancy, though it was a removal from the vicinity of Norland
beyond her wishes, she made no attempt to dissuade her mother from
sending a letter of acquiescence.




CHAPTER V.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER VI.


The first part of their journey was performed in too melancholy a
disposition to be otherwise than tedious and unpleasant. But as they
drew towards the end of it, their interest in the appearance of a
country which they were to inhabit overcame their dejection, and a view
of Barton Valley as they entered it gave them cheerfulness. It was a
pleasant fertile spot, well wooded, and rich in pasture. After winding
along it for more than a mile, they reached their own house. A small
green court was the whole of its demesne in front; and a neat wicket
gate admitted them into it.

As a house, Barton Cottage, though small, was comfortable and compact;
but as a cottage it was defective, for the building was regular, the
roof was tiled, the window shutters were not painted green, nor were
the walls covered with honeysuckles. A narrow passage led directly
through the house into the garden behind. On each side of the entrance
was a sitting room, about sixteen feet square; and beyond them were the
offices and the stairs. Four bed-rooms and two garrets formed the rest
of the house. It had not been built many years and was in good repair.
In comparison of Norland, it was poor and small indeed!—but the tears
which recollection called forth as they entered the house were soon
dried away. They were cheered by the joy of the servants on their
arrival, and each for the sake of the others resolved to appear happy.
It was very early in September; the season was fine, and from first
seeing the place under the advantage of good weather, they received an
impression in its favour which was of material service in recommending
it to their lasting approbation.

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

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

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

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

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

They were, of course, very anxious to see a person on whom so much of
their comfort at Barton must depend; and the elegance of her appearance
was favourable to their wishes. Lady Middleton was not more than six or
seven and twenty; her face was handsome, her figure tall and striking,
and her address graceful. Her manners had all the elegance which her
husband’s wanted. But they would have been improved by some share of
his frankness and warmth; and her visit was long enough to detract
something from their first admiration, by showing that, though
perfectly well-bred, she was reserved, cold, and had nothing to say for
herself beyond the most common-place inquiry or remark.

Conversation however was not wanted, for Sir John was very chatty, and
Lady Middleton had taken the wise precaution of bringing with her their
eldest child, a fine little boy about six years old, by which means
there was one subject always to be recurred to by the ladies in case of
extremity, for they had to enquire his name and age, admire his beauty,
and ask him questions which his mother answered for him, while he hung
about her and held down his head, to the great surprise of her
ladyship, who wondered at his being so shy before company, as he could
make noise enough at home. On every formal visit a child ought to be of
the party, by way of provision for discourse. In the present case it
took up ten minutes to determine whether the boy were most like his
father or mother, and in what particular he resembled either, for of
course every body differed, and every body was astonished at the
opinion of the others.

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




CHAPTER VII.


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

Lady Middleton piqued herself upon the elegance of her table, and of
all her domestic arrangements; and from this kind of vanity was her
greatest enjoyment in any of their parties. But Sir John’s satisfaction
in society was much more real; he delighted in collecting about him
more young people than his house would hold, and the noisier they were
the better was he pleased. He was a blessing to all the juvenile part
of the neighbourhood, for in summer he was for ever forming parties to
eat cold ham and chicken out of doors, and in winter his private balls
were numerous enough for any young lady who was not suffering under the
unsatiable appetite of fifteen.

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

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

Mrs. Jennings, Lady Middleton’s mother, was a good-humoured, merry,
fat, elderly woman, who talked a great deal, seemed very happy, and
rather vulgar. She was full of jokes and laughter, and before dinner
was over had said many witty things on the subject of lovers and
husbands; hoped they had not left their hearts behind them in Sussex,
and pretended to see them blush whether they did or not. Marianne was
vexed at it for her sister’s sake, and turned her eyes towards Elinor
to see how she bore these attacks, with an earnestness which gave
Elinor far more pain than could arise from such common-place raillery
as Mrs. Jennings’s.

Colonel Brandon, the friend of Sir John, seemed no more adapted by
resemblance of manner to be his friend, than Lady Middleton was to be
his wife, or Mrs. Jennings to be Lady Middleton’s mother. He was silent
and grave. His appearance however was not unpleasing, in spite of his
being in the opinion of Marianne and Margaret an absolute old bachelor,
for he was on the wrong side of five and thirty; but though his face
was not handsome, his countenance was sensible, and his address was
particularly gentlemanlike.

There was nothing in any of the party which could recommend them as
companions to the Dashwoods; but the cold insipidity of Lady Middleton
was so particularly repulsive, that in comparison of it the gravity of
Colonel Brandon, and even the boisterous mirth of Sir John and his
mother-in-law was interesting. Lady Middleton seemed to be roused to
enjoyment only by the entrance of her four noisy children after dinner,
who pulled her about, tore her clothes, and put an end to every kind of
discourse except what related to themselves.

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

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




CHAPTER VIII.


Mrs. Jennings was a widow with an ample jointure. She had only two
daughters, both of whom she had lived to see respectably married, and
she had now therefore nothing to do but to marry all the rest of the
world. In the promotion of this object she was zealously active, as far
as her ability reached; and missed no opportunity of projecting
weddings among all the young people of her acquaintance. She was
remarkably quick in the discovery of attachments, and had enjoyed the
advantage of raising the blushes and the vanity of many a young lady by
insinuations of her power over such a young man; and this kind of
discernment enabled her soon after her arrival at Barton decisively to
pronounce that Colonel Brandon was very much in love with Marianne
Dashwood. She rather suspected it to be so, on the very first evening
of their being together, from his listening so attentively while she
sang to them; and when the visit was returned by the Middletons’ dining
at the cottage, the fact was ascertained by his listening to her again.
It must be so. She was perfectly convinced of it. It would be an
excellent match, for _he_ was rich, and _she_ was handsome. Mrs.
Jennings had been anxious to see Colonel Brandon well married, ever
since her connection with Sir John first brought him to her knowledge;
and she was always anxious to get a good husband for every pretty girl.

The immediate advantage to herself was by no means inconsiderable, for
it supplied her with endless jokes against them both. At the park she
laughed at the colonel, and in the cottage at Marianne. To the former
her raillery was probably, as far as it regarded only himself,
perfectly indifferent; but to the latter it was at first
incomprehensible; and when its object was understood, she hardly knew
whether most to laugh at its absurdity, or censure its impertinence,
for she considered it as an unfeeling reflection on the colonel’s
advanced years, and on his forlorn condition as an old bachelor.

Mrs. Dashwood, who could not think a man five years younger than
herself, so exceedingly ancient as he appeared to the youthful fancy of
her daughter, ventured to clear Mrs. Jennings from the probability of
wishing to throw ridicule on his age.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How strange this is! what can be the meaning of it! But the whole of
their behaviour to each other has been unaccountable! How cold, how
composed were their last adieus! How languid their conversation the
last evening of their being together! In Edward’s farewell there was no
distinction between Elinor and me: it was the good wishes of an
affectionate brother to both. Twice did I leave them purposely together
in the course of the last morning, and each time did he most
unaccountably follow me out of the room. And Elinor, in quitting
Norland and Edward, cried not as I did. Even now her self-command is
invariable. When is she dejected or melancholy? When does she try to
avoid society, or appear restless and dissatisfied in it?”




CHAPTER IX.


The Dashwoods were now settled at Barton with tolerable comfort to
themselves. The house and the garden, with all the objects surrounding
them, were now become familiar, and the ordinary pursuits which had
given to Norland half its charms were engaged in again with far greater
enjoyment than Norland had been able to afford, since the loss of their
father. Sir John Middleton, who called on them every day for the first
fortnight, and who was not in the habit of seeing much occupation at
home, could not conceal his amazement on finding them always employed.

Their visitors, except those from Barton Park, were not many; for, in
spite of Sir John’s urgent entreaties that they would mix more in the
neighbourhood, and repeated assurances of his carriage being always at
their service, the independence of Mrs. Dashwood’s spirit overcame the
wish of society for her children; and she was resolute in declining to
visit any family beyond the distance of a walk. There were but few who
could be so classed; and it was not all of them that were attainable.
About a mile and a half from the cottage, along the narrow winding
valley of Allenham, which issued from that of Barton, as formerly
described, the girls had, in one of their earliest walks, discovered an
ancient respectable looking mansion which, by reminding them a little
of Norland, interested their imagination and made them wish to be
better acquainted with it. But they learnt, on enquiry, that its
possessor, an elderly lady of very good character, was unfortunately
too infirm to mix with the world, and never stirred from home.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sir John called on them as soon as the next interval of fair weather
that morning allowed him to get out of doors; and Marianne’s accident
being related to him, he was eagerly asked whether he knew any
gentleman of the name of Willoughby at Allenham.

“Willoughby!” cried Sir John; “what, is _he_ in the country? That is
good news however; I will ride over tomorrow, and ask him to dinner on
Thursday.”

“You know him then,” said Mrs. Dashwood.

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

“And what sort of a young man is he?”

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

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

Sir John was rather puzzled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER X.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“In defence of your _protégé_ you can even be saucy.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER XI.


Little had Mrs. Dashwood or her daughters imagined when they first came
into Devonshire, that so many engagements would arise to occupy their
time as shortly presented themselves, or that they should have such
frequent invitations and such constant visitors as to leave them little
leisure for serious employment. Yet such was the case. When Marianne
was recovered, the schemes of amusement at home and abroad, which Sir
John had been previously forming, were put into execution. The private
balls at the park then began; and parties on the water were made and
accomplished as often as a showery October would allow. In every
meeting of the kind Willoughby was included; and the ease and
familiarity which naturally attended these parties were exactly
calculated to give increasing intimacy to his acquaintance with the
Dashwoods, to afford him opportunity of witnessing the excellencies of
Marianne, of marking his animated admiration of her, and of receiving,
in her behaviour to himself, the most pointed assurance of her
affection.

Elinor could not be surprised at their attachment. She only wished that
it were less openly shown; and once or twice did venture to suggest the
propriety of some self-command to Marianne. But Marianne abhorred all
concealment where no real disgrace could attend unreserve; and to aim
at the restraint of sentiments which were not in themselves illaudable,
appeared to her not merely an unnecessary effort, but a disgraceful
subjection of reason to common-place and mistaken notions. Willoughby
thought the same; and their behaviour at all times, was an illustration
of their opinions.

When he was present she had no eyes for any one else. Every thing he
did, was right. Every thing he said, was clever. If their evenings at
the park were concluded with cards, he cheated himself and all the rest
of the party to get her a good hand. If dancing formed the amusement of
the night, they were partners for half the time; and when obliged to
separate for a couple of dances, were careful to stand together and
scarcely spoke a word to any body else. Such conduct made them of
course most exceedingly laughed at; but ridicule could not shame, and
seemed hardly to provoke them.

Mrs. Dashwood entered into all their feelings with a warmth which left
her no inclination for checking this excessive display of them. To her
it was but the natural consequence of a strong affection in a young and
ardent mind.

This was the season of happiness to Marianne. Her heart was devoted to
Willoughby, and the fond attachment to Norland, which she brought with
her from Sussex, was more likely to be softened than she had thought it
possible before, by the charms which his society bestowed on her
present home.

Elinor’s happiness was not so great. Her heart was not so much at ease,
nor her satisfaction in their amusements so pure. They afforded her no
companion that could make amends for what she had left behind, nor that
could teach her to think of Norland with less regret than ever. Neither
Lady Middleton nor Mrs. Jennings could supply to her the conversation
she missed; although the latter was an everlasting talker, and from the
first had regarded her with a kindness which ensured her a large share
of her discourse. She had already repeated her own history to Elinor
three or four times; and had Elinor’s memory been equal to her means of
improvement, she might have known very early in their acquaintance all
the particulars of Mr. Jennings’s last illness, and what he said to his
wife a few minutes before he died. Lady Middleton was more agreeable
than her mother only in being more silent. Elinor needed little
observation to perceive that her reserve was a mere calmness of manner
with which sense had nothing to do. Towards her husband and mother she
was the same as to them; and intimacy was therefore neither to be
looked for nor desired. She had nothing to say one day that she had not
said the day before. Her insipidity was invariable, for even her
spirits were always the same; and though she did not oppose the parties
arranged by her husband, provided every thing were conducted in style
and her two eldest children attended her, she never appeared to receive
more enjoyment from them than she might have experienced in sitting at
home;—and so little did her presence add to the pleasure of the others,
by any share in their conversation, that they were sometimes only
reminded of her being amongst them by her solicitude about her
troublesome boys.

In Colonel Brandon alone, of all her new acquaintance, did Elinor find
a person who could in any degree claim the respect of abilities, excite
the interest of friendship, or give pleasure as a companion. Willoughby
was out of the question. Her admiration and regard, even her sisterly
regard, was all his own; but he was a lover; his attentions were wholly
Marianne’s, and a far less agreeable man might have been more generally
pleasing. Colonel Brandon, unfortunately for himself, had no such
encouragement to think only of Marianne, and in conversing with Elinor
he found the greatest consolation for the indifference of her sister.

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

“No,” replied Elinor, “her opinions are all romantic.”

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

“I believe she does. But how she contrives it without reflecting on the
character of her own father, who had himself two wives, I know not. A
few years however will settle her opinions on the reasonable basis of
common sense and observation; and then they may be more easy to define
and to justify than they now are, by any body but herself.”

“This will probably be the case,” he replied; “and yet there is
something so amiable in the prejudices of a young mind, that one is
sorry to see them give way to the reception of more general opinions.”

“I cannot agree with you there,” said Elinor. “There are inconveniences
attending such feelings as Marianne’s, which all the charms of
enthusiasm and ignorance of the world cannot atone for. Her systems
have all the unfortunate tendency of setting propriety at nought; and a
better acquaintance with the world is what I look forward to as her
greatest possible advantage.”

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

“Does your sister make no distinction in her objections against a
second attachment? or is it equally criminal in every body? Are those
who have been disappointed in their first choice, whether from the
inconstancy of its object, or the perverseness of circumstances, to be
equally indifferent during the rest of their lives?”

“Upon my word, I am not acquainted with the minutiae of her principles.
I only know that I never yet heard her admit any instance of a second
attachment’s being pardonable.”

“This,” said he, “cannot hold; but a change, a total change of
sentiments—No, no, do not desire it; for when the romantic refinements
of a young mind are obliged to give way, how frequently are they
succeeded by such opinions as are but too common, and too dangerous! I
speak from experience. I once knew a lady who in temper and mind
greatly resembled your sister, who thought and judged like her, but who
from an enforced change—from a series of unfortunate circumstances—”
Here he stopt suddenly; appeared to think that he had said too much,
and by his countenance gave rise to conjectures, which might not
otherwise have entered Elinor’s head. The lady would probably have
passed without suspicion, had he not convinced Miss Dashwood that what
concerned her ought not to escape his lips. As it was, it required but
a slight effort of fancy to connect his emotion with the tender
recollection of past regard. Elinor attempted no more. But Marianne, in
her place, would not have done so little. The whole story would have
been speedily formed under her active imagination; and every thing
established in the most melancholy order of disastrous love.




CHAPTER XII.


As Elinor and Marianne were walking together the next morning the
latter communicated a piece of news to her sister, which in spite of
all that she knew before of Marianne’s imprudence and want of thought,
surprised her by its extravagant testimony of both. Marianne told her,
with the greatest delight, that Willoughby had given her a horse, one
that he had bred himself on his estate in Somersetshire, and which was
exactly calculated to carry a woman. Without considering that it was
not in her mother’s plan to keep any horse, that if she were to alter
her resolution in favour of this gift, she must buy another for the
servant, and keep a servant to ride it, and after all, build a stable
to receive them, she had accepted the present without hesitation, and
told her sister of it in raptures.

“He intends to send his groom into Somersetshire immediately for it,”
she added, “and when it arrives we will ride every day. You shall share
its use with me. Imagine to yourself, my dear Elinor, the delight of a
gallop on some of these downs.”

Most unwilling was she to awaken from such a dream of felicity to
comprehend all the unhappy truths which attended the affair; and for
some time she refused to submit to them. As to an additional servant,
the expense would be a trifle; Mama she was sure would never object to
it; and any horse would do for _him;_ he might always get one at the
park; as to a stable, the merest shed would be sufficient. Elinor then
ventured to doubt the propriety of her receiving such a present from a
man so little, or at least so lately known to her. This was too much.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER XIII.


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

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

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

“What is the matter with Brandon?” said Sir John.

Nobody could tell.

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

In about five minutes he returned.

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

“None at all, ma’am, I thank you.”

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

“No, ma’am. It came from town, and is merely a letter of business.”

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

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

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

“No, indeed, it is not.”

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

“Whom do you mean, ma’am?” said he, colouring a little.

“Oh! you know who I mean.”

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

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

“My own loss is great,” he continued, “in being obliged to leave so
agreeable a party; but I am the more concerned, as I fear my presence
is necessary to gain your admittance at Whitwell.”

What a blow upon them all was this!

“But if you write a note to the housekeeper, Mr. Brandon,” said
Marianne, eagerly, “will it not be sufficient?”

He shook his head.

“We must go,” said Sir John.—“It shall not be put off when we are so
near it. You cannot go to town till tomorrow, Brandon, that is all.”

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

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

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

“I cannot afford to lose _one_ hour.”

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

“I have no doubt of it,” replied Marianne.

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

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

“Well, then, when will you come back again?”

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

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

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

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

“I do not want to pry into other men’s concerns. I suppose it is
something he is ashamed of.”

Colonel Brandon’s horses were announced.

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

“No. Only to Honiton. I shall then go post.”

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

“I assure you it is not in my power.”

He then took leave of the whole party.

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

“I am afraid, none at all.”

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

To Marianne, he merely bowed and said nothing.

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

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

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

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

“Can you, ma’am?” said almost every body.

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

“And who is Miss Williams?” asked Marianne.

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

“Indeed!”

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

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

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

Marianne coloured, and replied very hastily, “Where, pray?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She blushed at this hint; but it was even visibly gratifying to her;
and after a ten minutes’ interval of earnest thought, she came to her
sister again, and said with great good humour, “Perhaps, Elinor, it
_was_ rather ill-judged in me to go to Allenham; but Mr. Willoughby
wanted particularly to show me the place; and it is a charming house, I
assure you.—There is one remarkably pretty sitting room up stairs; of a
nice comfortable size for constant use, and with modern furniture it
would be delightful. It is a corner room, and has windows on two sides.
On one side you look across the bowling-green, behind the house, to a
beautiful hanging wood, and on the other you have a view of the church
and village, and, beyond them, of those fine bold hills that we have so
often admired. I did not see it to advantage, for nothing could be more
forlorn than the furniture,—but if it were newly fitted up—a couple of
hundred pounds, Willoughby says, would make it one of the pleasantest
summer-rooms in England.”

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




CHAPTER XIV.


The sudden termination of Colonel Brandon’s visit at the park, with his
steadiness in concealing its cause, filled the mind, and raised the
wonder of Mrs. Jennings for two or three days; she was a great
wonderer, as every one must be who takes a very lively interest in all
the comings and goings of all their acquaintance. She wondered, with
little intermission what could be the reason of it; was sure there must
be some bad news, and thought over every kind of distress that could
have befallen him, with a fixed determination that he should not escape
them all.

“Something very melancholy must be the matter, I am sure,” said she. “I
could see it in his face. Poor man! I am afraid his circumstances may
be bad. The estate at Delaford was never reckoned more than two
thousand a year, and his brother left everything sadly involved. I do
think he must have been sent for about money matters, for what else can
it be? I wonder whether it is so. I would give anything to know the
truth of it. Perhaps it is about Miss Williams and, by the bye, I dare
say it is, because he looked so conscious when I mentioned her. May be
she is ill in town; nothing in the world more likely, for I have a
notion she is always rather sickly. I would lay any wager it is about
Miss Williams. It is not so very likely he should be distressed in his
circumstances _now_, for he is a very prudent man, and to be sure must
have cleared the estate by this time. I wonder what it can be! May be
his sister is worse at Avignon, and has sent for him over. His setting
off in such a hurry seems very like it. Well, I wish him out of all his
trouble with all my heart, and a good wife into the bargain.”

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

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

Nothing could be more expressive of attachment to them all, than
Willoughby’s behaviour. To Marianne it had all the distinguishing
tenderness which a lover’s heart could give, and to the rest of the
family it was the affectionate attention of a son and a brother. The
cottage seemed to be considered and loved by him as his home; many more
of his hours were spent there than at Allenham; and if no general
engagement collected them at the park, the exercise which called him
out in the morning was almost certain of ending there, where the rest
of the day was spent by himself at the side of Marianne, and by his
favourite pointer at her feet.

One evening in particular, about a week after Colonel Brandon left the
country, his heart seemed more than usually open to every feeling of
attachment to the objects around him; and on Mrs. Dashwood’s happening
to mention her design of improving the cottage in the spring, he warmly
opposed every alteration of a place which affection had established as
perfect with him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER XV.


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

On their return from the park they found Willoughby’s curricle and
servant in waiting at the cottage, and Mrs. Dashwood was convinced that
her conjecture had been just. So far it was all as she had foreseen;
but on entering the house she beheld what no foresight had taught her
to expect. They were no sooner in the passage than Marianne came
hastily out of the parlour apparently in violent affliction, with her
handkerchief at her eyes; and without noticing them ran up stairs.
Surprised and alarmed they proceeded directly into the room she had
just quitted, where they found only Willoughby, who was leaning against
the 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.

“Is anything the matter with her?” cried Mrs. Dashwood as she
entered—“is she ill?”

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

“Disappointment?”

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

“To London!—and are you going this morning?”

“Almost this moment.”

“This is very unfortunate. But Mrs. Smith must be obliged;—and her
business will not detain you from us long I hope.”

He coloured as he replied, “You are very kind, but I have no idea of
returning into Devonshire immediately. My visits to Mrs. Smith are
never repeated within the twelvemonth.”

“And is Mrs. Smith your only friend? Is Allenham the only house in the
neighbourhood to which you will be welcome? For shame, Willoughby, can
you wait for an invitation here?”

His colour increased; and with his eyes fixed on the ground he only
replied, “You are too good.”

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

“I have only to add, my dear Willoughby, that at Barton cottage you
will always be welcome; for I will not press you to return here
immediately, because you only can judge how far _that_ might be
pleasing to Mrs. Smith; and on this head I shall be no more disposed to
question your judgment than to doubt your inclination.”

“My engagements at present,” replied Willoughby, confusedly, “are of
such a nature—that—I dare not flatter myself—”

He stopped. Mrs. Dashwood was too much astonished to speak, and another
pause succeeded. This was broken by Willoughby, who said with a faint
smile, “It is folly to linger in this manner. I will not torment myself
any longer by remaining among friends whose society it is impossible
for me now to enjoy.”

He then hastily took leave of them all and left the room. They saw him
step into his carriage, and in a minute it was out of sight.

Mrs. Dashwood felt too much for speech, and instantly quitted the
parlour to give way in solitude to the concern and alarm which this
sudden departure occasioned.

Elinor’s uneasiness was at least equal to her mother’s. She thought of
what had just passed with anxiety and distrust. Willoughby’s behaviour
in taking leave of them, his embarrassment, and affectation of
cheerfulness, and, above all, his unwillingness to accept her mother’s
invitation, a backwardness so unlike a lover, so unlike himself,
greatly disturbed her. One moment she feared that no serious design had
ever been formed on his side; and the next that some unfortunate
quarrel had taken place between him and her sister;—the distress in
which Marianne had quitted the room was such as a serious quarrel could
most reasonably account for, though when she considered what Marianne’s
love for him was, a quarrel seemed almost impossible.

But whatever might be the particulars of their separation, her sister’s
affliction was indubitable; and she thought with the tenderest
compassion of that violent sorrow which Marianne was in all probability
not merely giving way to as a relief, but feeding and encouraging as a
duty.

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

“Our dear Willoughby is now some miles from Barton, Elinor,” said she,
as she sat down to work, “and with how heavy a heart does he travel?”

“It is all very strange. So suddenly to be gone! It seems but the work
of a moment. And last night he was with us so happy, so cheerful, so
affectionate? And now, after only ten minutes notice—Gone too without
intending to return!—Something more than what he owned to us must have
happened. He did not speak, he did not behave like himself. _You_ must
have seen the difference as well as I. What can it be? Can they have
quarrelled? Why else should he have shown such unwillingness to accept
your invitation here?”

“It was not inclination that he wanted, Elinor; I could plainly see
_that_. He had not the power of accepting it. I have thought it all
over I assure you, and I can perfectly account for every thing that at
first seemed strange to me as well as to you.”

“Can you, indeed!”

“Yes. I have explained it to myself in the most satisfactory way;—but
you, Elinor, who love to doubt where you can—it will not satisfy _you_,
I know; but you shall not talk _me_ out of my trust in it. I am
persuaded that Mrs. Smith suspects his regard for Marianne, disapproves
of it, (perhaps because she has other views for him,) and on that
account is eager to get him away;—and that the business which she sends
him off to transact is invented as an excuse to dismiss him. This is
what I believe to have happened. He is, moreover, aware that she _does_
disapprove the connection, he dares not therefore at present confess to
her his engagement with Marianne, and he feels himself obliged, from
his dependent situation, to give into her schemes, and absent himself
from Devonshire for a while. You will tell me, I know, that this may or
may _not_ have happened; but I will listen to no cavil, unless you can
point out any other method of understanding the affair as satisfactory
at this. And now, Elinor, what have you to say?”

“Nothing, for you have anticipated my answer.”

“Then you would have told me, that it might or might not have happened.
Oh, Elinor, how incomprehensible are your feelings! You had rather take
evil upon credit than good. You had rather look out for misery for
Marianne, and guilt for poor Willoughby, than an apology for the
latter. You are resolved to think him 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?”

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

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

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

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

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

“I am perfectly satisfied of both.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I hope not, I believe not,” cried Elinor. “I love Willoughby,
sincerely love him; and suspicion of his integrity cannot be more
painful to yourself than to me. It has been involuntary, and I will not
encourage it. I was startled, I confess, by the alteration in his
manners this morning;—he did not speak like himself, and did not return
your kindness with any cordiality. But all this may be explained by
such a situation of his affairs as you have supposed. He had just
parted from my sister, had seen her leave him in the greatest
affliction; and if he felt obliged, from a fear of offending Mrs.
Smith, to resist the temptation of returning here soon, and yet aware
that by declining your invitation, by saying that he was going away for
some time, he should seem to act an ungenerous, a suspicious part by
our family, he might well be embarrassed and disturbed. In such a case,
a plain and open avowal of his difficulties would have been more to his
honour I think, as well as more consistent with his general
character;—but I will not raise objections against any one’s conduct on
so illiberal a foundation, as a difference in judgment from myself, or
a deviation from what I may think right and consistent.”

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER XVI.


Marianne would have thought herself very inexcusable had she been able
to sleep at all the first night after parting from Willoughby. She
would have been ashamed to look her family in the face the next
morning, had she not risen from her bed in more need of repose than
when she lay down in it. But the feelings which made such composure a
disgrace, left her in no danger of incurring it. She was awake the
whole night, and she wept the greatest part of it. She got up with a
headache, was unable to talk, and unwilling to take any nourishment;
giving pain every moment to her mother and sisters, and forbidding all
attempt at consolation from either. Her sensibility was potent enough!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Months!” cried Marianne, with strong surprise. “No—nor many weeks.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Have you been lately in Sussex?” said Elinor.

“I was at Norland about a month ago.”

“And how does dear, dear Norland look?” cried Marianne.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER XVII.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“About eighteen hundred or two thousand a year; not more than _that_.”

Elinor laughed. “_two_ thousand a year! _one_ is my wealth! I guessed
how it would end.”

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

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

“Hunters!” repeated Edward—“but why must you have hunters? Every body
does not hunt.”

Marianne coloured as she replied, “But most people do.”

“I wish,” said Margaret, striking out a novel thought, “that somebody
would give us all a large fortune apiece!”

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

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

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

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

“I should be puzzled to spend so large a fortune myself,” said Mrs.
Dashwood, “if my children were all to be rich without my help.”

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

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

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

“And the bulk of your fortune would be laid out in annuities on the
authors or their heirs.”

“No, Edward, I should have something else to do with it.”

“Perhaps, then, you would bestow it as a reward on that person who
wrote the ablest defence of your favourite maxim, that no one can ever
be in love more than once in their life—your opinion on that point is
unchanged, I presume?”

“Undoubtedly. At my time of life opinions are tolerably fixed. It is
not likely that I should now see or hear any thing to change them.”

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

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

“Nay, Edward,” said Marianne, “_you_ need not reproach me. You are not
very gay yourself.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Quite the contrary,” replied Elinor, looking expressively at Marianne.

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

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

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

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

Edward started—“Reserved! Am I reserved, Marianne?”

“Yes, very.”

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

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

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




CHAPTER XVIII.


Elinor saw, with great uneasiness the low spirits of her friend. His
visit afforded her but a very partial satisfaction, while his own
enjoyment in it appeared so imperfect. It was evident that he was
unhappy; she wished it were equally evident that he still distinguished
her by the same affection which once she had felt no doubt of
inspiring; but hitherto the continuance of his preference seemed very
uncertain; and the reservedness of his manner towards her contradicted
one moment what a more animated look had intimated the preceding one.

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

“I am going into the village to see my horses,” said he, “as you are
not yet ready for breakfast; I shall be back again presently.”


Edward returned to them with fresh admiration of the surrounding
country; in his walk to the village, he had seen many parts of the
valley to advantage; and the village itself, in a much higher situation
than the cottage, afforded a general view of the whole, which had
exceedingly pleased him. This was a subject which ensured Marianne’s
attention, and she was beginning to describe her own admiration of
these scenes, and to question him more minutely on the objects that had
particularly struck him, when Edward interrupted her by saying, “You
must not enquire too far, Marianne—remember I have no knowledge in the
picturesque, and I shall offend you by my ignorance and want of taste
if we come to particulars. I shall call hills steep, which ought to be
bold; surfaces strange and uncouth, which ought to be irregular and
rugged; and distant objects out of sight, which ought only to be
indistinct through the soft medium of a hazy atmosphere. You must be
satisfied with such admiration as I can honestly give. I call it a very
fine country—the hills are steep, the woods seem full of fine timber,
and the valley looks comfortable and snug—with rich meadows and several
neat farm houses scattered here and there. It exactly answers my idea
of a fine country, because it unites beauty with utility—and I dare say
it is a picturesque one too, because you admire it; I can easily
believe it to be full of rocks and promontories, grey moss and brush
wood, but these are all lost on me. I know nothing of the picturesque.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A dance!” cried Marianne. “Impossible! Who is to dance?”

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

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

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

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

“What do you mean?”

“Shall I tell you?”

“Certainly.”

“Well then; I guess that Mr. Willoughby hunts.”

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

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

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




CHAPTER XIX.


Edward remained a week at the cottage; he was earnestly pressed by Mrs.
Dashwood to stay longer; but, as if he were bent only on
self-mortification, he seemed resolved to be gone when his enjoyment
among his friends was at the height. His spirits, during the last two
or three days, though still very unequal, were greatly improved—he grew
more and more partial to the house and environs—never spoke of going
away without a sigh—declared his time to be wholly disengaged—even
doubted to what place he should go when he left them—but still, go he
must. Never had any week passed so quickly—he could hardly believe it
to be gone. He said so repeatedly; other things he said too, which
marked the turn of his feelings and gave the lie to his actions. He had
no pleasure at Norland; he detested being in town; but either to
Norland or London, he must go. He valued their kindness beyond any
thing, and his greatest happiness was in being with them. Yet, he must
leave them at the end of a week, in spite of their wishes and his own,
and without any restraint on his time.

Elinor placed all that was astonishing in this way of acting to his
mother’s account; and it was happy for her that he had a mother whose
character was so imperfectly known to her, as to be the general excuse
for every thing strange on the part of her son. Disappointed, however,
and vexed as she was, and sometimes displeased with his uncertain
behaviour to herself, she was very well disposed on the whole to regard
his actions with all the candid allowances and generous qualifications,
which had been rather more painfully extorted from her, for
Willoughby’s service, by her mother. His want of spirits, of openness,
and of consistency, were most usually attributed to his want of
independence, and his better knowledge of Mrs. Ferrars’s disposition
and designs. The shortness of his visit, the steadiness of his purpose
in leaving them, originated in the same fettered inclination, the same
inevitable necessity of temporizing with his mother. The old
well-established grievance of duty against will, parent against child,
was the cause of all. She would have been glad to know when these
difficulties were to cease, this opposition was to yield,—when Mrs.
Ferrars would be reformed, and her son be at liberty to be happy. But
from such vain wishes she was forced to turn for comfort to the renewal
of her confidence in Edward’s affection, to the remembrance of every
mark of regard in look or word which fell from him while at Barton, and
above all to that flattering proof of it which he constantly wore round
his finger.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hush! they will hear you.”

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

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

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

“She is walking, I believe.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, none at all,” he replied, and read on.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sir John had been very urgent with them all to spend the next day at
the park. Mrs. Dashwood, who did not chuse to dine with them oftener
than they dined at the cottage, absolutely refused on her own account;
her daughters might do as they pleased. But they had no curiosity to
see how Mr. and Mrs. Palmer ate their dinner, and no expectation of
pleasure from them in any other way. They attempted, therefore,
likewise, to excuse themselves; the weather was uncertain, and not
likely to be good. But Sir John would not be satisfied—the carriage
should be sent for them and they must come. Lady Middleton too, though
she did not press their mother, pressed them. Mrs. Jennings and Mrs.
Palmer joined their entreaties, all seemed equally anxious to avoid a
family party; and the young ladies were obliged to yield.

“Why should they ask us?” said Marianne, as soon as they were gone.
“The rent of this cottage is said to be low; but we have it on very
hard terms, if we are to dine at the park whenever any one is staying
either with them, or with us.”

“They mean no less to be civil and kind to us now,” said Elinor, “by
these frequent invitations, than by those which we received from them a
few weeks ago. The alteration is not in them, if their parties are
grown tedious and dull. We must look for the change elsewhere.”




CHAPTER XX.


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

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

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

“Not go to town!” cried Mrs. Palmer, with a laugh, “I shall be quite
disappointed if you do not. I could get the nicest house in 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.”

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

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

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

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

The rest of the company soon dropt in.

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

Marianne looked very grave and said nothing.

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

“Much nearer thirty,” said her husband.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Certainly,” he replied, with a sneer—“I came into Devonshire with no
other view.”

“There now,”—said his lady, “you see Mr. Palmer expects you; so you
cannot refuse to come.”

They both eagerly and resolutely declined her invitation.

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

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

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

Mr. Palmer took no notice of her.

“He cannot bear writing, you know,” she continued—“he says it is quite
shocking.”

“No,” said he, “I never said any thing so irrational. Don’t palm all
your abuses of language upon me.”

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

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

“Certainly,” said Elinor; “he seems very agreeable.”

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

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

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

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

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

“My dear Mrs. Palmer!”

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

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

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

“And what did the Colonel say?”

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

“Mr. Brandon was very well I hope?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER XXI.


The Palmers returned to Cleveland the next day, and the two families at
Barton were again left to entertain each other. But this did not last
long; Elinor had hardly got their last visitors out of her head, had
hardly done wondering at Charlotte’s being so happy without a cause, at
Mr. Palmer’s acting so simply, with good abilities, and at the strange
unsuitableness which often existed between husband and wife, before Sir
John’s and Mrs. Jennings’s active zeal in the cause of society,
procured her some other new acquaintance to see and observe.

In a morning’s excursion to Exeter, they had met with two young ladies,
whom Mrs. Jennings had the satisfaction of discovering to be her
relations, and this was enough for Sir John to invite them directly to
the park, as soon as their present engagements at Exeter were over.
Their engagements at Exeter instantly gave way before such an
invitation, and Lady Middleton was thrown into no little alarm on the
return of Sir John, by hearing that she was very soon to receive a
visit from two girls whom she had never seen in her life, and of whose
elegance,—whose tolerable gentility even, she could have no proof; for
the assurances of her husband and mother on that subject went for
nothing at all. Their being her relations too made it so much the
worse; and Mrs. Jennings’s attempts at consolation were therefore
unfortunately founded, when she advised her daughter not to care about
their being so fashionable; because they were all cousins and must put
up with one another. As it was impossible, however, now to prevent
their coming, Lady Middleton resigned herself to the idea of it, with
all the philosophy of a well-bred woman, contenting herself with merely
giving her husband a gentle reprimand on the subject five or six times
every day.

The young ladies arrived: their appearance was by no means ungenteel or
unfashionable. Their dress was very smart, their manners very civil,
they were delighted with the house, and in raptures with the furniture,
and they happened to be so doatingly fond of children that Lady
Middleton’s good opinion was engaged in their favour before they had
been an hour at the Park. She declared them to be very agreeable girls
indeed, which for her ladyship was enthusiastic admiration. Sir John’s
confidence in his own judgment rose with this animated praise, and he
set off directly for the cottage to tell the Miss Dashwoods of the Miss
Steeles’ arrival, and to assure them of their being the sweetest girls
in the world. From such commendation as this, however, there was not
much to be learned; Elinor well knew that the sweetest girls in the
world were to be met with in every part of England, under every
possible variation of form, face, temper and understanding. Sir John
wanted the whole family to walk to the Park directly and look at his
guests. Benevolent, philanthropic man! It was painful to him even to
keep a third cousin to himself.

“Do come now,” said he—“pray come—you must come—I declare you shall
come—You can’t think how you will like them. Lucy is monstrous pretty,
and so good humoured and agreeable! The children are all hanging about
her already, as if she was an old acquaintance. And they both long to
see you of all things, for they have heard at Exeter that you are the
most beautiful creatures in the world; and I have told them it is all
very true, and a great deal more. You will be delighted with them I am
sure. They have brought the whole coach full of playthings for the
children. How can you be so cross as not to come? Why they are your
cousins, you know, after a fashion. _You_ are my cousins, and they are
my wife’s, so you must be related.”

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

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

“John is in such spirits today!” said she, on his taking Miss Steeles’s
pocket handkerchief, and throwing it out of window—“He is full of
monkey tricks.”

And soon afterwards, on the second boy’s violently pinching one of the
same lady’s fingers, she fondly observed, “How playful William is!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh! dear! one never thinks of married men’s being beaux—they have
something else to do.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ferrars!” repeated Miss Steele; “Mr. Ferrars is the happy man, is he?
What! your sister-in-law’s brother, Miss Dashwood? a very agreeable
young man to be sure; I know him very well.”

“How can you say so, Anne?” cried Lucy, who generally made an amendment
to all her sister’s assertions. “Though we have seen him once or twice
at my uncle’s, it is rather too much to pretend to know him very well.”

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




CHAPTER XXII.


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

Lucy was naturally clever; her remarks were often just and amusing; and
as a companion for half an hour Elinor frequently found her agreeable;
but her powers had received no aid from education: she was ignorant and
illiterate; and her deficiency of all mental improvement, her want of
information in the most common particulars, could not be concealed from
Miss Dashwood, in spite of her constant endeavour to appear to
advantage. Elinor saw, and pitied her for, the neglect of abilities
which education might have rendered so respectable; but she saw, with
less tenderness of feeling, the thorough want of delicacy, of
rectitude, and integrity of mind, which her attentions, her
assiduities, her flatteries at the Park betrayed; and she could have no
lasting satisfaction in the company of a person who joined insincerity
with ignorance; whose want of instruction prevented their meeting in
conversation on terms of equality, and whose conduct toward others made
every show of attention and deference towards herself perfectly
valueless.

“You will think my question an odd one, I dare say,” said Lucy to her
one day, as they were walking together from the park to the
cottage—“but pray, are you personally acquainted with your
sister-in-law’s mother, Mrs. Ferrars?”

Elinor _did_ think the question a very odd one, and her countenance
expressed it, as she answered that she had never seen Mrs. Ferrars.

“Indeed!” replied Lucy; “I wonder at that, for I thought you must have
seen her at Norland sometimes. Then, perhaps, you cannot tell me what
sort of a woman she is?”

“No,” returned Elinor, cautious of giving her real opinion of Edward’s
mother, and not very desirous of satisfying what seemed impertinent
curiosity; “I know nothing of her.”

“I am sure you think me very strange, for enquiring about her in such a
way,” said Lucy, eyeing Elinor attentively as she spoke; “but perhaps
there may be reasons—I wish I might venture; but however I hope you
will do me the justice of believing that I do not mean to be
impertinent.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We have been engaged these four years.”

“Four years!”

“Yes.”

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

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

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

“Your uncle!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did he come from your uncle’s, then, when he visited us?”

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

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

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

“We did, indeed, particularly so when he first arrived.”

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

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

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

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

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

END OF THE FIRST VOLUME




CHAPTER XXIII.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The remaining five were now to draw their cards.

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER XXIV.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lucy looked at Elinor again, and was silent.

“Do you know Mr. Robert Ferrars?” asked Elinor.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But Mrs. John Dashwood would not much approve of Edward’s going into
orders.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Certainly not.”

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER XXV.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Marianne’s countenance sunk.

“And what,” said Mrs. Dashwood, “is my dear prudent Elinor going to
suggest? What formidable obstacle is she now to bring forward? Do not
let me hear a word about the expense of it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER XXVI.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is your sister ill?” said he.

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

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

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

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

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

“I had the pleasure of hearing it at Mr. Palmer’s, where I have been
dining.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The man replied that none had.

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER XXVII.


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

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

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

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

“Ay, my dear, I’ll warrant you we do. Mary always has her own way.”

“And now,” silently conjectured Elinor, “she will write to Combe by
this day’s post.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good God!” cried Marianne, “he has been here while we were out.”
Elinor, rejoiced to be assured of his being in London, now ventured to
say, “Depend upon it, he will call again tomorrow.” But Marianne seemed
hardly to hear her, and on Mrs. Jennings’s entrance, escaped with the
precious card.

This event, while it raised the spirits of Elinor, restored to those of
her sister all, and more than all, their former agitation. From this
moment her mind was never quiet; the expectation of seeing him every
hour of the day, made her unfit for any thing. She insisted on being
left behind, the next morning, when the others went out.

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

“For me!” cried Marianne, stepping hastily forward.

“No, ma’am, for my mistress.”

But Marianne, not convinced, took it instantly up.

“It is indeed for Mrs. Jennings; how provoking!”

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

“Yes, a little—not much.”

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

“Nay, Elinor, this reproach from _you_—you who have confidence in no
one!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I thought you were both in Devonshire,” said he.

“Did you?” replied Elinor.

“When do you go back again?”

“I do not know.” And thus ended their discourse.

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

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

“Invited!” cried Marianne.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER XXVIII.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lady Middleton, though in the middle of a rubber, on being informed
that Marianne was unwell, was too polite to object for a moment to her
wish of going away, and making over her cards to a friend, they
departed as soon as the carriage could be found. Scarcely a word was
spoken during their return to Berkeley Street. Marianne was in a silent
agony, too much oppressed even for tears; but as Mrs. Jennings was
luckily not come home, they could go directly to their own room, where
hartshorn restored her a little to herself. She was soon undressed and
in bed, and as she seemed desirous of being alone, her sister then left
her, and while she waited the return of Mrs. Jennings, had leisure
enough for thinking over the past.

That some kind of engagement had subsisted between Willoughby and
Marianne she could not doubt, and that Willoughby was weary of it,
seemed equally clear; for however Marianne might still feed her own
wishes, _she_ could not attribute such behaviour to mistake or
misapprehension of any kind. Nothing but a thorough change of sentiment
could account for it. Her indignation would have been still stronger
than it was, had she not witnessed that embarrassment which seemed to
speak a consciousness of his own misconduct, and prevented her from
believing him so unprincipled as to have been sporting with the
affections of her sister from the first, without any design that would
bear investigation. Absence might have weakened his regard, and
convenience might have determined him to overcome it, but that such a
regard had formerly existed she could not bring herself to doubt.

As for Marianne, on the pangs which so unhappy a meeting must already
have given her, and on those still more severe which might await her in
its probable consequence, she could not reflect without the deepest
concern. Her own situation gained in the comparison; for while she
could _esteem_ Edward as much as ever, however they might be divided in
future, her mind might be always supported. But every circumstance that
could embitter such an evil seemed uniting to heighten the misery of
Marianne in a final separation from Willoughby—in an immediate and
irreconcilable rupture with him.




CHAPTER XXIX.


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

“Marianne, may I ask—?”

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

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

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

At breakfast she neither ate, nor attempted to eat any thing; and
Elinor’s attention was then all employed, not in urging her, not in
pitying her, nor in appearing to regard her, but in endeavouring to
engage Mrs. Jennings’s notice entirely to herself.

As this was a favourite meal with Mrs. Jennings, it lasted a
considerable time, and they were just setting themselves, after it,
round the common working table, when a letter was delivered to
Marianne, which she eagerly caught from the servant, and, turning of a
death-like paleness, instantly ran out of the room. Elinor, who saw as
plainly by this, as if she had seen the direction, that it must come
from Willoughby, felt immediately such a sickness at heart as made her
hardly able to hold up her head, and sat in such a general tremour as
made her fear it impossible to escape Mrs. Jennings’s notice. That good
lady, however, saw only that Marianne had received a letter from
Willoughby, which appeared to her a very good joke, and which she
treated accordingly, by hoping, with a laugh, that she would find it to
her liking. Of Elinor’s distress, she was too busily employed in
measuring lengths of worsted for her rug, to see any thing at all; and
calmly continuing her talk, as soon as Marianne disappeared, she said,

“Upon my word, I never saw a young woman so desperately in love in my
life! _My_ girls were nothing to her, and yet they used to be foolish
enough; but as for Miss Marianne, she is quite an altered creature. I
hope, from the bottom of my heart, he won’t keep her waiting much
longer, for it is quite grievous to see her look so ill and forlorn.
Pray, when are they to be married?”

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

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

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

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

                                    “Bond Street, January.


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


“I am, dear Madam,
“Your most obedient
“humble servant,
“JOHN WILLOUGHBY.”


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

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

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

“Poor Elinor! how unhappy I make you!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Many, many circumstances,” said Elinor, solemnly.

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

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

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

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

“Engagement!” cried Marianne, “there has been no engagement.”

“No engagement!”

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

“But he told you that he loved you.”

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

“Yet you wrote to him?”

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

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

Berkeley Street, January.


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


“M.D.”


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

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


“M.D.”


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

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


“M.D.”


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But for my mother’s sake and mine—”

“I would do more than for my own. But to appear happy when I am so
miserable—Oh! who can require it?”

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

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

“No, Marianne, in no possible way.”

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

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

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

“To-morrow, Marianne!”

“Yes, why should I stay here? I came only for Willoughby’s sake—and now
who cares for me? Who regards me?”

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

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

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




CHAPTER XXX.


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

“How do you do my dear?”—said she in a voice of great compassion to
Marianne, who turned away her face without attempting to answer.

“How is she, Miss Dashwood? Poor thing! she looks very bad. No wonder.
Ay, it is but too true. He is to be married very soon—a
good-for-nothing fellow! I have no patience with him. Mrs. Taylor told
me of it half an hour ago, and she was told it by a particular friend
of Miss Grey herself, else I am sure I should not have believed it; and
I was almost ready to sink as it was. Well, said I, all I can say is,
that if this be true, he has used a young lady of my acquaintance
abominably ill, and I wish with all my soul his wife may plague his
heart out. And so I shall always say, my dear, you may depend on it. I
have no notion of men’s going on in this way; and if ever I meet him
again, I will give him such a dressing as he has not had this many a
day. But there is one comfort, my dear Miss Marianne; he is not the
only young man in the world worth having; and with your pretty face you
will never want admirers. Well, poor thing! I won’t disturb her any
longer, for she had better have her cry out at once and have done with.
The Parrys and Sandersons luckily are coming tonight you know, and that
will amuse her.”

She then went away, walking on tiptoe out of the room, as if she
supposed her young friend’s affliction could be increased by noise.

Marianne, to the surprise of her sister, determined on dining with
them. Elinor even advised her against it. But “no, she would go down;
she could bear it very well, and the bustle about her would be less.”
Elinor, pleased to have her governed for a moment by such a motive,
though believing it hardly possible that she could sit out the dinner,
said no more; and adjusting her dress for her as well as she could,
while Marianne still remained on the bed, was ready to assist her into
the dining room as soon as they were summoned to it.

When there, though looking most wretchedly, she ate more and was calmer
than her sister had expected. Had she tried to speak, or had she been
conscious of half Mrs. Jennings’s well-meant but ill-judged attentions
to her, this calmness could not have been maintained; but not a
syllable escaped her lips; and the abstraction of her thoughts
preserved her in ignorance of every thing that was passing before her.

Elinor, who did justice to Mrs. Jennings’s kindness, though its
effusions were often distressing, and sometimes almost ridiculous, made
her those acknowledgments, and returned her those civilities, which her
sister could not make or return for herself. Their good friend saw that
Marianne was unhappy, and felt that every thing was due to her which
might make her at all less so. She treated her therefore, with all the
indulgent fondness of a parent towards a favourite child on the last
day of its holidays. Marianne was to have the best place by the fire,
was to be tempted to eat by every delicacy in the house, and to be
amused by the relation of all the news of the day. Had not Elinor, in
the sad countenance of her sister, seen a check to all mirth, she could
have been entertained by Mrs. Jennings’s endeavours to cure a
disappointment in love, by a variety of sweetmeats and olives, and a
good fire. As soon, however, as the consciousness of all this was
forced by continual repetition on Marianne, she could stay no longer.
With a hasty exclamation of Misery, and a sign to her sister not to
follow her, she directly got up and hurried out of the room.

“Poor soul!” cried Mrs. Jennings, as soon as she was gone, “how it
grieves me to see her! And I declare if she is not gone away without
finishing her wine! And the dried cherries too! Lord! nothing seems to
do her any good. I am sure if I knew of any thing she would like, I
would send all over the town for it. Well, it is the oddest thing to
me, that a man should use such a pretty girl so ill! But when there is
plenty of money on one side, and next to none on the other, Lord bless
you! they care no more about such things!—”

“The lady then—Miss Grey I think you called her—is very rich?”

“Fifty thousand pounds, my dear. Did you ever see her? a smart, stylish
girl they say, but not handsome. I remember her aunt very well, Biddy
Henshawe; she married a very wealthy man. But the family are all rich
together. Fifty thousand pounds! and by all accounts, it won’t come
before it’s wanted; for they say he is all to pieces. No wonder!
dashing about with his curricle and hunters! Well, it don’t signify
talking; but when a young man, be who he will, comes and makes love to
a pretty girl, and promises marriage, he has no business to fly off
from his word only because he grows poor, and a richer girl is ready to
have him. Why don’t he, in such a case, sell his horses, let his house,
turn off his servants, and make a thorough reform at once? I warrant
you, Miss Marianne would have been ready to wait till matters came
round. But that won’t do now-a-days; nothing in the way of pleasure can
ever be given up by the young men of this age.”

“Do you know what kind of a girl Miss Grey is? Is she said to be
amiable?”

“I never heard any harm of her; indeed I hardly ever heard her
mentioned; except that Mrs. Taylor did say this morning, that one day
Miss Walker hinted to her, that she believed Mr. and Mrs. Ellison would
not be sorry to have Miss Grey married, for she and Mrs. Ellison could
never agree.”

“And who are the Ellisons?”

“Her guardians, my dear. But now she is of age and may choose for
herself; and a pretty choice she has made!—What now,” after pausing a
moment—“your poor sister is gone to her own room, I suppose, to moan by
herself. Is there nothing one can get to comfort her? Poor dear, it
seems quite cruel to let her be alone. Well, by-and-by we shall have a
few friends, and that will amuse her a little. What shall we play at?
She hates whist I know; but is there no round game she cares for?”

“Dear ma’am, this kindness is quite unnecessary. Marianne, I dare say,
will not leave her room again this evening. I shall persuade her if I
can to go early to bed, for I am sure she wants rest.”

“Aye, I believe that will be best for her. Let her name her own supper,
and go to bed. Lord! no wonder she has been looking so bad and so cast
down this last week or two, for this matter I suppose has been hanging
over her head as long as that. And so the letter that came today
finished it! Poor soul! I am sure if I had had a notion of it, I would
not have joked her about it for all my money. But then you know, how
should I guess such a thing? I made sure of its being nothing but a
common love letter, and you know young people like to be laughed at
about them. Lord! how concerned Sir John and my daughters will be when
they hear it! If I had my senses about me I might have called in
Conduit Street in my way home, and told them of it. But I shall see
them tomorrow.”

“It would be unnecessary I am sure, for you to caution Mrs. Palmer and
Sir John against ever naming Mr. Willoughby, or making the slightest
allusion to what has passed, before my sister. Their own good-nature
must point out to them the real cruelty of appearing to know any thing
about it when she is present; and the less that may ever be said to
myself on the subject, the more my feelings will be spared, as you my
dear madam will easily believe.”

“Oh! Lord! yes, that I do indeed. It must be terrible for you to hear
it talked of; and as for your sister, I am sure I would not mention a
word about it to her for the world. You saw I did not all dinner time.
No more would Sir John, nor my daughters, for they are all very
thoughtful and considerate; especially if I give them a hint, as I
certainly will. For my part, I think the less that is said about such
things, the better, the sooner ’tis blown over and forgot. And what
good does talking ever do you know?”

“In this affair it can only do harm; more so perhaps than in many cases
of a similar kind, for it has been attended by circumstances which, for
the sake of every one concerned in it, make it unfit to become the
public conversation. I must do _this_ justice to Mr. Willoughby—he has
broken no positive engagement with my sister.”

“Law, my dear! Don’t pretend to defend him. No positive engagement
indeed! after taking her all over Allenham House, and fixing on the
very rooms they were to live in hereafter!”

Elinor, for her sister’s sake, could not press the subject farther, and
she hoped it was not required of her for Willoughby’s; since, though
Marianne might lose much, he could gain very little by the enforcement
of the real truth. After a short silence on both sides, Mrs. Jennings,
with all her natural hilarity, burst forth again.

“Well, my dear, ’tis a true saying about an ill-wind, for it will be
all the better for Colonel Brandon. He will have her at last; aye, that
he will. Mind me, now, if they an’t married by Mid-summer. Lord! how
he’ll chuckle over this news! I hope he will come tonight. It will be
all to one a better match for your sister. Two thousand a year without
debt or drawback—except the little love-child, indeed; aye, I had
forgot her; but she may be ’prenticed out at a small cost, and then
what does it signify? Delaford is a nice place, I can tell you; exactly
what I call a nice old fashioned place, full of comforts and
conveniences; quite shut in with great garden walls that are covered
with the best fruit-trees in the country; and such a mulberry tree in
one corner! Lord! how Charlotte and I did stuff the only time we were
there! Then, there is a dove-cote, some delightful stew-ponds, and a
very pretty canal; and every thing, in short, that one could wish for;
and, moreover, it is close to the church, and only a quarter of a mile
from the turnpike-road, so ’tis never dull, for if you only go and sit
up in an old yew arbour behind the house, you may see all the carriages
that pass along. Oh! ’tis a nice place! A butcher hard by in the
village, and the parsonage-house within a stone’s throw. To my fancy, a
thousand times prettier than Barton Park, where they are forced to send
three miles for their meat, and have not a neighbour nearer than your
mother. Well, I shall spirit up the Colonel as soon as I can. One
shoulder of mutton, you know, drives another down. If we _can_ but put
Willoughby out of her head!”

“Ay, if we can do _that_, Ma’am,” said Elinor, “we shall do very well
with or without Colonel Brandon.” And then rising, she went away to
join Marianne, whom she found, as she expected, in her own room,
leaning, in silent misery, over the small remains of a fire, which,
till Elinor’s entrance, had been her only light.

“You had better leave me,” was all the notice that her sister received
from her.

“I will leave you,” said Elinor, “if you will go to bed.” But this,
from the momentary perverseness of impatient suffering, she at first
refused to do. Her sister’s earnest, though gentle persuasion, however,
soon softened her to compliance, and Elinor saw her lay her aching head
on the pillow, and as she hoped, in a way to get some quiet rest before
she left her.

In the drawing-room, whither she then repaired, she was soon joined by
Mrs. Jennings, with a wine-glass, full of something, in her hand.

“My dear,” said she, entering, “I have just recollected that I have
some of the finest old Constantia wine in the house that ever was
tasted, so I have brought a glass of it for your sister. My poor
husband! how fond he was of it! Whenever he had a touch of his old
colicky gout, he said it did him more good than any thing else in the
world. Do take it to your sister.”

“Dear Ma’am,” replied Elinor, smiling at the difference of the
complaints for which it was recommended, “how good you are! But I have
just left Marianne in bed, and, I hope, almost asleep; and as I think
nothing will be of so much service to her as rest, if you will give me
leave, I will drink the wine myself.”

Mrs. Jennings, though regretting that she had not been five minutes
earlier, was satisfied with the compromise; and Elinor, as she
swallowed the chief of it, reflected, that though its effects on a
colicky gout were, at present, of little importance to her, its healing
powers, on a disappointed heart might be as reasonably tried on herself
as on her sister.

Colonel Brandon came in while the party were at tea, and by his manner
of looking round the room for Marianne, Elinor immediately fancied that
he neither expected nor wished to see her there, and, in short, that he
was already aware of what occasioned her absence. Mrs. Jennings was not
struck by the same thought; for soon after his entrance, she walked
across the room to the tea-table where Elinor presided, and whispered,
“The Colonel looks as grave as ever you see. He knows nothing of it; do
tell him, my dear.”

He shortly afterwards drew a chair close to hers, and, with a look
which perfectly assured her of his good information, inquired after her
sister.

“Marianne is not well,” said she. “She has been indisposed all day, and
we have persuaded her to go to bed.”

“Perhaps, then,” he hesitatingly replied, “what I heard this morning
may be—there may be more truth in it than I could believe possible at
first.”

“What did you hear?”

“That a gentleman, whom I had reason to think—in short, that a man,
whom I _knew_ to be engaged—but how shall I tell you? If you know it
already, as surely you must, I may be spared.”

“You mean,” answered Elinor, with forced calmness, “Mr. Willoughby’s
marriage with Miss Grey. Yes, we _do_ know it all. This seems to have
been a day of general elucidation, for this very morning first unfolded
it to us. Mr. Willoughby is unfathomable! Where did you hear it?”

“In a stationer’s shop in Pall Mall, where I had business. Two ladies
were waiting for their carriage, and one of them was giving the other
an account of the intended match, in a voice so little attempting
concealment, that it was impossible for me not to hear all. The name of
Willoughby, John Willoughby, frequently repeated, first caught my
attention; and what followed was a positive assertion that every thing
was now finally settled respecting his marriage with Miss Grey—it was
no longer to be a secret—it would take place even within a few weeks,
with many particulars of preparations and other matters. One thing,
especially, I remember, because it served to identify the man still
more:—as soon as the ceremony was over, they were to go to Combe Magna,
his seat in Somersetshire. My astonishment!—but it would be impossible
to describe what I felt. The communicative lady I learnt, on inquiry,
for I stayed in the shop till they were gone, was a Mrs. Ellison, and
that, as I have been since informed, is the name of Miss Grey’s
guardian.”

“It is. But have you likewise heard that Miss Grey has fifty thousand
pounds? In that, if in any thing, we may find an explanation.”

“It may be so; but Willoughby is capable—at least I think”—he stopped a
moment; then added in a voice which seemed to distrust itself, “And
your sister—how did she—”

“Her sufferings have been very severe. I have only to hope that they
may be proportionately short. It has been, it is a most cruel
affliction. Till yesterday, I believe, she never doubted his regard;
and even now, perhaps—but _I_ am almost convinced that he never was
really attached to her. He has been very deceitful! and, in some
points, there seems a hardness of heart about him.”

“Ah!” said Colonel Brandon, “there is, indeed! But your sister does
not—I think you said so—she does not consider quite as you do?”

“You know her disposition, and may believe how eagerly she would still
justify him if she could.”

He made no answer; and soon afterwards, by the removal of the
tea-things, and the arrangement of the card parties, the subject was
necessarily dropped. Mrs. Jennings, who had watched them with pleasure
while they were talking, and who expected to see the effect of Miss
Dashwood’s communication, in such an instantaneous gaiety on Colonel
Brandon’s side, as might have become a man in the bloom of youth, of
hope and happiness, saw him, with amazement, remain the whole evening
more serious and thoughtful than usual.




CHAPTER XXXI.


From a night of more sleep than she had expected, Marianne awoke the
next morning to the same consciousness of misery in which she had
closed her eyes.

Elinor encouraged her as much as possible to talk of what she felt; and
before breakfast was ready, they had gone through the subject again and
again; and with the same steady conviction and affectionate counsel on
Elinor’s side, the same impetuous feelings and varying opinions on
Marianne’s, as before. Sometimes she could believe Willoughby to be as
unfortunate and as innocent as herself, and at others, lost every
consolation in the impossibility of acquitting him. At one moment she
was absolutely indifferent to the observation of all the world, at
another she would seclude herself from it for ever, and at a third
could resist it with energy. In one thing, however, she was uniform,
when it came to the point, in avoiding, where it was possible, the
presence of Mrs. Jennings, and in a determined silence when obliged to
endure it. Her heart was hardened against the belief of Mrs. Jennings’s
entering into her sorrows with any compassion.

“No, no, no, it cannot be,” she cried; “she cannot feel. Her kindness
is not sympathy; her good-nature is not tenderness. All that she wants
is gossip, and she only likes me now because I supply it.”

Elinor had not needed this to be assured of the injustice to which her
sister was often led in her opinion of others, by the irritable
refinement of her own mind, and the too great importance placed by her
on the delicacies of a strong sensibility, and the graces of a polished
manner. Like half the rest of the world, if more than half there be
that are clever and good, Marianne, with excellent abilities and an
excellent disposition, was neither reasonable nor candid. She expected
from other people the same opinions and feelings as her own, and she
judged of their motives by the immediate effect of their actions on
herself. Thus a circumstance occurred, while the sisters were together
in their own room after breakfast, which sunk the heart of Mrs.
Jennings still lower in her estimation; because, through her own
weakness, it chanced to prove a source of fresh pain to herself, though
Mrs. Jennings was governed in it by an impulse of the utmost goodwill.

With a letter in her outstretched hand, and countenance gaily smiling,
from the persuasion of bringing comfort, she entered their room,
saying,

“Now, my dear, I bring you something that I am sure will do you good.”

Marianne heard enough. In one moment her imagination placed before her
a letter from Willoughby, full of tenderness and contrition,
explanatory of all that had passed, satisfactory, convincing; and
instantly followed by Willoughby himself, rushing eagerly into the room
to inforce, at her feet, by the eloquence of his eyes, the assurances
of his letter. The work of one moment was destroyed by the next. The
hand writing of her mother, never till then unwelcome, was before her;
and, in the acuteness of the disappointment which followed such an
ecstasy of more than hope, she felt as if, till that instant, she had
never suffered.

The cruelty of Mrs. Jennings no language, within her reach in her
moments of happiest eloquence, could have expressed; and now she could
reproach her only by the tears which streamed from her eyes with
passionate violence—a reproach, however, so entirely lost on its
object, that after many expressions of pity, she withdrew, still
referring her to the letter of comfort. But the letter, when she was
calm enough to read it, brought little comfort. Willoughby filled every
page. Her mother, still confident of their engagement, and relying as
warmly as ever on his constancy, had only been roused by Elinor’s
application, to intreat from Marianne greater openness towards them
both; and this, with such tenderness towards her, such affection for
Willoughby, and such a conviction of their future happiness in each
other, that she wept with agony through the whole of it.

All her impatience to be at home again now returned; her mother was
dearer to her than ever; dearer through the very excess of her mistaken
confidence in Willoughby, and she was wildly urgent to be gone. Elinor,
unable herself to determine whether it were better for Marianne to be
in London or at Barton, offered no counsel of her own except of
patience till their mother’s wishes could be known; and at length she
obtained her sister’s consent to wait for that knowledge.

Mrs. Jennings left them earlier than usual; for she could not be easy
till the Middletons and Palmers were able to grieve as much as herself;
and positively refusing Elinor’s offered attendance, went out alone for
the rest of the morning. Elinor, with a very heavy heart, aware of the
pain she was going to communicate, and perceiving, by Marianne’s
letter, how ill she had succeeded in laying any foundation for it, then
sat down to write her mother an account of what had passed, and entreat
her directions for the future; while Marianne, who came into the
drawing-room on Mrs. Jennings’s going away, remained fixed at the table
where Elinor wrote, watching the advancement of her pen, grieving over
her for the hardship of such a task, and grieving still more fondly
over its effect on her mother.

In this manner they had continued about a quarter of an hour, when
Marianne, whose nerves could not then bear any sudden noise, was
startled by a rap at the door.

“Who can this be?” cried Elinor. “So early too! I thought we _had_ been
safe.”

Marianne moved to the window.

“It is Colonel Brandon!” said she, with vexation. “We are never safe
from _him_.”

“He will not come in, as Mrs. Jennings is from home.”

“I will not trust to _that_,” retreating to her own room. “A man who
has nothing to do with his own time has no conscience in his intrusion
on that of others.”

The event proved her conjecture right, though it was founded on
injustice and error; for Colonel Brandon _did_ come in; and Elinor, who
was convinced that solicitude for Marianne brought him thither, and who
saw _that_ solicitude in his disturbed and melancholy look, and in his
anxious though brief inquiry after her, could not forgive her sister
for esteeming him so lightly.

“I met Mrs. Jennings in Bond Street,” said he, after the first
salutation, “and she encouraged me to come on; and I was the more
easily encouraged, because I thought it probable that I might find you
alone, which I was very desirous of doing. My object—my wish—my sole
wish in desiring it—I hope, I believe it is—is to be a means of giving
comfort;—no, I must not say comfort—not present comfort—but conviction,
lasting conviction to your sister’s mind. My regard for her, for
yourself, for your mother—will you allow me to prove it, by relating
some circumstances which nothing but a _very_ sincere regard—nothing
but an earnest desire of being useful—I think I am justified—though
where so many hours have been spent in convincing myself that I am
right, is there not some reason to fear I may be wrong?” He stopped.

“I understand you,” said Elinor. “You have something to tell me of Mr.
Willoughby, that will open his character farther. Your telling it will
be the greatest act of friendship that can be shown Marianne. _My_
gratitude will be insured immediately by any information tending to
that end, and _hers_ must be gained by it in time. Pray, pray let me
hear it.”

“You shall; and, to be brief, when I quitted Barton last October,—but
this will give you no idea—I must go farther back. You will find me a
very awkward narrator, Miss Dashwood; I hardly know where to begin. A
short account of myself, I believe, will be necessary, and it _shall_
be a short one. On such a subject,” sighing heavily, “can I have little
temptation to be diffuse.”

He stopt a moment for recollection, and then, with another sigh, went
on.

“You have probably entirely forgotten a conversation—(it is not to be
supposed that it could make any impression on you)—a conversation
between us one evening at Barton Park—it was the evening of a dance—in
which I alluded to a lady I had once known, as resembling, in some
measure, your sister Marianne.”

“Indeed,” answered Elinor, “I have _not_ forgotten it.” He looked
pleased by this remembrance, and added,

“If I am not deceived by the uncertainty, the partiality of tender
recollection, there is a very strong resemblance between them, as well
in mind as person. The same warmth of heart, the same eagerness of
fancy and spirits. This lady was one of my nearest relations, an orphan
from her infancy, and under the guardianship of my father. Our ages
were nearly the same, and from our earliest years we were playfellows
and friends. I cannot remember the time when I did not love Eliza; and
my affection for her, as we grew up, was such, as perhaps, judging from
my present forlorn and cheerless gravity, you might think me incapable
of having ever felt. Hers, for me, was, I believe, fervent as the
attachment of your sister to Mr. Willoughby and it was, though from a
different cause, no less unfortunate. At seventeen she was lost to me
for ever. She was married—married against her inclination to my
brother. Her fortune was large, and our family estate much encumbered.
And this, I fear, is all that can be said for the conduct of one, who
was at once her uncle and guardian. My brother did not deserve her; he
did not even love her. I had hoped that her regard for me would support
her under any difficulty, and for some time it did; but at last the
misery of her situation, for she experienced great unkindness, overcame
all her resolution, and though she had promised me that nothing—but how
blindly I relate! I have never told you how this was brought on. We
were within a few hours of eloping together for Scotland. The
treachery, or the folly, of my cousin’s maid betrayed us. I was
banished to the house of a relation far distant, and she was allowed no
liberty, no society, no amusement, till my father’s point was gained. I
had depended on her fortitude too far, and the blow was a severe
one—but had her marriage been happy, so young as I then was, a few
months must have reconciled me to it, or at least I should not have now
to lament it. This however was not the case. My brother had no regard
for her; his pleasures were not what they ought to have been, and from
the first he treated her unkindly. The consequence of this, upon a mind
so young, so lively, so inexperienced as Mrs. Brandon’s, was but too
natural. She resigned herself at first to all the misery of her
situation; and happy had it been if she had not lived to overcome those
regrets which the remembrance of me occasioned. But can we wonder that,
with such a husband to provoke inconstancy, and without a friend to
advise or restrain her (for my father lived only a few months after
their marriage, and I was with my regiment in the East Indies) she
should fall? Had I remained in England, perhaps—but I meant to promote
the happiness of both by removing from her for years, and for that
purpose had procured my exchange. The shock which her marriage had
given me,” he continued, in a voice of great agitation, “was of
trifling weight—was nothing to what I felt when I heard, about two
years afterwards, of her divorce. It was _that_ which threw this
gloom,—even now the recollection of what I suffered—”

He could say no more, and rising hastily walked for a few minutes about
the room. Elinor, affected by his relation, and still more by his
distress, could not speak. He saw her concern, and coming to her, took
her hand, pressed it, and kissed it with grateful respect. A few
minutes more of silent exertion enabled him to proceed with composure.

“It was nearly three years after this unhappy period before I returned
to England. My first care, when I _did_ arrive, was of course to seek
for her; but the search was as fruitless as it was melancholy. I could
not trace her beyond her first seducer, and there was every reason to
fear that she had removed from him only to sink deeper in a life of
sin. Her legal allowance was not adequate to her fortune, nor
sufficient for her comfortable maintenance, and I learnt from my
brother that the power of receiving it had been made over some months
before to another person. He imagined, and calmly could he imagine it,
that her extravagance, and consequent distress, had obliged her to
dispose of it for some immediate relief. At last, however, and after I
had been six months in England, I _did_ find her. Regard for a former
servant of my own, who had since fallen into misfortune, carried me to
visit him in a spunging-house, where he was confined for debt; and
there, in the same house, under a similar confinement, was my
unfortunate sister. So altered—so faded—worn down by acute suffering of
every kind! hardly could I believe the melancholy and sickly figure
before me, to be the remains of the lovely, blooming, healthful girl,
on whom I had once doted. What I endured in so beholding her—but I have
no right to wound your feelings by attempting to describe it—I have
pained you too much already. That she was, to all appearance, in the
last stage of a consumption, was—yes, in such a situation it was my
greatest comfort. Life could do nothing for her, beyond giving time for
a better preparation for death; and that was given. I saw her placed in
comfortable lodgings, and under proper attendants; I visited her every
day during the rest of her short life: I was with her in her last
moments.”

Again he stopped to recover himself; and Elinor spoke her feelings in
an exclamation of tender concern, at the fate of his unfortunate
friend.

“Your sister, I hope, cannot be offended,” said he, “by the resemblance
I have fancied between her and my poor disgraced relation. Their fates,
their fortunes, cannot be the same; and had the natural sweet
disposition of the one been guarded by a firmer mind, or a happier
marriage, she might have been all that you will live to see the other
be. But to what does all this lead? I seem to have been distressing you
for nothing. Ah! Miss Dashwood—a subject such as this—untouched for
fourteen years—it is dangerous to handle it at all! I _will_ be more
collected—more concise. She left to my care her only child, a little
girl, the offspring of her first guilty connection, who was then about
three years old. She loved the child, and had always kept it with her.
It was a valued, a precious trust to me; and gladly would I have
discharged it in the strictest sense, by watching over her education
myself, had the nature of our situations allowed it; but I had no
family, no home; and my little Eliza was therefore placed at school. I
saw her there whenever I could, and after the death of my brother,
(which happened about five years ago, and which left to me the
possession of the family property,) she visited me at Delaford. I
called her a distant relation; but I am well aware that I have in
general been suspected of a much nearer connection with her. It is now
three years ago (she had just reached her fourteenth year,) that I
removed her from school, to place her under the care of a very
respectable woman, residing in Dorsetshire, who had the charge of four
or five other girls of about the same time of life; and for two years I
had every reason to be pleased with her situation. But last February,
almost a twelvemonth back, she suddenly disappeared. I had allowed her,
(imprudently, as it has since turned out,) at her earnest desire, to go
to Bath with one of her young friends, who was attending her father
there for his health. I knew him to be a very good sort of man, and I
thought well of his daughter—better than she deserved, for, with a most
obstinate and ill-judged secrecy, she would tell nothing, would give no
clue, though she certainly knew all. He, her father, a well-meaning,
but not a quick-sighted man, could really, I believe, give no
information; for he had been generally confined to the house, while the
girls were ranging over the town and making what acquaintance they
chose; and he tried to convince me, as thoroughly as he was convinced
himself, of his daughter’s being entirely unconcerned in the business.
In short, I could learn nothing but that she was gone; all the rest,
for eight long months, was left to conjecture. What I thought, what I
feared, may be imagined; and what I suffered too.”

“Good heavens!” cried Elinor, “could it be—could Willoughby!”—

“The first news that reached me of her,” he continued, “came in a
letter from herself, last October. It was forwarded to me from
Delaford, and I received it on the very morning of our intended party
to Whitwell; and this was the reason of my leaving Barton so suddenly,
which I am sure must at the time have appeared strange to every body,
and which I believe gave offence to some. Little did Mr. Willoughby
imagine, I suppose, when his looks censured me for incivility in
breaking up the party, that I was called away to the relief of one whom
he had made poor and miserable; but _had_ he known it, what would it
have availed? Would he have been less gay or less happy in the smiles
of your sister? No, he had already done that, which no man who _can_
feel for another would do. He had left the girl whose youth and
innocence he had seduced, in a situation of the utmost distress, with
no creditable home, no help, no friends, ignorant of his address! He
had left her, promising to return; he neither returned, nor wrote, nor
relieved her.”

“This is beyond every thing!” exclaimed Elinor.

“His character is now before you; expensive, dissipated, and worse than
both. Knowing all this, as I have now known it many weeks, guess what I
must have felt on seeing your sister as fond of him as ever, and on
being assured that she was to marry him: guess what I must have felt
for all your sakes. When I came to you last week and found you alone, I
came determined to know the truth; though irresolute what to do when it
_was_ known. My behaviour must have seemed strange to you then; but now
you will comprehend it. To suffer you all to be so deceived; to see
your sister—but what could I do? I had no hope of interfering with
success; and sometimes I thought your sister’s influence might yet
reclaim him. But now, after such dishonorable usage, who can tell what
were his designs on her. Whatever they may have been, however, she may
now, and hereafter doubtless _will_ turn with gratitude towards her own
condition, when she compares it with that of my poor Eliza, when she
considers the wretched and hopeless situation of this poor girl, and
pictures her to herself, with an affection for him so strong, still as
strong as her own, and with a mind tormented by self-reproach, which
must attend her through life. Surely this comparison must have its use
with her. She will feel her own sufferings to be nothing. They proceed
from no misconduct, and can bring no disgrace. On the contrary, every
friend must be made still more her friend by them. Concern for her
unhappiness, and respect for her fortitude under it, must strengthen
every attachment. Use your own discretion, however, in communicating to
her what I have told you. You must know best what will be its effect;
but had I not seriously, and from my heart believed it might be of
service, might lessen her regrets, I would not have suffered myself to
trouble you with this account of my family afflictions, with a recital
which may seem to have been intended to raise myself at the expense of
others.”

Elinor’s thanks followed this speech with grateful earnestness;
attended too with the assurance of her expecting material advantage to
Marianne, from the communication of what had passed.

“I have been more pained,” said she, “by her endeavors to acquit him
than by all the rest; for it irritates her mind more than the most
perfect conviction of his unworthiness can do. Now, though at first she
will suffer much, I am sure she will soon become easier. Have you,” she
continued, after a short silence, “ever seen Mr. Willoughby since you
left him at Barton?”

“Yes,” he replied gravely, “once I have. One meeting was unavoidable.”

Elinor, startled by his manner, looked at him anxiously, saying,

“What? have you met him to—”

“I could meet him no other way. Eliza had confessed to me, though most
reluctantly, the name of her lover; and when he returned to town, which
was within a fortnight after myself, we met by appointment, he to
defend, I to punish his conduct. We returned unwounded, and the
meeting, therefore, never got abroad.”

Elinor sighed over the fancied necessity of this; but to a man and a
soldier she presumed not to censure it.

“Such,” said Colonel Brandon, after a pause, “has been the unhappy
resemblance between the fate of mother and daughter! and so imperfectly
have I discharged my trust!”

“Is she still in town?”

“No; as soon as she recovered from her lying-in, for I found her near
her delivery, I removed her and her child into the country, and there
she remains.”

Recollecting, soon afterwards, that he was probably dividing Elinor
from her sister, he put an end to his visit, receiving from her again
the same grateful acknowledgments, and leaving her full of compassion
and esteem for him.




CHAPTER XXXII.


When the particulars of this conversation were repeated by Miss
Dashwood to her sister, as they very soon were, the effect on her was
not entirely such as the former had hoped to see. Not that Marianne
appeared to distrust the truth of any part of it, for she listened to
it all with the most steady and submissive attention, made neither
objection nor remark, attempted no vindication of Willoughby, and
seemed to show by her tears that she felt it to be impossible. But
though this behaviour assured Elinor that the conviction of this guilt
_was_ carried home to her mind, though she saw with satisfaction the
effect of it, in her no longer avoiding Colonel Brandon when he called,
in her speaking to him, even voluntarily speaking, with a kind of
compassionate respect, and though she saw her spirits less violently
irritated than before, she did not see her less wretched. Her mind did
become settled, but it was settled in a gloomy dejection. She felt the
loss of Willoughby’s character yet more heavily than she had felt the
loss of his heart; his seduction and desertion of Miss Williams, the
misery of that poor girl, and the doubt of what his designs might
_once_ have been on herself, preyed altogether so much on her spirits,
that she could not bring herself to speak of what she felt even to
Elinor; and, brooding over her sorrows in silence, gave more pain to
her sister than could have been communicated by the most open and most
frequent confession of them.

To give the feelings or the language of Mrs. Dashwood on receiving and
answering Elinor’s letter would be only to give a repetition of what
her daughters had already felt and said; of a disappointment hardly
less painful than Marianne’s, and an indignation even greater than
Elinor’s. Long letters from her, quickly succeeding each other, arrived
to tell all that she suffered and thought; to express her anxious
solicitude for Marianne, and entreat she would bear up with fortitude
under this misfortune. Bad indeed must the nature of Marianne’s
affliction be, when her mother could talk of fortitude! mortifying and
humiliating must be the origin of those regrets, which _she_ could wish
her not to indulge!

Against the interest of her own individual comfort, Mrs. Dashwood had
determined that it would be better for Marianne to be any where, at
that time, than at Barton, where every thing within her view would be
bringing back the past in the strongest and most afflicting manner, by
constantly placing Willoughby before her, such as she had always seen
him there. She recommended it to her daughters, therefore, by all means
not to shorten their visit to Mrs. Jennings; the length of which,
though never exactly fixed, had been expected by all to comprise at
least five or six weeks. A variety of occupations, of objects, and of
company, which could not be procured at Barton, would be inevitable
there, and might yet, she hoped, cheat Marianne, at times, into some
interest beyond herself, and even into some amusement, much as the
ideas of both might now be spurned by her.

From all danger of seeing Willoughby again, her mother considered her
to be at least equally safe in town as in the country, since his
acquaintance must now be dropped by all who called themselves her
friends. Design could never bring them in each other’s way: negligence
could never leave them exposed to a surprise; and chance had less in
its favour in the crowd of London than even in the retirement of
Barton, where it might force him before her while paying that visit at
Allenham on his marriage, which Mrs. Dashwood, from foreseeing at first
as a probable event, had brought herself to expect as a certain one.

She had yet another reason for wishing her children to remain where
they were; a letter from her son-in-law had told her that he and his
wife were to be in town before the middle of February, and she judged
it right that they should sometimes see their brother.

Marianne had promised to be guided by her mother’s opinion, and she
submitted to it therefore without opposition, though it proved
perfectly different from what she wished and expected, though she felt
it to be entirely wrong, formed on mistaken grounds, and that by
requiring her longer continuance in London it deprived her of the only
possible alleviation of her wretchedness, the personal sympathy of her
mother, and doomed her to such society and such scenes as must prevent
her ever knowing a moment’s rest.

But it was a matter of great consolation to her, that what brought evil
to herself would bring good to her sister; and Elinor, on the other
hand, suspecting that it would not be in her power to avoid Edward
entirely, comforted herself by thinking, that though their longer stay
would therefore militate against her own happiness, it would be better
for Marianne than an immediate return into Devonshire.

Her carefulness in guarding her sister from ever hearing Willoughby’s
name mentioned, was not thrown away. Marianne, though without knowing
it herself, reaped all its advantage; for neither Mrs. Jennings, nor
Sir John, nor even Mrs. Palmer herself, ever spoke of him before her.
Elinor wished that the same forbearance could have extended towards
herself, but that was impossible, and she was obliged to listen day
after day to the indignation of them all.

Sir John, could not have thought it possible. “A man of whom he had
always had such reason to think well! Such a good-natured fellow! He
did not believe there was a bolder rider in England! It was an
unaccountable business. He wished him at the devil with all his heart.
He would not speak another word to him, meet him where he might, for
all the world! No, not if it were to be by the side of Barton covert,
and they were kept watching for two hours together. Such a scoundrel of
a fellow! such a deceitful dog! It was only the last time they met that
he had offered him one of Folly’s puppies! and this was the end of it!”

Mrs. Palmer, in her way, was equally angry. “She was determined to drop
his acquaintance immediately, and she was very thankful that she had
never been acquainted with him at all. She wished with all her heart
Combe Magna was not so near Cleveland; but it did not signify, for it
was a great deal too far off to visit; she hated him so much that she
was resolved never to mention his name again, and she should tell
everybody she saw, how good-for-nothing he was.”

The rest of Mrs. Palmer’s sympathy was shown in procuring all the
particulars in her power of the approaching marriage, and communicating
them to Elinor. She could soon tell at what coachmaker’s the new
carriage was building, by what painter Mr. Willoughby’s portrait was
drawn, and at what warehouse Miss Grey’s clothes might be seen.

The calm and polite unconcern of Lady Middleton on the occasion was a
happy relief to Elinor’s spirits, oppressed as they often were by the
clamorous kindness of the others. It was a great comfort to her to be
sure of exciting no interest in _one_ person at least among their
circle of friends: a great comfort to know that there was _one_ who
would meet her without feeling any curiosity after particulars, or any
anxiety for her sister’s health.

Every qualification is raised at times, by the circumstances of the
moment, to more than its real value; and she was sometimes worried down
by officious condolence to rate good-breeding as more indispensable to
comfort than good-nature.

Lady Middleton expressed her sense of the affair about once every day,
or twice, if the subject occurred very often, by saying, “It is very
shocking, indeed!” and by the means of this continual though gentle
vent, was able not only to see the Miss Dashwoods from the first
without the smallest emotion, but very soon to see them without
recollecting a word of the matter; and having thus supported the
dignity of her own sex, and spoken her decided censure of what was
wrong in the other, she thought herself at liberty to attend to the
interest of her own assemblies, and therefore determined (though rather
against the opinion of Sir John) that as Mrs. Willoughby would at once
be a woman of elegance and fortune, to leave her card with her as soon
as she married.

Colonel Brandon’s delicate, unobtrusive enquiries were never unwelcome
to Miss Dashwood. He had abundantly earned the privilege of intimate
discussion of her sister’s disappointment, by the friendly zeal with
which he had endeavoured to soften it, and they always conversed with
confidence. His chief reward for the painful exertion of disclosing
past sorrows and present humiliations, was given in the pitying eye
with which Marianne sometimes observed him, and the gentleness of her
voice whenever (though it did not often happen) she was obliged, or
could oblige herself to speak to him. _These_ assured him that his
exertion had produced an increase of good-will towards himself, and
_these_ gave Elinor hopes of its being farther augmented hereafter; but
Mrs. Jennings, who knew nothing of all this, who knew only that the
Colonel continued as grave as ever, and that she could neither prevail
on him to make the offer himself, nor commission her to make it for
him, began, at the end of two days, to think that, instead of
Midsummer, they would not be married till Michaelmas, and by the end of
a week that it would not be a match at all. The good understanding
between the Colonel and Miss Dashwood seemed rather to declare that the
honours of the mulberry-tree, the canal, and the yew arbour, would all
be made over to _her;_ and Mrs. Jennings had, for some time ceased to
think at all of Mrs. Ferrars.

Early in February, within a fortnight from the receipt of Willoughby’s
letter, Elinor had the painful office of informing her sister that he
was married. She had taken care to have the intelligence conveyed to
herself, as soon as it was known that the ceremony was over, as she was
desirous that Marianne should not receive the first notice of it from
the public papers, which she saw her eagerly examining every morning.

She received the news with resolute composure; made no observation on
it, and at first shed no tears; but after a short time they would burst
out, and for the rest of the day, she was in a state hardly less
pitiable than when she first learnt to expect the event.

The Willoughbys left town as soon as they were married; and Elinor now
hoped, as there could be no danger of her seeing either of them, to
prevail on her sister, who had never yet left the house since the blow
first fell, to go out again by degrees as she had done before.

About this time the two Miss Steeles, lately arrived at their cousin’s
house in Bartlett’s Buildings, Holburn, presented themselves again
before their more grand relations in Conduit and Berkeley Streets; and
were welcomed by them all with great cordiality.

Elinor only was sorry to see them. Their presence always gave her pain,
and she hardly knew how to make a very gracious return to the
overpowering delight of Lucy in finding her _still_ in town.

“I should have been quite disappointed if I had not found you here
_still_,” said she repeatedly, with a strong emphasis on the word. “But
I always thought I _should_. I was almost sure you would not leave
London yet awhile; though you _told_ me, you know, at Barton, that you
should not stay above a _month_. But I thought, at the time, that you
would most likely change your mind when it came to the point. It would
have been such a great pity to have went away before your brother and
sister came. And now to be sure you will be in no _hurry_ to be gone. I
am amazingly glad you did not keep to _your word_.”

Elinor perfectly understood her, and was forced to use all her
self-command to make it appear that she did _not_.

“Well, my dear,” said Mrs. Jennings, “and how did you travel?”

“Not in the stage, I assure you,” replied Miss Steele, with quick
exultation; “we came post all the way, and had a very smart beau to
attend us. Dr. Davies was coming to town, and so we thought we’d join
him in a post-chaise; and he behaved very genteelly, and paid ten or
twelve shillings more than we did.”

“Oh, oh!” cried Mrs. Jennings; “very pretty, indeed! and the Doctor is
a single man, I warrant you.”

“There now,” said Miss Steele, affectedly simpering, “everybody laughs
at me so about the Doctor, and I cannot think why. My cousins say they
are sure I have made a conquest; but for my part I declare I never
think about him from one hour’s end to another. ‘Lord! here comes your
beau, Nancy,’ my cousin said t’other day, when she saw him crossing the
street to the house. My beau, indeed! said I—I cannot think who you
mean. The Doctor is no beau of mine.”

“Aye, aye, that is very pretty talking—but it won’t do—the Doctor is
the man, I see.”

“No, indeed!” replied her cousin, with affected earnestness, “and I beg
you will contradict it, if you ever hear it talked of.”

Mrs. Jennings directly gave her the gratifying assurance that she
certainly would _not_, and Miss Steele was made completely happy.

“I suppose you will go and stay with your brother and sister, Miss
Dashwood, when they come to town,” said Lucy, returning, after a
cessation of hostile hints, to the charge.

“No, I do not think we shall.”

“Oh, yes, I dare say you will.”

Elinor would not humour her by farther opposition.

“What a charming thing it is that Mrs. Dashwood can spare you both for
so long a time together!”

“Long a time, indeed!” interposed Mrs. Jennings. “Why, their visit is
but just begun!”

Lucy was silenced.

“I am sorry we cannot see your sister, Miss Dashwood,” said Miss
Steele. “I am sorry she is not well—” for Marianne had left the room on
their arrival.

“You are very good. My sister will be equally sorry to miss the
pleasure of seeing you; but she has been very much plagued lately with
nervous head-aches, which make her unfit for company or conversation.”

“Oh, dear, that is a great pity! but such old friends as Lucy and me!—I
think she might see _us;_ and I am sure we would not speak a word.”

Elinor, with great civility, declined the proposal. Her sister was
perhaps laid down upon the bed, or in her dressing gown, and therefore
not able to come to them.

“Oh, if that’s all,” cried Miss Steele, “we can just as well go and see
_her_.”

Elinor began to find this impertinence too much for her temper; but she
was saved the trouble of checking it, by Lucy’s sharp reprimand, which
now, as on many occasions, though it did not give much sweetness to the
manners of one sister, was of advantage in governing those of the
other.




CHAPTER XXXIII.


After some opposition, Marianne yielded to her sister’s entreaties, and
consented to go out with her and Mrs. Jennings one morning for half an
hour. She expressly conditioned, however, for paying no visits, and
would do no more than accompany them to Gray’s in Sackville Street,
where Elinor was carrying on a negotiation for the exchange of a few
old-fashioned jewels of her mother.

When they stopped at the door, Mrs. Jennings recollected that there was
a lady at the other end of the street on whom she ought to call; and as
she had no business at Gray’s, it was resolved, that while her young
friends transacted their’s, she should pay her visit and return for
them.

On ascending the stairs, the Miss Dashwoods found so many people before
them in the room, that there was not a person at liberty to tend to
their orders; and they were obliged to wait. All that could be done
was, to sit down at that end of the counter which seemed to promise the
quickest succession; one gentleman only was standing there, and it is
probable that Elinor was not without hope of exciting his politeness to
a quicker despatch. But the correctness of his eye, and the delicacy of
his taste, proved to be beyond his politeness. He was giving orders for
a toothpick-case for himself, and till its size, shape, and ornaments
were determined, all of which, after examining and debating for a
quarter of an hour over every toothpick-case in the shop, were finally
arranged by his own inventive fancy, he had no leisure to bestow any
other attention on the two ladies, than what was comprised in three or
four very broad stares; a kind of notice which served to imprint on
Elinor the remembrance of a person and face, of strong, natural,
sterling insignificance, though adorned in the first style of fashion.

Marianne was spared from the troublesome feelings of contempt and
resentment, on this impertinent examination of their features, and on
the puppyism of his manner in deciding on all the different horrors of
the different toothpick-cases presented to his inspection, by remaining
unconscious of it all; for she was as well able to collect her thoughts
within herself, and be as ignorant of what was passing around her, in
Mr. Gray’s shop, as in her own bedroom.

At last the affair was decided. The ivory, the gold, and the pearls,
all received their appointment, and the gentleman having named the last
day on which his existence could be continued without the possession of
the toothpick-case, drew on his gloves with leisurely care, and
bestowing another glance on the Miss Dashwoods, but such a one as
seemed rather to demand than express admiration, walked off with a
happy air of real conceit and affected indifference.

Elinor lost no time in bringing her business forward, was on the point
of concluding it, when another gentleman presented himself at her side.
She turned her eyes towards his face, and found him with some surprise
to be her brother.

Their affection and pleasure in meeting was just enough to make a very
creditable appearance in Mr. Gray’s shop. John Dashwood was really far
from being sorry to see his sisters again; it rather gave them
satisfaction; and his inquiries after their mother were respectful and
attentive.

Elinor found that he and Fanny had been in town two days.

“I wished very much to call upon you yesterday,” said he, “but it was
impossible, for we were obliged to take Harry to see the wild beasts at
Exeter Exchange; and we spent the rest of the day with Mrs. Ferrars.
Harry was vastly pleased. _This_ morning I had fully intended to call
on you, if I could possibly find a spare half hour, but one has always
so much to do on first coming to town. I am come here to bespeak Fanny
a seal. But tomorrow I think I shall certainly be able to call in
Berkeley Street, and be introduced to your friend Mrs. Jennings. I
understand she is a woman of very good fortune. And the Middletons too,
you must introduce me to _them_. As my mother-in-law’s relations, I
shall be happy to show them every respect. They are excellent
neighbours to you in the country, I understand.”

“Excellent indeed. Their attention to our comfort, their friendliness
in every particular, is more than I can express.”

“I am extremely glad to hear it, upon my word; extremely glad indeed.
But so it ought to be; they are people of large fortune, they are
related to you, and every civility and accommodation that can serve to
make your situation pleasant might be reasonably expected. And so you
are most comfortably settled in your little cottage and want for
nothing! Edward brought us a most charming account of the place: the
most complete thing of its kind, he said, that ever was, and you all
seemed to enjoy it beyond any thing. It was a great satisfaction to us
to hear it, I assure you.”

Elinor did feel a little ashamed of her brother; and was not sorry to
be spared the necessity of answering him, by the arrival of Mrs.
Jennings’s servant, who came to tell her that his mistress waited for
them at the door.

Mr. Dashwood attended them down stairs, was introduced to Mrs. Jennings
at the door of her carriage, and repeating his hope of being able to
call on them the next day, took leave.

His visit was duly paid. He came with a pretence at an apology from
their sister-in-law, for not coming too; “but she was so much engaged
with her mother, that really she had no leisure for going any where.”
Mrs. Jennings, however, assured him directly, that she should not stand
upon ceremony, for they were all cousins, or something like it, and she
should certainly wait on Mrs. John Dashwood very soon, and bring her
sisters to see her. His manners to _them_, though calm, were perfectly
kind; to Mrs. Jennings, most attentively civil; and on Colonel
Brandon’s coming in soon after himself, he eyed him with a curiosity
which seemed to say, that he only wanted to know him to be rich, to be
equally civil to _him_.

After staying with them half an hour, he asked Elinor to walk with him
to Conduit Street, and introduce him to Sir John and Lady Middleton.
The weather was remarkably fine, and she readily consented. As soon as
they were out of the house, his enquiries began.

“Who is Colonel Brandon? Is he a man of fortune?”

“Yes; he has very good property in Dorsetshire.”

“I am glad of it. He seems a most gentlemanlike man; and I think,
Elinor, I may congratulate you on the prospect of a very respectable
establishment in life.”

“Me, brother! what do you mean?”

“He likes you. I observed him narrowly, and am convinced of it. What is
the amount of his fortune?”

“I believe about two thousand a year.”

“Two thousand a-year;” and then working himself up to a pitch of
enthusiastic generosity, he added, “Elinor, I wish with all my heart it
were _twice_ as much, for your sake.”

“Indeed I believe you,” replied Elinor; “but I am very sure that
Colonel Brandon has not the smallest wish of marrying _me_.”

“You are mistaken, Elinor; you are very much mistaken. A very little
trouble on your side secures him. Perhaps just at present he may be
undecided; the smallness of your fortune may make him hang back; his
friends may all advise him against it. But some of those little
attentions and encouragements which ladies can so easily give will fix
him, in spite of himself. And there can be no reason why you should not
try for him. It is not to be supposed that any prior attachment on your
side—in short, you know as to an attachment of that kind, it is quite
out of the question, the objections are insurmountable—you have too
much sense not to see all that. Colonel Brandon must be the man; and no
civility shall be wanting on my part to make him pleased with you and
your family. It is a match that must give universal satisfaction. In
short, it is a kind of thing that”—lowering his voice to an important
whisper—“will be exceedingly welcome to _all parties_.” Recollecting
himself, however, he added, “That is, I mean to say—your friends are
all truly anxious to see you well settled; Fanny particularly, for she
has your interest very much at heart, I assure you. And her mother too,
Mrs. Ferrars, a very good-natured woman, I am sure it would give her
great pleasure; she said as much the other day.”

Elinor would not vouchsafe any answer.

“It would be something remarkable, now,” he continued, “something
droll, if Fanny should have a brother and I a sister settling at the
same time. And yet it is not very unlikely.”

“Is Mr. Edward Ferrars,” said Elinor, with resolution, “going to be
married?”

“It is not actually settled, but there is such a thing in agitation. He
has a most excellent mother. Mrs. Ferrars, with the utmost liberality,
will come forward, and settle on him a thousand a year, if the match
takes place. The lady is the Hon. Miss Morton, only daughter of the
late Lord Morton, with thirty thousand pounds. A very desirable
connection on both sides, and I have not a doubt of its taking place in
time. A thousand a-year is a great deal for a mother to give away, to
make over for ever; but Mrs. Ferrars has a noble spirit. To give you
another instance of her liberality:—The other day, as soon as we came
to town, aware that money could not be very plenty with us just now,
she put bank-notes into Fanny’s hands to the amount of two hundred
pounds. And extremely acceptable it is, for we must live at a great
expense while we are here.”

He paused for her assent and compassion; and she forced herself to say,

“Your expenses both in town and country must certainly be considerable;
but your income is a large one.”

“Not so large, I dare say, as many people suppose. I do not mean to
complain, however; it is undoubtedly a comfortable one, and I hope will
in time be better. The enclosure of Norland Common, now carrying on, is
a most serious drain. And then I have made a little purchase within
this half year; East Kingham Farm, you must remember the place, where
old Gibson used to live. The land was so very desirable for me in every
respect, so immediately adjoining my own property, that I felt it my
duty to buy it. I could not have answered it to my conscience to let it
fall into any other hands. A man must pay for his convenience; and it
_has_ cost me a vast deal of money.”

“More than you think it really and intrinsically worth.”

“Why, I hope not that. I might have sold it again, the next day, for
more than I gave: but, with regard to the purchase-money, I might have
been very unfortunate indeed; for the stocks were at that time so low,
that if I had not happened to have the necessary sum in my banker’s
hands, I must have sold out to very great loss.”

Elinor could only smile.

“Other great and inevitable expenses too we have had on first coming to
Norland. Our respected father, as you well know, bequeathed all the
Stanhill effects that remained at Norland (and very valuable they were)
to your mother. Far be it from me to repine at his doing so; he had an
undoubted right to dispose of his own property as he chose, but, in
consequence of it, we have been obliged to make large purchases of
linen, china, &c. to supply the place of what was taken away. You may
guess, after all these expenses, how very far we must be from being
rich, and how acceptable Mrs. Ferrars’s kindness is.”

“Certainly,” said Elinor; “and assisted by her liberality, I hope you
may yet live to be in easy circumstances.”

“Another year or two may do much towards it,” he gravely replied; “but
however there is still a great deal to be done. There is not a stone
laid of Fanny’s green-house, and nothing but the plan of the
flower-garden marked out.”

“Where is the green-house to be?”

“Upon the knoll behind the house. The old walnut trees are all come
down to make room for it. It will be a very fine object from many parts
of the park, and the flower-garden will slope down just before it, and
be exceedingly pretty. We have cleared away all the old thorns that
grew in patches over the brow.”

Elinor kept her concern and her censure to herself; and was very
thankful that Marianne was not present, to share the provocation.

Having now said enough to make his poverty clear, and to do away the
necessity of buying a pair of ear-rings for each of his sisters, in his
next visit at Gray’s, his thoughts took a cheerfuller turn, and he
began to congratulate Elinor on having such a friend as Mrs. Jennings.

“She seems a most valuable woman indeed. Her house, her style of
living, all bespeak an exceeding good income; and it is an acquaintance
that has not only been of great use to you hitherto, but in the end may
prove materially advantageous. Her inviting you to town is certainly a
vast thing in your favour; and indeed, it speaks altogether so great a
regard for you, that in all probability when she dies you will not be
forgotten. She must have a great deal to leave.”

“Nothing at all, I should rather suppose; for she has only her
jointure, which will descend to her children.”

“But it is not to be imagined that she lives up to her income. Few
people of common prudence will do _that_ and whatever she saves, she
will be able to dispose of.”

“And do you not think it more likely that she should leave it to her
daughters, than to us?”

“Her daughters are both exceedingly well married, and therefore I
cannot perceive the necessity of her remembering them farther. Whereas,
in my opinion, by her taking so much notice of you, and treating you in
this kind of way, she has given you a sort of claim on her future
consideration, which a conscientious woman would not disregard. Nothing
can be kinder than her behaviour; and she can hardly do all this,
without being aware of the expectation it raises.”

“But she raises none in those most concerned. Indeed, brother, your
anxiety for our welfare and prosperity carries you too far.”

“Why, to be sure,” said he, seeming to recollect himself, “people have
little, have very little in their power. But, my dear Elinor, what is
the matter with Marianne?—she looks very unwell, has lost her colour,
and is grown quite thin. Is she ill?”

“She is not well, she has had a nervous complaint on her for several
weeks.”

“I am sorry for that. At her time of life, any thing of an illness
destroys the bloom for ever! 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 _you_,
but so it happened to strike her. She will be mistaken, however. I
question whether Marianne _now_, will marry a man worth more than five
or six hundred a-year, at the utmost, and I am very much deceived if
_you_ do not do better. Dorsetshire! I know very little of Dorsetshire;
but, my dear Elinor, I shall be exceedingly glad to know more of it;
and I think I can answer for your having Fanny and myself among the
earliest and best pleased of your visitors.”

Elinor tried very seriously to convince him that there was no
likelihood of her marrying Colonel Brandon; but it was an expectation
of too much pleasure to himself to be relinquished, and he was really
resolved on seeking an intimacy with that gentleman, and promoting the
marriage by every possible attention. He had just compunction enough
for having done nothing for his sisters himself, to be exceedingly
anxious that everybody else should do a great deal; and an offer from
Colonel Brandon, or a legacy from Mrs. Jennings, was the easiest means
of atoning for his own neglect.

They were lucky enough to find Lady Middleton at home, and Sir John
came in before their visit ended. Abundance of civilities passed on all
sides. Sir John was ready to like anybody, and though Mr. Dashwood did
not seem to know much about horses, he soon set him down as a very
good-natured fellow: while Lady Middleton saw enough of fashion in his
appearance to think his acquaintance worth having; and Mr. Dashwood
went away delighted with both.

“I shall have a charming account to carry to Fanny,” said he, as he
walked back with his sister. “Lady Middleton is really a most elegant
woman! Such a woman as I am sure Fanny will be glad to know. And Mrs.
Jennings too, an exceedingly well-behaved woman, though not so elegant
as her daughter. Your sister need not have any scruple even of visiting
_her_, which, to say the truth, has been a little the case, and very
naturally; for we only knew that Mrs. Jennings was the widow of a man
who had got all his money in a low way; and Fanny and Mrs. Ferrars were
both strongly prepossessed, that neither she nor her daughters were
such kind of women as Fanny would like to associate with. But now I can
carry her a most satisfactory account of both.”




CHAPTER XXXIV.


Mrs. John Dashwood had so much confidence in her husband’s judgment,
that she waited the very next day both on Mrs. Jennings and her
daughter; and her confidence was rewarded by finding even the former,
even the woman with whom her sisters were staying, by no means unworthy
her notice; and as for Lady Middleton, she found her one of the most
charming women in the world!

Lady Middleton was equally pleased with Mrs. Dashwood. There was a kind
of cold hearted selfishness on both sides, which mutually attracted
them; and they sympathised with each other in an insipid propriety of
demeanor, and a general want of understanding.

The same manners, however, which recommended Mrs. John Dashwood to the
good opinion of Lady Middleton did not suit the fancy of Mrs. Jennings,
and to _her_ she appeared nothing more than a little proud-looking
woman of uncordial address, who met her husband’s sisters without any
affection, and almost without having anything to say to them; for of
the quarter of an hour bestowed on Berkeley Street, she sat at least
seven minutes and a half in silence.

Elinor wanted very much to know, though she did not chuse to ask,
whether Edward was then in town; but nothing would have induced Fanny
voluntarily to mention his name before her, till able to tell her that
his marriage with Miss Morton was resolved on, or till her husband’s
expectations on Colonel Brandon were answered; because she believed
them still so very much attached to each other, that they could not be
too sedulously divided in word and deed on every occasion. The
intelligence however, which _she_ would not give, soon flowed from
another quarter. Lucy came very shortly to claim Elinor’s compassion on
being unable to see Edward, though he had arrived in town with Mr. and
Mrs. Dashwood. He dared not come to Bartlett’s Buildings for fear of
detection, and though their mutual impatience to meet, was not to be
told, they could do nothing at present but write.

Edward assured them himself of his being in town, within a very short
time, by twice calling in Berkeley Street. Twice was his card found on
the table, when they returned from their morning’s engagements. Elinor
was pleased that he had called; and still more pleased that she had
missed him.

The Dashwoods were so prodigiously delighted with the Middletons, that,
though not much in the habit of giving anything, they determined to
give them—a dinner; and soon after their acquaintance began, invited
them to dine in Harley Street, where they had taken a very good house
for three months. Their sisters and Mrs. Jennings were invited
likewise, and John Dashwood was careful to secure Colonel Brandon, who,
always glad to be where the Miss Dashwoods were, received his eager
civilities with some surprise, but much more pleasure. They were to
meet Mrs. Ferrars; but Elinor could not learn whether her sons were to
be of the party. The expectation of seeing _her_, however, was enough
to make her interested in the engagement; for though she could now meet
Edward’s mother without that strong anxiety which had once promised to
attend such an introduction, though she could now see her with perfect
indifference as to her opinion of herself, her desire of being in
company with Mrs. Ferrars, her curiosity to know what she was like, was
as lively as ever.

The interest with which she thus anticipated the party, was soon
afterwards increased, more powerfully than pleasantly, by her hearing
that the Miss Steeles were also to be at it.

So well had they recommended themselves to Lady Middleton, so agreeable
had their assiduities made them to her, that though Lucy was certainly
not so elegant, and her sister not even genteel, she was as ready as
Sir John to ask them to spend a week or two in Conduit Street; and it
happened to be particularly convenient to the Miss Steeles, as soon as
the Dashwoods’ invitation was known, that their visit should begin a
few days before the party took place.

Their claims to the notice of Mrs. John Dashwood, as the nieces of the
gentleman who for many years had had the care of her brother, might not
have done much, however, towards procuring them seats at her table; but
as Lady Middleton’s guests they must be welcome; and Lucy, who had long
wanted to be personally known to the family, to have a nearer view of
their characters and her own difficulties, and to have an opportunity
of endeavouring to please them, had seldom been happier in her life,
than she was on receiving Mrs. John Dashwood’s card.

On Elinor its effect was very different. She began immediately to
determine, that Edward who lived with his mother, must be asked as his
mother was, to a party given by his sister; and to see him for the
first time, after all that passed, in the company of Lucy!—she hardly
knew how she could bear it!

These apprehensions, perhaps, were not founded entirely on reason, and
certainly not at all on truth. They were relieved however, not by her
own recollection, but by the good will of Lucy, who believed herself to
be inflicting a severe disappointment when she told her that Edward
certainly would not be in Harley Street on Tuesday, and even hoped to
be carrying the pain still farther by persuading her that he was kept
away by the extreme affection for herself, which he could not conceal
when they were together.

The important Tuesday came that was to introduce the two young ladies
to this formidable mother-in-law.

“Pity me, dear Miss Dashwood!” said Lucy, as they walked up the stairs
together—for the Middletons arrived so directly after Mrs. Jennings,
that they all followed the servant at the same time:—“there is nobody
here but you, that can feel for me. I declare I can hardly stand. Good
gracious! In a moment I shall see the person that all my happiness
depends on—that is to be my mother!”

Elinor could have given her immediate relief by suggesting the
possibility of its being Miss Morton’s mother, rather than her own,
whom they were about to behold; but instead of doing that, she assured
her, and with great sincerity, that she did pity her—to the utter
amazement of Lucy, who, though really uncomfortable herself, hoped at
least to be an object of irrepressible envy to Elinor.

Mrs. Ferrars was a little, thin woman, upright, even to formality, in
her figure, and serious, even to sourness, in her aspect. Her
complexion was sallow; and her features small, without beauty, and
naturally without expression; but a lucky contraction of the brow had
rescued her countenance from the disgrace of insipidity, by giving it
the strong characters of pride and ill nature. She was not a woman of
many words; for, unlike people in general, she proportioned them to the
number of her ideas; and of the few syllables that did escape her, not
one fell to the share of Miss Dashwood, whom she eyed with the spirited
determination of disliking her at all events.

Elinor could not _now_ be made unhappy by this behaviour. A few months
ago it would have hurt her exceedingly; but it was not in Mrs. Ferrars’
power to distress her by it now; and the difference of her manners to
the Miss Steeles, a difference which seemed purposely made to humble
her more, only amused her. She could not but smile to see the
graciousness of both mother and daughter towards the very person—for
Lucy was particularly distinguished—whom of all others, had they known
as much as she did, they would have been most anxious to mortify; while
she herself, who had comparatively no power to wound them, sat
pointedly slighted by both. But while she smiled at a graciousness so
misapplied, she could not reflect on the mean-spirited folly from which
it sprung, nor observe the studied attentions with which the Miss
Steeles courted its continuance, without thoroughly despising them all
four.

Lucy was all exultation on being so honorably distinguished; and Miss
Steele wanted only to be teazed about Dr. Davies to be perfectly happy.

The dinner was a grand one, the servants were numerous, and every thing
bespoke the Mistress’s inclination for show, and the Master’s ability
to support it. In spite of the improvements and additions which were
making to the Norland estate, and in spite of its owner having once
been within some thousand pounds of being obliged to sell out at a
loss, nothing gave any symptom of that indigence which he had tried to
infer from it;—no poverty of any kind, except of conversation,
appeared—but there, the deficiency was considerable. John Dashwood had
not much to say for himself that was worth hearing, and his wife had
still less. But there was no peculiar disgrace in this; for it was very
much the case with the chief of their visitors, who almost all laboured
under one or other of these disqualifications for being agreeable—Want
of sense, either natural or improved—want of elegance—want of
spirits—or want of temper.

When the ladies withdrew to the drawing-room after dinner, this poverty
was particularly evident, for the gentlemen _had_ supplied the
discourse with some variety—the variety of politics, inclosing land,
and breaking horses—but then it was all over; and one subject only
engaged the ladies till coffee came in, which was the comparative
heights of Harry Dashwood, and Lady Middleton’s second son William, who
were nearly of the same age.

Had both the children been there, the affair might have been determined
too easily by measuring them at once; but as Harry only was present, it
was all conjectural assertion on both sides; and every body had a right
to be equally positive in their opinion, and to repeat it over and over
again as often as they liked.

The parties stood thus:

The two mothers, though each really convinced that her own son was the
tallest, politely decided in favour of the other.

The two grandmothers, with not less partiality, but more sincerity,
were equally earnest in support of their own descendant.

Lucy, who was hardly less anxious to please one parent than the other,
thought the boys were both remarkably tall for their age, and could not
conceive that there could be the smallest difference in the world
between them; and Miss Steele, with yet greater address gave it, as
fast as she could, in favour of each.

Elinor, having once delivered her opinion on William’s side, by which
she offended Mrs. Ferrars and Fanny still more, did not see the
necessity of enforcing it by any farther assertion; and Marianne, when
called on for hers, offended them all, by declaring that she had no
opinion to give, as she had never thought about it.

Before her removing from Norland, Elinor had painted a very pretty pair
of screens for her sister-in-law, which being now just mounted and
brought home, ornamented her present drawing room; and these screens,
catching the eye of John Dashwood on his following the other gentlemen
into the room, were officiously handed by him to Colonel Brandon for
his admiration.

“These are done by my eldest sister,” said he; “and you, as a man of
taste, will, I dare say, be pleased with them. I do not know whether
you have ever happened to see any of her performances before, but she
is in general reckoned to draw extremely well.”

The Colonel, though disclaiming all pretensions to connoisseurship,
warmly admired the screens, as he would have done any thing painted by
Miss Dashwood; and on the curiosity of the others being of course
excited, they were handed round for general inspection. Mrs. Ferrars,
not aware of their being Elinor’s work, particularly requested to look
at them; and after they had received gratifying testimony of Lady
Middletons’s approbation, Fanny presented them to her mother,
considerately informing her, at the same time, that they were done by
Miss Dashwood.

“Hum”—said Mrs. Ferrars—“very pretty,”—and without regarding them at
all, returned them to her daughter.

Perhaps Fanny thought for a moment that her mother had been quite rude
enough,—for, colouring a little, she immediately said,

“They are very pretty, ma’am—an’t they?” But then again, the dread of
having been too civil, too encouraging herself, probably came over her,
for she presently added,

“Do you not think they are something in Miss Morton’s style of
painting, Ma’am?—_She does_ paint most delightfully!—How beautifully
her last landscape is done!”

“Beautifully indeed! But _she_ does every thing well.”

Marianne could not bear this.—She was already greatly displeased with
Mrs. Ferrars; and such ill-timed praise of another, at Elinor’s
expense, though she had not any notion of what was principally meant by
it, provoked her immediately to say with warmth,

“This is admiration of a very particular kind!—what is Miss Morton to
us?—who knows, or who cares, for her?—it is Elinor of whom _we_ think
and speak.”

And so saying, she took the screens out of her sister-in-law’s hands,
to admire them herself as they ought to be admired.

Mrs. Ferrars looked exceedingly angry, and drawing herself up more
stiffly than ever, pronounced in retort this bitter philippic, “Miss
Morton is Lord Morton’s daughter.”

Fanny looked very angry too, and her husband was all in a fright at his
sister’s audacity. Elinor was much more hurt by Marianne’s warmth than
she had been by what produced it; but Colonel Brandon’s eyes, as they
were fixed on Marianne, declared that he noticed only what was amiable
in it, the affectionate heart which could not bear to see a sister
slighted in the smallest point.

Marianne’s feelings did not stop here. The cold insolence of Mrs.
Ferrars’s general behaviour to her sister, seemed, to her, to foretell
such difficulties and distresses to Elinor, as her own wounded heart
taught her to think of with horror; and urged by a strong impulse of
affectionate sensibility, she moved after a moment, to her sister’s
chair, and putting one arm round her neck, and one cheek close to hers,
said in a low, but eager, voice,

“Dear, dear Elinor, don’t mind them. Don’t let them make _you_
unhappy.”

She could say no more; her spirits were quite overcome, and hiding her
face on Elinor’s shoulder, she burst into tears. Every body’s attention
was called, and almost every body was concerned.—Colonel Brandon rose
up and went to them without knowing what he did.—Mrs. Jennings, with a
very intelligent “Ah! poor dear,” immediately gave her her salts; and
Sir John felt so desperately enraged against the author of this nervous
distress, that he instantly changed his seat to one close by Lucy
Steele, and gave her, in a whisper, a brief account of the whole
shocking affair.

In a few minutes, however, Marianne was recovered enough to put an end
to the bustle, and sit down among the rest; though her spirits retained
the impression of what had passed, the whole evening.

“Poor Marianne!” said her brother to Colonel Brandon, in a low voice,
as soon as he could secure his attention: “She has not such good health
as her sister,—she is very nervous,—she has not Elinor’s
constitution;—and one must allow that there is something very trying to
a young woman who _has been_ a beauty in the loss of her personal
attractions. You would not think it perhaps, but Marianne _was_
remarkably handsome a few months ago; quite as handsome as Elinor. Now
you see it is all gone.”




CHAPTER XXXV.


Elinor’s curiosity to see Mrs. Ferrars was satisfied. She had found in
her every thing that could tend to make a farther connection between
the families undesirable. She had seen enough of her pride, her
meanness, and her determined prejudice against herself, to comprehend
all the difficulties that must have perplexed the engagement, and
retarded the marriage, of Edward and herself, had he been otherwise
free; and she had seen almost enough to be thankful for her _own_ sake,
that one greater obstacle preserved her from suffering under any other
of Mrs. Ferrars’s creation, preserved her from all dependence upon her
caprice, or any solicitude for her good opinion. Or at least, if she
did not bring herself quite to rejoice in Edward’s being fettered to
Lucy, she determined, that had Lucy been more amiable, she _ought_ to
have rejoiced.

She wondered that Lucy’s spirits could be so very much elevated by the
civility of Mrs. Ferrars;—that her interest and her vanity should so
very much blind her as to make the attention which seemed only paid her
because she was _not Elinor_, appear a compliment to herself—or to
allow her to derive encouragement from a preference only given her,
because her real situation was unknown. But that it was so, had not
only been declared by Lucy’s eyes at the time, but was declared over
again the next morning more openly, for at her particular desire, Lady
Middleton set her down in Berkeley Street on the chance of seeing
Elinor alone, to tell her how happy she was.

The chance proved a lucky one, for a message from Mrs. Palmer soon
after she arrived, carried Mrs. Jennings away.

“My dear friend,” cried Lucy, as soon as they were by themselves, “I
come to talk to you of my happiness. Could anything be so flattering as
Mrs. Ferrars’s way of treating me yesterday? So exceeding affable as
she was! You know how I dreaded the thoughts of seeing her; but the
very moment I was introduced, there was such an affability in her
behaviour as really should seem to say, she had quite took a fancy to
me. Now was not it so? You saw it all; and was not you quite struck
with it?”

“She was certainly very civil to you.”

“Civil!—Did you see nothing but only civility?—I saw a vast deal more.
Such kindness as fell to the share of nobody but me!—No pride, no
hauteur, and your sister just the same—all sweetness and affability!”

Elinor wished to talk of something else, but Lucy still pressed her to
own that she had reason for her happiness; and Elinor was obliged to go
on.

“Undoubtedly, if they had known your engagement,” said she, “nothing
could be more flattering than their treatment of you;—but as that was
not the case—”

“I guessed you would say so,”—replied Lucy quickly—“but there was no
reason in the world why Mrs. Ferrars should seem to like me, if she did
not, and her liking me is every thing. You shan’t talk me out of my
satisfaction. I am sure it will all end well, and there will be no
difficulties at all, to what I used to think. Mrs. Ferrars is a
charming woman, and so is your sister. They are both delightful women,
indeed!—I wonder I should never hear you say how agreeable Mrs.
Dashwood was!”

To this Elinor had no answer to make, and did not attempt any.

“Are you ill, Miss Dashwood?—you seem low—you don’t speak;—sure you
an’t well.”

“I never was in better health.”

“I am glad of it with all my heart; but really you did not look it. I
should be sorry to have _you_ ill; you, that have been the greatest
comfort to me in the world!—Heaven knows what I should have done
without your friendship.”

Elinor tried to make a civil answer, though doubting her own success.
But it seemed to satisfy Lucy, for she directly replied,

“Indeed I am perfectly convinced of your regard for me, and next to
Edward’s love, it is the greatest comfort I have. Poor Edward! But now
there is one good thing, we shall be able to meet, and meet pretty
often, for Lady Middleton’s delighted with Mrs. Dashwood, so we shall
be a good deal in Harley Street, I dare say, and Edward spends half his
time with his sister—besides, Lady Middleton and Mrs. Ferrars will
visit now;—and Mrs. Ferrars and your sister were both so good to say
more than once, they should always be glad to see me. They are such
charming women!—I am sure if ever you tell your sister what I think of
her, you cannot speak too high.”

But Elinor would not give her any encouragement to hope that she
_should_ tell her sister. Lucy continued.

“I am sure I should have seen it in a moment, if Mrs. Ferrars had took
a dislike to me. If she had only made me a formal courtesy, for
instance, without saying a word, and never after had took any notice of
me, and never looked at me in a pleasant way—you know what I mean—if I
had been treated in that forbidding sort of way, I should have gave it
all up in despair. I could not have stood it. For where she _does_
dislike, I know it is most violent.”

Elinor was prevented from making any reply to this civil triumph, by
the door’s being thrown open, the servant’s announcing Mr. Ferrars, and
Edward’s immediately walking in.

It was a very awkward moment; and the countenance of each showed that
it was so. They all looked exceedingly foolish; and Edward seemed to
have as great an inclination to walk out of the room again, as to
advance farther into it. The very circumstance, in its unpleasantest
form, which they would each have been most anxious to avoid, had fallen
on them.—They were not only all three together, but were together
without the relief of any other person. The ladies recovered themselves
first. It was not Lucy’s business to put herself forward, and the
appearance of secrecy must still be kept up. She could therefore only
_look_ her tenderness, and after slightly addressing him, said no more.

But Elinor had more to do; and so anxious was she, for his sake and her
own, to do it well, that she forced herself, after a moment’s
recollection, to welcome him, with a look and manner that were almost
easy, and almost open; and another struggle, another effort still
improved them. She would not allow the presence of Lucy, nor the
consciousness of some injustice towards herself, to deter her from
saying that she was happy to see him, and that she had very much
regretted being from home, when he called before in Berkeley Street.
She would not be frightened from paying him those attentions which, as
a friend and almost a relation, were his due, by the observant eyes of
Lucy, though she soon perceived them to be narrowly watching her.

Her manners gave some re-assurance to Edward, and he had courage enough
to sit down; but his embarrassment still exceeded that of the ladies in
a proportion, which the case rendered reasonable, though his sex might
make it rare; for his heart had not the indifference of Lucy’s, nor
could his conscience have quite the ease of Elinor’s.

Lucy, with a demure and settled air, seemed determined to make no
contribution to the comfort of the others, and would not say a word;
and almost every thing that _was_ said, proceeded from Elinor, who was
obliged to volunteer all the information about her mother’s health,
their coming to town, &c. which Edward ought to have inquired about,
but never did.

Her exertions did not stop here; for she soon afterwards felt herself
so heroically disposed as to determine, under pretence of fetching
Marianne, to leave the others by themselves; and she really did it, and
_that_ in the handsomest manner, for she loitered away several minutes
on the landing-place, with the most high-minded fortitude, before she
went to her sister. When that was once done, however, it was time for
the raptures of Edward to cease; for Marianne’s joy hurried her into
the drawing-room immediately. Her pleasure in seeing him was like every
other of her feelings, strong in itself, and strongly spoken. She met
him with a hand that would be taken, and a voice that expressed the
affection of a sister.

“Dear Edward!” she cried, “this is a moment of great happiness!—This
would almost make amends for every thing!”

Edward tried to return her kindness as it deserved, but before such
witnesses he dared not say half what he really felt. Again they all sat
down, and for a moment or two all were silent; while Marianne was
looking with the most speaking tenderness, sometimes at Edward and
sometimes at Elinor, regretting only that their delight in each other
should be checked by Lucy’s unwelcome presence. Edward was the first to
speak, and it was to notice Marianne’s altered looks, and express his
fear of her not finding London agree with her.

“Oh, don’t think of me!” she replied with spirited earnestness, though
her eyes were filled with tears as she spoke, “don’t think of _my_
health. Elinor is well, you see. That must be enough for us both.”

This remark was not calculated to make Edward or Elinor more easy, nor
to conciliate the good will of Lucy, who looked up at Marianne with no
very benignant expression.

“Do you like London?” said Edward, willing to say any thing that might
introduce another subject.

“Not at all. I expected much pleasure in it, but I have found none. The
sight of you, Edward, is the only comfort it has afforded; and thank
Heaven! you are what you always were!”

She paused—no one spoke.

“I think, Elinor,” she presently added, “we must employ Edward to take
care of us in our return to Barton. In a week or two, I suppose, we
shall be going; and, I trust, Edward will not be very unwilling to
accept the charge.”

Poor Edward muttered something, but what it was, nobody knew, not even
himself. But Marianne, who saw his agitation, and could easily trace it
to whatever cause best pleased herself, was perfectly satisfied, and
soon talked of something else.

“We spent such a day, Edward, in Harley Street yesterday! So dull, so
wretchedly dull!—But I have much to say to you on that head, which
cannot be said now.”

And with this admirable discretion did she defer the assurance of her
finding their mutual relatives more disagreeable than ever, and of her
being particularly disgusted with his mother, till they were more in
private.

“But why were you not there, Edward?—Why did you not come?”

“I was engaged elsewhere.”

“Engaged! But what was that, when such friends were to be met?”

“Perhaps, Miss Marianne,” cried Lucy, eager to take some revenge on
her, “you think young men never stand upon engagements, if they have no
mind to keep them, little as well as great.”

Elinor was very angry, but Marianne seemed entirely insensible of the
sting; for she calmly replied,

“Not so, indeed; for, seriously speaking, I am very sure that
conscience only kept Edward from Harley Street. And I really believe he
_has_ the most delicate conscience in the world; the most scrupulous in
performing every engagement, however minute, and however it may make
against his interest or pleasure. He is the most fearful of giving
pain, of wounding expectation, and the most incapable of being selfish,
of any body I ever saw. Edward, it is so, and I will say it. What! are
you never to hear yourself praised!—Then you must be no friend of mine;
for those who will accept of my love and esteem, must submit to my open
commendation.”

The nature of her commendation, in the present case, however, happened
to be particularly ill-suited to the feelings of two thirds of her
auditors, and was so very unexhilarating to Edward, that he very soon
got up to go away.

“Going so soon!” said Marianne; “my dear Edward, this must not be.”

And drawing him a little aside, she whispered her persuasion that Lucy
could not stay much longer. But even this encouragement failed, for he
would go; and Lucy, who would have outstaid him, had his visit lasted
two hours, soon afterwards went away.

“What can bring her here so often?” said Marianne, on her leaving them.
“Could not she see that we wanted her gone!—how teazing to Edward!”

“Why so?—we were all his friends, and Lucy has been the longest known
to him of any. It is but natural that he should like to see her as well
as ourselves.”

Marianne looked at her steadily, and said, “You know, Elinor, that this
is a kind of talking which I cannot bear. If you only hope to have your
assertion contradicted, as I must suppose to be the case, you ought to
recollect that I am the last person in the world to do it. I cannot
descend to be tricked out of assurances, that are not really wanted.”

She then left the room; and Elinor dared not follow her to say more,
for bound as she was by her promise of secrecy to Lucy, she could give
no information that would convince Marianne; and painful as the
consequences of her still continuing in an error might be, she was
obliged to submit to it. All that she could hope, was that Edward would
not often expose her or himself to the distress of hearing Marianne’s
mistaken warmth, nor to the repetition of any other part of the pain
that had attended their recent meeting—and this she had every reason to
expect.




CHAPTER XXXVI.


Within a few days after this meeting, the newspapers announced to the
world, that the lady of Thomas Palmer, Esq. was safely delivered of a
son and heir; a very interesting and satisfactory paragraph, at least
to all those intimate connections who knew it before.

This event, highly important to Mrs. Jennings’s happiness, produced a
temporary alteration in the disposal of her time, and influenced, in a
like degree, the engagements of her young friends; for as she wished to
be as much as possible with Charlotte, she went thither every morning
as soon as she was dressed, and did not return till late in the
evening; and the Miss Dashwoods, at the particular request of the
Middletons, spent the whole of every day in Conduit Street. For their
own comfort they would much rather have remained, at least all the
morning, in Mrs. Jennings’s house; but it was not a thing to be urged
against the wishes of everybody. Their hours were therefore made over
to Lady Middleton and the two Miss Steeles, by whom their company, in
fact was as little valued, as it was professedly sought.

They had too much sense to be desirable companions to the former; and
by the latter they were considered with a jealous eye, as intruding on
_their_ ground, and sharing the kindness which they wanted to
monopolize. Though nothing could be more polite than Lady Middleton’s
behaviour to Elinor and Marianne, she did not really like them at all.
Because they neither flattered herself nor her children, she could not
believe them good-natured; and because they were fond of reading, she
fancied them satirical: perhaps without exactly knowing what it was to
be satirical; but _that_ did not signify. It was censure in common use,
and easily given.

Their presence was a restraint both on her and on Lucy. It checked the
idleness of one, and the business of the other. Lady Middleton was
ashamed of doing nothing before them, and the flattery which Lucy was
proud to think of and administer at other times, she feared they would
despise her for offering. Miss Steele was the least discomposed of the
three, by their presence; and it was in their power to reconcile her to
it entirely. Would either of them only have given her a full and minute
account of the whole affair between Marianne and Mr. Willoughby, she
would have thought herself amply rewarded for the sacrifice of the best
place by the fire after dinner, which their arrival occasioned. But
this conciliation was not granted; for though she often threw out
expressions of pity for her sister to Elinor, and more than once dropt
a reflection on the inconstancy of beaux before Marianne, no effect was
produced, but a look of indifference from the former, or of disgust in
the latter. An effort even yet lighter might have made her their
friend. Would they only have laughed at her about the Doctor! But so
little were they, any more than the others, inclined to oblige her,
that if Sir John dined from home, she might spend a whole day without
hearing any other raillery on the subject, than what she was kind
enough to bestow on herself.

All these jealousies and discontents, however, were so totally
unsuspected by Mrs. Jennings, that she thought it a delightful thing
for the girls to be together; and generally congratulated her young
friends every night, on having escaped the company of a stupid old
woman so long. She joined them sometimes at Sir John’s, sometimes at
her own house; but wherever it was, she always came in excellent
spirits, full of delight and importance, attributing Charlotte’s well
doing to her own care, and ready to give so exact, so minute a detail
of her situation, as only Miss Steele had curiosity enough to desire.
One thing _did_ disturb her; and of that she made her daily complaint.
Mr. Palmer maintained the common, but unfatherly opinion among his sex,
of all infants being alike; and though she could plainly perceive, at
different times, the most striking resemblance between this baby and
every one of his relations on both sides, there was no convincing his
father of it; no persuading him to believe that it was not exactly like
every other baby of the same age; nor could he even be brought to
acknowledge the simple proposition of its being the finest child in the
world.

I come now to the relation of a misfortune, which about this time
befell Mrs. John Dashwood. It so happened that while her two sisters
with Mrs. Jennings were first calling on her in Harley Street, another
of her acquaintance had dropt in—a circumstance in itself not
apparently likely to produce evil to her. But while the imaginations of
other people will carry them away to form wrong judgments of our
conduct, and to decide on it by slight appearances, one’s happiness
must in some measure be always at the mercy of chance. In the present
instance, this last-arrived lady allowed her fancy to so far outrun
truth and probability, that on merely hearing the name of the Miss
Dashwoods, and understanding them to be Mr. Dashwood’s sisters, she
immediately concluded them to be staying in Harley Street; and this
misconstruction produced within a day or two afterwards, cards of
invitation for them as well as for their brother and sister, to a small
musical party at her house. The consequence of which was, that Mrs.
John Dashwood was obliged to submit not only to the exceedingly great
inconvenience of sending her carriage for the Miss Dashwoods, but, what
was still worse, must be subject to all the unpleasantness of appearing
to treat them with attention: and who could tell that they might not
expect to go out with her a second time? The power of disappointing
them, it was true, must always be 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.

Marianne had now been brought by degrees, so much into the habit of
going out every day, that it was become a matter of indifference to
her, whether she went or not: and she prepared quietly and mechanically
for every evening’s engagement, though without expecting the smallest
amusement from any, and very often without knowing, till the last
moment, where it was to take her.

To her dress and appearance she was grown so perfectly indifferent, as
not to bestow half the consideration on it, during the whole of her
toilet, which it received from Miss Steele in the first five minutes of
their being together, when it was finished. Nothing escaped _her_
minute observation and general curiosity; she saw every thing, and
asked every thing; was never easy till she knew the price of every part
of Marianne’s dress; could have guessed the number of her gowns
altogether with better judgment than Marianne herself, and was not
without hopes of finding out before they parted, how much her washing
cost per week, and how much she had every year to spend upon herself.
The impertinence of these kind of scrutinies, moreover, was generally
concluded with a compliment, which though meant as its douceur, was
considered by Marianne as the greatest impertinence of all; for after
undergoing an examination into the value and make of her gown, the
colour of her shoes, and the arrangement of her hair, she was almost
sure of being told that upon “her word she looked vastly smart, and she
dared to say she would make a great many conquests.”

With such encouragement as this, was she dismissed on the present
occasion, to her brother’s carriage; which they were ready to enter
five minutes after it stopped at the door, a punctuality not very
agreeable to their sister-in-law, who had preceded them to the house of
her acquaintance, and was there hoping for some delay on their part
that might inconvenience either herself or her coachman.

The events of this evening were not very remarkable. The party, like
other musical parties, comprehended a great many people who had real
taste for the performance, and a great many more who had none at all;
and the performers themselves were, as usual, in their own estimation,
and that of their immediate friends, the first private performers in
England.

As Elinor was neither musical, nor affecting to be so, she made no
scruple of turning her eyes from the grand pianoforte, whenever it
suited her, and unrestrained even by the presence of a harp, and
violoncello, would fix them at pleasure on any other object in the
room. In one of these excursive glances she perceived among a group of
young men, the very he, who had given them a lecture on toothpick-cases
at Gray’s. She perceived him soon afterwards looking at herself, and
speaking familiarly to her brother; and had just determined to find out
his name from the latter, when they both came towards her, and Mr.
Dashwood introduced him to her as Mr. Robert Ferrars.

He addressed her with easy civility, and twisted his head into a bow
which assured her as plainly as words could have done, that he was
exactly the coxcomb she had heard him described to be by Lucy. Happy
had it been for her, if her regard for Edward had depended less on his
own merit, than on the merit of his nearest relations! For then his
brother’s bow must have given the finishing stroke to what the
ill-humour of his mother and sister would have begun. But while she
wondered at the difference of the two young men, she did not find that
the emptiness and conceit of the one, put her out of all charity with
the modesty and worth of the other. Why they _were_ different, Robert
explained to her himself in the course of a quarter of an hour’s
conversation; for, talking of his brother, and lamenting the extreme
_gaucherie_ which he really believed kept him from mixing in proper
society, he candidly and generously attributed it much less to any
natural deficiency, than to the misfortune of a private education;
while he himself, though probably without any particular, any material
superiority by nature, merely from the advantage of a public school,
was as well fitted to mix in the world as any other man.

“Upon my soul,” he added, “I believe it is nothing more; and so I often
tell my mother, when she is grieving about it. ‘My dear Madam,’ I
always say to her, ‘you must make yourself easy. The evil is now
irremediable, and it has been entirely your own doing. Why would you be
persuaded by my uncle, Sir Robert, against your own judgment, to place
Edward under private tuition, at the most critical time of his life? If
you had only sent him to Westminster as well as myself, instead of
sending him to Mr. Pratt’s, all this would have been prevented.’ This
is the way in which I always consider the matter, and my mother is
perfectly convinced of her error.”

Elinor would not oppose his opinion, because, whatever might be her
general estimation of the advantage of a public school, she could not
think of Edward’s abode in Mr. Pratt’s family, with any satisfaction.

“You reside in Devonshire, I think,”—was his next observation, “in a
cottage near Dawlish.”

Elinor set him right as to its situation; and it seemed rather
surprising to him that anybody could live in Devonshire, without living
near Dawlish. He bestowed his hearty approbation however on their
species of house.

“For my own part,” said he, “I am excessively fond of a cottage; there
is always so much comfort, so much elegance about them. And I protest,
if I had any money to spare, I should buy a little land and build one
myself, within a short distance of London, where I might drive myself
down at any time, and collect a few friends about me, and be happy. I
advise every body who is going to build, to build a cottage. My friend
Lord Courtland came to me the other day on purpose to ask my advice,
and laid before me three different plans of Bonomi’s. I was to decide
on the best of them. ‘My dear Courtland,’ said I, immediately throwing
them all into the fire, ‘do not adopt either of them, but by all means
build a cottage.’ And that I fancy, will be the end of it.

“Some people imagine that there can be no accommodations, no space in a
cottage; but this is all a mistake. I was last month at my friend
Elliott’s, near Dartford. Lady Elliott wished to give a dance. ‘But how
can it be done?’ said she; ‘my dear Ferrars, do tell me how it is to be
managed. There is not a room in this cottage that will hold ten couple,
and where can the supper be?’ _I_ immediately saw that there could be
no difficulty in it, so I said, ‘My dear Lady Elliott, do not be
uneasy. The dining parlour will admit eighteen couple with ease;
card-tables may be placed in the drawing-room; the library may be open
for tea and other refreshments; and let the supper be set out in the
saloon.’ Lady Elliott was delighted with the thought. We measured the
dining-room, and found it would hold exactly eighteen couple, and the
affair was arranged precisely after my plan. So that, in fact, you see,
if people do but know how to set about it, every comfort may be as well
enjoyed in a cottage as in the most spacious dwelling.”

Elinor agreed to it all, for she did not think he deserved the
compliment of rational opposition.

As John Dashwood had no more pleasure in music than his eldest sister,
his mind was equally at liberty to fix on any thing else; and a thought
struck him during the evening, which he communicated to his wife, for
her approbation, when they got home. The consideration of Mrs.
Dennison’s mistake, in supposing his sisters their guests, had
suggested the propriety of their being really invited to become such,
while Mrs. Jennings’s engagements kept her from home. The expense would
be nothing, the inconvenience not more; and it was altogether an
attention which the delicacy of his conscience pointed out to be
requisite to its complete enfranchisement from his promise to his
father. Fanny was startled at the proposal.

“I do not see how it can be done,” said she, “without affronting Lady
Middleton, for they spend every day with her; otherwise I should be
exceedingly glad to do it. You know I am always ready to pay them any
attention in my power, as my taking them out this evening shows. But
they are Lady Middleton’s visitors. How can I ask them away from her?”

Her husband, but with great humility, did not see the force of her
objection. “They had already spent a week in this manner in Conduit
Street, and Lady Middleton could not be displeased at their giving the
same number of days to such near relations.”

Fanny paused a moment, and then, with fresh vigor, said,

“My love, I would ask them with all my heart, if it was in my power.
But I had just settled within myself to ask the Miss Steeles to spend a
few days with us. They are very well behaved, good kind of girls; and I
think the attention is due to them, as their uncle did so very well by
Edward. We can ask your sisters some other year, you know; but the Miss
Steeles may not be in town any more. I am sure you will like them;
indeed, you _do_ like them, you know, very much already, and so does my
mother; and they are such favourites with Harry!”

Mr. Dashwood was convinced. He saw the necessity of inviting the Miss
Steeles immediately, and his conscience was pacified by the resolution
of inviting his sisters another year; at the same time, however, slyly
suspecting that another year would make the invitation needless, by
bringing Elinor to town as Colonel Brandon’s wife, and Marianne as
_their_ visitor.

Fanny, rejoicing in her escape, and proud of the ready wit that had
procured it, wrote the next morning to Lucy, to request her company and
her sister’s, for some days, in Harley Street, as soon as Lady
Middleton could spare them. This was enough to make Lucy really and
reasonably happy. Mrs. Dashwood seemed actually working for her,
herself; cherishing all her hopes, and promoting all her views! Such an
opportunity of being with Edward and his family was, above all things,
the most material to her interest, and such an invitation the most
gratifying to her feelings! It was an advantage that could not be too
gratefully acknowledged, nor too speedily made use of; and the visit to
Lady Middleton, which had not before had any precise limits, was
instantly discovered to have been always meant to end in two days’
time.

When the note was shown to Elinor, as it was within ten minutes after
its arrival, it gave her, for the first time, some share in the
expectations of Lucy; for such a mark of uncommon kindness, vouchsafed
on so short an acquaintance, seemed to declare that the good-will
towards her arose from something more than merely malice against
herself; and might be brought, by time and address, to do every thing
that Lucy wished. Her flattery had already subdued the pride of Lady
Middleton, and made an entry into the close heart of Mrs. John
Dashwood; and these were effects that laid open the probability of
greater.

The Miss Steeles removed to Harley Street, and all that reached Elinor
of their influence there, strengthened her expectation of the event.
Sir John, who called on them more than once, brought home such accounts
of the favour they were in, as must be universally striking. Mrs.
Dashwood had never been so much pleased with any young women in her
life, as she was with them; had given each of them a needle book made
by some emigrant; called Lucy by her Christian name; and did not know
whether she should ever be able to part with them.

END OF THE SECOND VOLUME




CHAPTER XXXVII.


Mrs. Palmer was so well at the end of a fortnight, that her mother felt
it no longer necessary to give up the whole of her time to her; and,
contenting herself with visiting her once or twice a day, returned from
that period to her own home, and her own habits, in which she found the
Miss Dashwoods very ready to resume their former share.

About the third or fourth morning after their being thus resettled in
Berkeley Street, Mrs. Jennings, on returning from her ordinary visit to
Mrs. Palmer, entered the drawing-room, where Elinor was sitting by
herself, with an air of such hurrying importance as prepared her to
hear something wonderful; and giving her time only to form that idea,
began directly to justify it, by saying,

“Lord! my dear Miss Dashwood! have you heard the news?”

“No, ma’am. What is it?”

“Something so strange! But you shall hear it all. When I got to Mr.
Palmer’s, I found Charlotte quite in a fuss about the child. She was
sure it was very ill—it cried, and fretted, and was all over pimples.
So I looked at it directly, and, ‘Lord! my dear,’ says I, ‘it is
nothing in the world, but the red gum;’ and nurse said just the same.
But Charlotte, she would not be satisfied, so Mr. Donavan was sent for;
and luckily he happened to just come in from Harley Street, so he
stepped over directly, and as soon as ever he saw the child, he said
just as we did, that it was nothing in the world but the red gum, and
then Charlotte was easy. And so, just as he was going away again, it
came into my head, I am sure I do not know how I happened to think of
it, but it came into my head to ask him if there was any news. So upon
that, he smirked, and simpered, and looked grave, and seemed to know
something or other, and at last he said in a whisper, ‘For fear any
unpleasant report should reach the young ladies under your care as to
their sister’s indisposition, I think it advisable to say, that I
believe there is no great reason for alarm; I hope Mrs. Dashwood will
do very well.’”

“What! is Fanny ill?”

“That is exactly what I said, my dear. ‘Lord!’ says I, ‘is Mrs.
Dashwood ill?’ So then it all came out; and the long and the short of
the matter, by all I can learn, seems to be this. Mr. Edward Ferrars,
the very young man I used to joke with you about (but however, as it
turns out, I am monstrous glad there was never any thing in it), Mr.
Edward Ferrars, it seems, has been engaged above this twelvemonth to my
cousin Lucy!—There’s for you, my dear! And not a creature knowing a
syllable of the matter, except Nancy! Could you have believed such a
thing possible? There is no great wonder in their liking one another;
but that matters should be brought so forward between them, and nobody
suspect it! _That_ is strange! I never happened to see them together,
or I am sure I should have found it out directly. Well, and so this was
kept a great secret, for fear of Mrs. Ferrars, and neither she nor your
brother or sister suspected a word of the matter: till this very
morning, poor Nancy, who, you know, is a well-meaning creature, but no
conjurer, popt it all out. ‘Lord!’ thinks she to herself, ‘they are all
so fond of Lucy, to be sure they will make no difficulty about it;’ and
so, away she went to your sister, who was sitting all alone at her
carpet-work, little suspecting what was to come—for she had just been
saying to your brother, only five minutes before, that she thought to
make a match between Edward and some Lord’s daughter or other, I forget
who. So you may think what a blow it was to all her vanity and pride.
She fell into violent hysterics immediately, with such screams as
reached your brother’s ears, as he was sitting in his own dressing-room
down stairs, thinking about writing a letter to his steward in the
country. So up he flew directly, and a terrible scene took place, for
Lucy was come to them by that time, little dreaming what was going on.
Poor soul! I pity _her_. And I must say, I think she was used very
hardly; for your sister scolded like any fury, and soon drove her into
a fainting fit. Nancy, she fell upon her knees, and cried bitterly; and
your brother, he walked about the room, and said he did not know what
to do. Mrs. Dashwood declared they should not stay a minute longer in
the house, and your brother was forced to go down upon _his_ knees too,
to persuade her to let them stay till they had packed up their clothes.
_Then_ she fell into hysterics again, and he was so frightened that he
would send for Mr. Donavan, and Mr. Donavan found the house in all this
uproar. The carriage was at the door ready to take my poor cousins
away, and they were just stepping in as he came off; poor Lucy in such
a condition, he says, she could hardly walk; and Nancy, she was almost
as bad. I declare, I have no patience with your sister; and I hope,
with all my heart, it will be a match in spite of her. Lord! what a
taking poor Mr. Edward will be in when he hears of it! To have his love
used so scornfully! for they say he is monstrous fond of her, as well
he may. I should not wonder, if he was to be in the greatest
passion!—and Mr. Donavan thinks just the same. He and I had a great
deal of talk about it; and the best of all is, that he is gone back
again to Harley Street, that he may be within call when Mrs. Ferrars is
told of it, for she was sent for as soon as ever my cousins left the
house, for your sister was sure _she_ would be in hysterics too; and so
she may, for what I care. I have no pity for either of them. I have no
notion of people’s making such a to-do about money and greatness. There
is no reason on earth why Mr. Edward and Lucy should not marry; for I
am sure Mrs. Ferrars may afford to do very well by her son, and though
Lucy has next to nothing herself, she knows better than any body how to
make the most of every thing; I dare say, if Mrs. Ferrars would only
allow him five hundred a-year, she would make as good an appearance
with it as any body else would with eight. Lord! how snug they might
live in such another cottage as yours—or a little bigger—with two
maids, and two men; and I believe I could help them to a housemaid, for
my Betty has a sister out of place, that would fit them exactly.”

Here Mrs. Jennings ceased, and as Elinor had had time enough to collect
her thoughts, she was able to give such an answer, and make such
observations, as the subject might naturally be supposed to produce.
Happy to find that she was not suspected of any extraordinary interest
in it; that Mrs. Jennings (as she had of late often hoped might be the
case) had ceased to imagine her at all attached to Edward; and happy
above all the rest, in the absence of Marianne, she felt very well able
to speak of the affair without embarrassment, and to give her judgment,
as she believed, with impartiality on the conduct of every one
concerned in it.

She could hardly determine what her own expectation of its event really
was; though she earnestly tried to drive away the notion of its being
possible to end otherwise at last, than in the marriage of Edward and
Lucy. What Mrs. Ferrars would say and do, though there could not be a
doubt of its nature, she was anxious to hear; and still more anxious to
know how Edward would conduct himself. For _him_ she felt much
compassion;—for Lucy very little—and it cost her some pains to procure
that little;—for the rest of the party none at all.

As Mrs. Jennings could talk on no other subject, Elinor soon saw the
necessity of preparing Marianne for its discussion. No time was to be
lost in undeceiving her, in making her acquainted with the real truth,
and in endeavouring to bring her to hear it talked of by others,
without betraying that she felt any uneasiness for her sister, or any
resentment against Edward.

Elinor’s office was a painful one.—She was going to remove what she
really believed to be her sister’s chief consolation,—to give such
particulars of Edward as she feared would ruin him for ever in her good
opinion,-and to make Marianne, by a resemblance in their situations,
which to _her_ fancy would seem strong, feel all her own disappointment
over again. But unwelcome as such a task must be, it was necessary to
be done, and Elinor therefore hastened to perform it.

She was very far from wishing to dwell on her own feelings, or to
represent herself as suffering much, any otherwise than as the
self-command she had practised since her first knowledge of Edward’s
engagement, might suggest a hint of what was practicable to Marianne.
Her narration was clear and simple; and though it could not be given
without emotion, it was not accompanied by violent agitation, nor
impetuous grief. _That_ belonged rather to the hearer, for Marianne
listened with horror, and cried excessively. Elinor was to be the
comforter of others in her own distresses, no less than in theirs; and
all the comfort that could be given by assurances of her own composure
of mind, and a very earnest vindication of Edward from every charge but
of imprudence, was readily offered.

But Marianne for some time would give credit to neither. Edward seemed
a second Willoughby; and acknowledging as Elinor did, that she _had_
loved him most sincerely, could she feel less than herself! As for Lucy
Steele, she considered her so totally unamiable, so absolutely
incapable of attaching a sensible man, that she could not be persuaded
at first to believe, and afterwards to pardon, any former affection of
Edward for her. She would not even admit it to have been natural; and
Elinor left her to be convinced that it was so, by that which only
could convince her, a better knowledge of mankind.

Her first communication had reached no farther than to state the fact
of the engagement, and the length of time it had existed.—Marianne’s
feelings had then broken in, and put an end to all regularity of
detail; and for some time all that could be done was to soothe her
distress, lessen her alarms, and combat her resentment. The first
question on her side, which led to farther particulars, was,—

“How long has this been known to you, Elinor? has he written to you?”

“I have known it these four months. When Lucy first came to Barton Park
last November, she told me in confidence of her engagement.”

At these words, Marianne’s eyes expressed the astonishment which her
lips could not utter. After a pause of wonder, she exclaimed—

“Four months!—Have you known of this four months?”

Elinor confirmed it.

“What! while attending me in all my misery, has this been on your
heart? And I have reproached you for being happy!”

“It was not fit that you should then know how much I was the reverse!”

“Four months!” cried Marianne again. “So calm! so cheerful! How have
you been supported?”

“By feeling that I was doing my duty.—My promise to Lucy, obliged me to
be secret. I owed it to her, therefore, to avoid giving any hint of the
truth; and I owed it to my family and friends, not to create in them a
solicitude about me, which it could not be in my power to satisfy.”

Marianne seemed much struck.

“I have very often wished to undeceive yourself and my mother,” added
Elinor; “and once or twice I have attempted it;—but without betraying
my trust, I never could have convinced you.”

“Four months! and yet you loved him!”

“Yes. But I did not love only him; and while the comfort of others was
dear to me, I was glad to spare them from knowing how much I felt. Now,
I can think and speak of it with little emotion. I would not have you
suffer on my account; for I assure you I no longer suffer materially
myself. I have many things to support me. I am not conscious of having
provoked the disappointment by any imprudence of my own, I have borne
it as much as possible without spreading it farther. I acquit Edward of
essential misconduct. I wish him very happy; and I am so sure of his
always doing his duty, that though now he may harbour some regret, in
the end he must become so. Lucy does not want sense, and that is the
foundation on which every thing good may be built. And after all,
Marianne, after all that is bewitching in the idea of a single and
constant attachment, and all that can be said of one’s happiness
depending entirely on any particular person, it is not meant—it is not
fit—it is not possible that it should be so. Edward will marry Lucy; he
will marry a woman superior in person and understanding to half her
sex; and time and habit will teach him to forget that he ever thought
another superior to _her_.”

“If such is your way of thinking,” said Marianne, “if the loss of what
is most valued is so easily to be made up by something else, your
resolution, your self-command, are, perhaps, a little less to be
wondered at.—They are brought more within my comprehension.”

“I understand you. You do not suppose that I have ever felt much. For
four months, Marianne, I have had all this hanging on my mind, without
being at liberty to speak of it to a single creature; knowing that it
would make you and my mother most unhappy whenever it were explained to
you, yet unable to prepare you for it in the least. It was told me,—it
was in a manner forced on me by the very person herself, whose prior
engagement ruined all my prospects; and told me, as I thought, with
triumph. This person’s suspicions, therefore, I have had to oppose, by
endeavouring to appear indifferent where I have been most deeply
interested; and it has not been only once; I have had her hopes and
exultation to listen to again and again. I have known myself to be
divided from Edward for ever, without hearing one circumstance that
could make me less desire the connection. Nothing has proved him
unworthy; nor has anything declared him indifferent to me.  I have had
to contend against the unkindness of his sister, and the insolence of
his mother; and have suffered the punishment of an attachment, without
enjoying its advantages. And all this has been going on at a time,
when, as you know too well, it has not been my only unhappiness. If you
can think me capable of ever feeling, surely you may suppose that I
have suffered _now_. The composure of mind with which I have brought
myself at present to consider the matter, the consolation that I have
been willing to admit, have been the effect of constant and painful
exertion; they did not spring up of themselves; they did not occur to
relieve my spirits at first. No, Marianne. _Then_, if I had not been
bound to silence, perhaps nothing could have kept me entirely—not even
what I owed to my dearest friends—from openly showing that I was _very_
unhappy.”

Marianne was quite subdued.

“Oh! Elinor,” she cried, “you have made me hate myself for ever.—How
barbarous have I been to you!—you, who have been my only comfort, who
have borne with me in all my misery, who have seemed to be only
suffering for me!—Is this my gratitude?—Is this the only return I can
make you?—Because your merit cries out upon myself, I have been trying
to do it away.”

The tenderest caresses followed this confession. In such a frame of
mind as she was now in, Elinor had no difficulty in obtaining from her
whatever promise she required; and at her request, Marianne engaged
never to speak of the affair to any one with the least appearance of
bitterness; to meet Lucy without betraying the smallest increase of
dislike to her; and even to see Edward himself, if chance should bring
them together, without any diminution of her usual cordiality. These
were great concessions; but where Marianne felt that she had injured,
no reparation could be too much for her to make.

She performed her promise of being discreet, to admiration.—She
attended to all that Mrs. Jennings had to say upon the subject, with an
unchanging complexion, dissented from her in nothing, and was heard
three times to say, “Yes, ma’am.”—She listened to her praise of Lucy
with only moving from one chair to another, and when Mrs. Jennings
talked of Edward’s affection, it cost her only a spasm in her
throat.—Such advances towards heroism in her sister, made Elinor feel
equal to any thing herself.

The next morning brought a farther trial of it, in a visit from their
brother, who came with a most serious aspect to talk over the dreadful
affair, and bring them news of his wife.

“You have heard, I suppose,” said he with great solemnity, as soon as
he was seated, “of the very shocking discovery that took place under
our roof yesterday.”

They all looked their assent; it seemed too awful a moment for speech.

“Your sister,” he continued, “has suffered dreadfully. Mrs. Ferrars
too—in short it has been a scene of such complicated distress—but I
will hope that the storm may be weathered without our being any of us
quite overcome. Poor Fanny! she was in hysterics all yesterday. But I
would not alarm you too much. Donavan says there is nothing materially
to be apprehended; her constitution is a good one, and her resolution
equal to any thing. She has borne it all, with the fortitude of an
angel! She says she never shall think well of anybody again; and one
cannot wonder at it, after being so deceived!—meeting with such
ingratitude, where so much kindness had been shown, so much confidence
had been placed! It was quite out of the benevolence of her heart, that
she had asked these young women to her house; merely because she
thought they deserved some attention, were harmless, well-behaved
girls, and would be pleasant companions; for otherwise we both wished
very much to have invited you and Marianne to be with us, while your
kind friend there, was attending her daughter. And now to be so
rewarded! ‘I wish, with all my heart,’ says poor Fanny in her
affectionate way, ‘that we had asked your sisters instead of them.’”

Here he stopped to be thanked; which being done, he went on.

“What poor Mrs. Ferrars suffered, when first Fanny broke it to her, is
not to be described. While she with the truest affection had been
planning a most eligible connection for him, was it to be supposed that
he could be all the time secretly engaged to another person!—such a
suspicion could never have entered her head! If she suspected _any_
prepossession elsewhere, it could not be in _that_ quarter. ‘_There_,
to be sure,’ said she, ‘I might have thought myself safe.’ She was
quite in an agony. We consulted together, however, as to what should be
done, and at last she determined to send for Edward. He came. But I am
sorry to relate what ensued. All that Mrs. Ferrars could say to make
him put an end to the engagement, assisted too as you may well suppose
by my arguments, and Fanny’s entreaties, was of no avail. Duty,
affection, every thing was disregarded. I never thought Edward so
stubborn, so unfeeling before. His mother explained to him her liberal
designs, in case of his marrying Miss Morton; told him she would settle
on him the Norfolk estate, which, clear of land-tax, brings in a good
thousand a-year; offered even, when matters grew desperate, to make it
twelve hundred; and in opposition to this, if he still persisted in
this low connection, represented to him the certain penury that must
attend the match. His own two thousand pounds she protested should be
his all; she would never see him again; and so far would she be from
affording him the smallest assistance, that if he were to enter into
any profession with a view of better support, she would do all in her
power to prevent him advancing in it.”

Here Marianne, in an ecstasy of indignation, clapped her hands
together, and cried, “Gracious God! can this be possible!”

“Well may you wonder, Marianne,” replied her brother, “at the obstinacy
which could resist such arguments as these. Your exclamation is very
natural.”

Marianne was going to retort, but she remembered her promises, and
forbore.

“All this, however,” he continued, “was urged in vain. Edward said very
little; but what he did say, was in the most determined manner. Nothing
should prevail on him to give up his engagement. He would stand to it,
cost him what it might.”

“Then,” cried Mrs. Jennings with blunt sincerity, no longer able to be
silent, “he has acted like an honest man! I beg your pardon, Mr.
Dashwood, but if he had done otherwise, I should have thought him a
rascal. I have some little concern in the business, as well as
yourself, for Lucy Steele is my cousin, and I believe there is not a
better kind of girl in the world, nor one who more deserves a good
husband.”

John Dashwood was greatly astonished; but his nature was calm, not open
to provocation, and he never wished to offend anybody, especially
anybody of good fortune. He therefore replied, without any resentment,

“I would by no means speak disrespectfully of any relation of yours,
madam. Miss Lucy Steele is, I dare say, a very deserving young woman,
but in the present case you know, the connection must be impossible.
And to have entered into a secret engagement with a young man under her
uncle’s care, the son of a woman especially of such very large fortune
as Mrs. Ferrars, is perhaps, altogether a little extraordinary. In
short, I do not mean to reflect upon the behaviour of any person whom
you have a regard for, Mrs. Jennings. We all wish her extremely happy;
and Mrs. Ferrars’s conduct throughout the whole, has been such as every
conscientious, good mother, in like circumstances, would adopt. It has
been dignified and liberal. Edward has drawn his own lot, and I fear it
will be a bad one.”

Marianne sighed out her similar apprehension; and Elinor’s heart wrung
for the feelings of Edward, while braving his mother’s threats, for a
woman who could not reward him.

“Well, sir,” said Mrs. Jennings, “and how did it end?”

“I am sorry to say, ma’am, in a most unhappy rupture:—Edward is
dismissed for ever from his mother’s notice. He left her house
yesterday, but where he is gone, or whether he is still in town, I do
not know; for _we_ of course can make no inquiry.”

“Poor young man!—and what is to become of him?”

“What, indeed, ma’am! It is a melancholy consideration. Born to the
prospect of such affluence! I cannot conceive a situation more
deplorable. The interest of two thousand pounds—how can a man live on
it?—and when to that is added the recollection, that he might, but for
his own folly, within three months have been in the receipt of two
thousand, five hundred a-year (for Miss Morton has thirty thousand
pounds,) I cannot picture to myself a more wretched condition. We must
all feel for him; and the more so, because it is totally out of our
power to assist him.”

“Poor young man!” cried Mrs. Jennings, “I am sure he should be very
welcome to bed and board at my house; and so I would tell him if I
could see him. It is not fit that he should be living about at his own
charge now, at lodgings and taverns.”

Elinor’s heart thanked her for such kindness towards Edward, though she
could not forbear smiling at the form of it.

“If he would only have done as well by himself,” said John Dashwood,
“as all his friends were disposed to do by him, he might now have been
in his proper situation, and would have wanted for nothing. But as it
is, it must be out of anybody’s power to assist him. And there is one
thing more preparing against him, which must be worse than all—his
mother has determined, with a very natural kind of spirit, to settle
_that_ estate upon Robert immediately, which might have been Edward’s,
on proper conditions. I left her this morning with her lawyer, talking
over the business.”

“Well!” said Mrs. Jennings, “that is _her_ revenge. Everybody has a way
of their own. But I don’t think mine would be, to make one son
independent, because another had plagued me.”

Marianne got up and walked about the room.

“Can anything be more galling to the spirit of a man,” continued John,
“than to see his younger brother in possession of an estate which might
have been his own? Poor Edward! I feel for him sincerely.”

A few minutes more spent in the same kind of effusion, concluded his
visit; and with repeated assurances to his sisters that he really
believed there was no material danger in Fanny’s indisposition, and
that they need not therefore be very uneasy about it, he went away;
leaving the three ladies unanimous in their sentiments on the present
occasion, as far at least as it regarded Mrs. Ferrars’s conduct, the
Dashwoods’, and Edward’s.

Marianne’s indignation burst forth as soon as he quitted the room; and
as her vehemence made reserve impossible in Elinor, and unnecessary in
Mrs. Jennings, they all joined in a very spirited critique upon the
party.




CHAPTER XXXVIII.


Mrs. Jennings was very warm in her praise of Edward’s conduct, but only
Elinor and Marianne understood its true merit. _They_ only knew how
little he had had to tempt him to be disobedient, and how small was the
consolation, beyond the consciousness of doing right, that could remain
to him in the loss of friends and fortune. Elinor gloried in his
integrity; and Marianne forgave all his offences in compassion for his
punishment. But though confidence between them was, by this public
discovery, restored to its proper state, it was not a subject on which
either of them were fond of dwelling when alone. Elinor avoided it upon
principle, as tending to fix still more upon her thoughts, by the too
warm, too positive assurances of Marianne, that belief of Edward’s
continued affection for herself which she rather wished to do away; and
Marianne’s courage soon failed her, in trying to converse upon a topic
which always left her more dissatisfied with herself than ever, by the
comparison it necessarily produced between Elinor’s conduct and her
own.

She felt all the force of that comparison; but not as her sister had
hoped, to urge her to exertion now; she felt it with all the pain of
continual self-reproach, regretted most bitterly that she had never
exerted herself before; but it brought only the torture of penitence,
without the hope of amendment. Her mind was so much weakened that she
still fancied present exertion impossible, and therefore it only
dispirited her more.

Nothing new was heard by them, for a day or two afterwards, of affairs
in Harley Street, or Bartlett’s Buildings. But though so much of the
matter was known to them already, that Mrs. Jennings might have had
enough to do in spreading that knowledge farther, without seeking after
more, she had resolved from the first to pay a visit of comfort and
inquiry to her cousins as soon as she could; and nothing but the
hindrance of more visitors than usual, had prevented her going to them
within that time.

The third day succeeding their knowledge of the particulars, was so
fine, so beautiful a Sunday as to draw many to Kensington Gardens,
though it was only the second week in March. Mrs. Jennings and Elinor
were of the number; but Marianne, who knew that the Willoughbys were
again in town, and had a constant dread of meeting them, chose rather
to stay at home, than venture into so public a place.

An intimate acquaintance of Mrs. Jennings joined them soon after they
entered the Gardens, and Elinor was not sorry that by her continuing
with them, and engaging all Mrs. Jennings’s conversation, she was
herself left to quiet reflection. She saw nothing of the Willoughbys,
nothing of Edward, and for some time nothing of anybody who could by
any chance whether grave or gay, be interesting to her. But at last she
found herself with some surprise, accosted by Miss Steele, who, though
looking rather shy, expressed great satisfaction in meeting them, and
on receiving encouragement from the particular kindness of Mrs.
Jennings, left her own party for a short time, to join their’s. Mrs.
Jennings immediately whispered to Elinor,

“Get it all out of her, my dear. She will tell you any thing if you
ask. You see I cannot leave Mrs. Clarke.”

It was lucky, however, for Mrs. Jennings’s curiosity and Elinor’s too,
that she would tell any thing _without_ being asked; for nothing would
otherwise have been learnt.

“I am so glad to meet you;” said Miss Steele, taking her familiarly by
the arm—“for I wanted to see you of all things in the world.” And then
lowering her voice, “I suppose Mrs. Jennings has heard all about it. Is
she angry?”

“Not at all, I believe, with you.”

“That is a good thing. And Lady Middleton, is _she_ angry?”

“I cannot suppose it possible that she should be.”

“I am monstrous glad of it. Good gracious! I have had such a time of
it! I never saw Lucy in such a rage in my life. She vowed at first she
would never trim me up a new bonnet, nor do any thing else for me
again, so long as she lived; but now she is quite come to, and we are
as good friends as ever. Look, she made me this bow to my hat, and put
in the feather last night. There now, _you_ are going to laugh at me
too. But why should not I wear pink ribbons? I do not care if it _is_
the Doctor’s favourite colour. I am sure, for my part, I should never
have known he _did_ like it better than any other colour, if he had not
happened to say so. My cousins have been so plaguing me! I declare
sometimes I do not know which way to look before them.”

She had wandered away to a subject on which Elinor had nothing to say,
and therefore soon judged it expedient to find her way back again to
the first.

“Well, but Miss Dashwood,” speaking triumphantly, “people may say what
they chuse about Mr. Ferrars’s declaring he would not have Lucy, for it
is no such thing I can tell you; and it is quite a shame for such
ill-natured reports to be spread abroad. Whatever Lucy might think
about it herself, you know, it was no business of other people to set
it down for certain.”

“I never heard any thing of the kind hinted at before, I assure you,”
said Elinor.

“Oh, did not you? But it _was_ said, I know, very well, and by more
than one; for Miss Godby told Miss Sparks, that nobody in their senses
could expect Mr. Ferrars to give up a woman like Miss Morton, with
thirty thousand pounds to her fortune, for Lucy Steele that had nothing
at all; and I had it from Miss Sparks myself. And besides that, my
cousin Richard said himself, that when it came to the point he was
afraid Mr. Ferrars would be off; and when Edward did not come near us
for three days, I could not tell what to think myself; and I believe in
my heart Lucy gave it up all for lost; for we came away from your
brother’s Wednesday, and we saw nothing of him not all Thursday,
Friday, and Saturday, and did not know what was become of him. Once
Lucy thought to write to him, but then her spirits rose against that.
However this morning he came just as we came home from church; and then
it all came out, how he had been sent for Wednesday to Harley Street,
and been talked to by his mother and all of them, and how he had
declared before them all that he loved nobody but Lucy, and nobody but
Lucy would he have. And how he had been so worried by what passed, that
as soon as he had went away from his mother’s house, he had got upon
his horse, and rid into the country, some where or other; and how he
had stayed about at an inn all Thursday and Friday, on purpose to get
the better of it. And after thinking it all over and over again, he
said, it seemed to him as if, now he had no fortune, and no nothing at
all, it would be quite unkind to keep her on to the engagement, because
it must be for her loss, for he had nothing but two thousand pounds,
and no hope of any thing else; and if he was to go into orders, as he
had some thoughts, he could get nothing but a curacy, and how was they
to live upon that?—He could not bear to think of her doing no better,
and so he begged, if she had the least mind for it, to put an end to
the matter directly, and leave him shift for himself. I heard him say
all this as plain as could possibly be. And it was entirely for _her_
sake, and upon _her_ account, that he said a word about being off, and
not upon his own. I will take my oath he never dropt a syllable of
being tired of her, or of wishing to marry Miss Morton, or any thing
like it. But, to be sure, Lucy would not give ear to such kind of
talking; so she told him directly (with a great deal about sweet and
love, you know, and all that—Oh, la! one can’t repeat such kind of
things you know)—she told him directly, she had not the least mind in
the world to be off, for she could live with him upon a trifle, and how
little so ever he might have, she should be very glad to have it all,
you know, or something of the kind. So then he was monstrous happy, and
talked on some time about what they should do, and they agreed he
should take orders directly, and they must wait to be married till he
got a living. And just then I could not hear any more, for my cousin
called from below to tell me Mrs. Richardson was come in her coach, and
would take one of us to Kensington Gardens; so I was forced to go into
the room and interrupt them, to ask Lucy if she would like to go, but
she did not care to leave Edward; so I just run up stairs and put on a
pair of silk stockings and came off with the Richardsons.”

“I do not understand what you mean by interrupting them,” said Elinor;
“you were all in the same room together, were not you?”

“No, indeed, not us. La! Miss Dashwood, do you think people make love
when any body else is by? Oh, for shame!—To be sure you must know
better than that. (Laughing affectedly.)—No, no; they were shut up in
the drawing-room together, and all I heard was only by listening at the
door.”

“How!” cried Elinor; “have you been repeating to me what you only
learnt yourself by listening at the door? I am sorry I did not know it
before; for I certainly would not have suffered you to give me
particulars of a conversation which you ought not to have known
yourself. How could you behave so unfairly by your sister?”

“Oh, la! there is nothing in _that_. I only stood at the door, and
heard what I could. And I am sure Lucy would have done just the same by
me; for a year or two back, when Martha Sharpe and I had so many
secrets together, she never made any bones of hiding in a closet, or
behind a chimney-board, on purpose to hear what we said.”

Elinor tried to talk of something else; but Miss Steele could not be
kept beyond a couple of minutes, from what was uppermost in her mind.

“Edward talks of going to Oxford soon,” said she; “but now he is
lodging at No.—, Pall Mall. What an ill-natured woman his mother is,
an’t she? And your brother and sister were not very kind! However, I
shan’t say anything against them to _you;_ and to be sure they did send
us home in their own chariot, which was more than I looked for. And for
my part, I was all in a fright for fear your sister should ask us for
the huswifes she had gave us a day or two before; but, however, nothing
was said about them, and I took care to keep mine out of sight. Edward
have got some business at Oxford, he says; so he must go there for a
time; and after _that_, as soon as he can light upon a Bishop, he will
be ordained. I wonder what curacy he will get! Good gracious! (giggling
as she spoke) I’d lay my life I know what my cousins will say, when
they hear of it. They will tell me I should write to the Doctor, to get
Edward the curacy of his new living. I know they will; but I am sure I
would not do such a thing for all the world. ‘La!’ I shall say
directly, ‘I wonder how you could think of such a thing? _I_ write to
the Doctor, indeed!’”

“Well,” said Elinor, “it is a comfort to be prepared against the worst.
You have got your answer ready.”

Miss Steele was going to reply on the same subject, but the approach of
her own party made another more necessary.

“Oh, la! here come the Richardsons. I had a vast deal more to say to
you, but I must not stay away from them not any longer. I assure you
they are very genteel people. He makes a monstrous deal of money, and
they keep their own coach. I have not time to speak to Mrs. Jennings
about it myself, but pray tell her I am quite happy to hear she is not
in anger against us, and Lady Middleton the same; and if anything
should happen to take you and your sister away, and Mrs. Jennings
should want company, I am sure we should be very glad to come and stay
with her for as long a time as she likes. I suppose Lady Middleton
won’t ask us any more this bout. Good-by; I am sorry Miss Marianne was
not here. Remember me kindly to her. La! if you have not got your
spotted muslin on!—I wonder you was not afraid of its being torn.”

Such was her parting concern; for after this, she had time only to pay
her farewell compliments to Mrs. Jennings, before her company was
claimed by Mrs. Richardson; and Elinor was left in possession of
knowledge which might feed her powers of reflection some time, though
she had learnt very little more than what had been already foreseen and
foreplanned in her own mind. Edward’s marriage with Lucy was as firmly
determined on, and the time of its taking place remained as absolutely
uncertain, as she had concluded it would be;—every thing depended,
exactly after her expectation, on his getting that preferment, of
which, at present, there seemed not the smallest chance.

As soon as they returned to the carriage, Mrs. Jennings was eager for
information; but as Elinor wished to spread as little as possible
intelligence that had in the first place been so unfairly obtained, she
confined herself to the brief repetition of such simple particulars, as
she felt assured that Lucy, for the sake of her own consequence, would
choose to have known. The continuance of their engagement, and the
means that were able to be taken for promoting its end, was all her
communication; and this produced from Mrs. Jennings the following
natural remark.

“Wait for his having a living!—ay, we all know how _that_ will
end:—they will wait a twelvemonth, and finding no good comes of it,
will set down upon a curacy of fifty pounds a-year, with the interest
of his two thousand pounds, and what little matter Mr. Steele and Mr.
Pratt can give her. Then they will have a child every year! and Lord
help ’em! how poor they will be! I must see what I can give them
towards furnishing their house. Two maids and two men, indeed! as I
talked of t’ other day. No, no, they must get a stout girl of all
works. Betty’s sister would never do for them _now_.”

The next morning brought Elinor a letter by the two-penny post from
Lucy herself. It was as follows:

“Bartlett’s Building, March.


“I hope my dear Miss Dashwood will excuse the liberty I take of writing
to her; but I know your friendship for me will make you pleased to hear
such a good account of myself and my dear Edward, after all the
troubles we have went through lately, therefore will make no more
apologies, but proceed to say that, thank God! though we have suffered
dreadfully, we are both quite well now, and as happy as we must always
be in one another’s love. We have had great trials, and great
persecutions, but however, at the same time, gratefully acknowledge
many friends, yourself not the least among them, whose great kindness I
shall always thankfully remember, as will Edward too, who I have told
of it. I am sure you will be glad to hear, as likewise dear Mrs.
Jennings, I spent two happy hours with him yesterday afternoon, he
would not hear of our parting, though earnestly did I, as I thought my
duty required, urge him to it for prudence sake, and would have parted
for ever on the spot, would he consent to it; but he said it should
never be, he did not regard his mother’s anger, while he could have my
affections; our prospects are not very bright, to be sure, but we must
wait, and hope for the best; he will be ordained shortly; and should it
ever be in your power to recommend him to any body that has a living to
bestow, am very sure you will not forget us, and dear Mrs. Jennings
too, trust she will speak a good word for us to Sir John, or Mr.
Palmer, or any friend that may be able to assist us.—Poor Anne was much
to blame for what she did, but she did it for the best, so I say
nothing; hope Mrs. Jennings won’t think it too much trouble to give us
a call, should she come this way any morning, ’twould be a great
kindness, and my cousins would be proud to know her.—My paper reminds
me to conclude; and begging to be most gratefully and respectfully
remembered to her, and to Sir John, and Lady Middleton, and the dear
children, when you chance to see them, and love to Miss Marianne,


“I am, &c.”


As soon as Elinor had finished it, she performed what she concluded to
be its writer’s real design, by placing it in the hands of Mrs.
Jennings, who read it aloud with many comments of satisfaction and
praise.

“Very well indeed!—how prettily she writes!—aye, that was quite proper
to let him be off if he would. That was just like Lucy. Poor soul! I
wish I _could_ get him a living, with all my heart. She calls me dear
Mrs. Jennings, you see. She is a good-hearted girl as ever lived. Very
well upon my word. That sentence is very prettily turned. Yes, yes, I
will go and see her, sure enough. How attentive she is, to think of
every body!—Thank you, my dear, for showing it me. It is as pretty a
letter as ever I saw, and does Lucy’s head and heart great credit.”




CHAPTER XXXIX.


The Miss Dashwoods had now been rather more than two months in town,
and Marianne’s impatience to be gone increased every day. She sighed
for the air, the liberty, the quiet of the country; and fancied that if
any place could give her ease, Barton must do it. Elinor was hardly
less anxious than herself for their removal, and only so much less bent
on its being effected immediately, as that she was conscious of the
difficulties of so long a journey, which Marianne could not be brought
to acknowledge. She began, however, seriously to turn her thoughts
towards its accomplishment, and had already mentioned their wishes to
their kind hostess, who resisted them with all the eloquence of her
good-will, when a plan was suggested, which, though detaining them from
home yet a few weeks longer, appeared to Elinor altogether much more
eligible than any other. The Palmers were to remove to Cleveland about
the end of March, for the Easter holidays; and Mrs. Jennings, with both
her friends, received a very warm invitation from Charlotte to go with
them. This would not, in itself, have been sufficient for the delicacy
of Miss Dashwood;—but it was inforced with so much real politeness by
Mr. Palmer himself, as, joined to the very great amendment of his
manners towards them since her sister had been known to be unhappy,
induced her to accept it with pleasure.

When she told Marianne what she had done, however, her first reply was
not very auspicious.

“Cleveland!”—she cried, with great agitation. “No, I cannot go to
Cleveland.”

“You forget,” said Elinor gently, “that its situation is not—that it is
not in the neighbourhood of—”

“But it is in Somersetshire.—I cannot go into Somersetshire.—There,
where I looked forward to going...No, Elinor, you cannot expect me to
go there.”

Elinor would not argue upon the propriety of overcoming such
feelings;—she only endeavoured to counteract them by working on
others;—represented it, therefore, as a measure which would fix the
time of her returning to that dear mother, whom she so much wished to
see, in a more eligible, more comfortable manner, than any other plan
could do, and perhaps without any greater delay. From Cleveland, which
was within a few miles of Bristol, the distance to Barton was not
beyond one day, though a long day’s journey; and their mother’s servant
might easily come there to attend them down; and as there could be no
occasion of their staying above a week at Cleveland, they might now be
at home in little more than three weeks’ time. As Marianne’s affection
for her mother was sincere, it must triumph with little difficulty,
over the imaginary evils she had started.

Mrs. Jennings was so far from being weary of her 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’s concurrence being readily gained, every
thing relative to their return was arranged as far as it could be;—and
Marianne found some relief in drawing up a statement of the hours that
were yet to divide her from Barton.

“Ah! Colonel, I do not know what you and I shall do without the Miss
Dashwoods;”—was Mrs. Jennings’s address to him when he first called on
her, after their leaving her was settled—“for they are quite resolved
upon going home from the Palmers;—and how forlorn we shall be, when I
come back!—Lord! we shall sit and gape at one another as dull as two
cats.”

Perhaps Mrs. Jennings was in hopes, by this vigorous sketch of their
future ennui, to provoke him to make that offer, which might give
himself an escape from it; and if so, she had soon afterwards good
reason to think her object gained; for, on Elinor’s moving to the
window to take more expeditiously the dimensions of a print, which she
was going to copy for her friend, he followed her to it with a look of
particular meaning, and conversed with her there for several minutes.
The effect of his discourse on the lady too, could not escape her
observation, for though she was too honorable to listen, and had even
changed her seat, on purpose that she might _not_ hear, to one close by
the piano forte on which Marianne was playing, she could not keep
herself from seeing that Elinor changed colour, attended with
agitation, and was too intent on what he said to pursue her employment.
Still farther in confirmation of her hopes, in the interval of
Marianne’s turning from one lesson to another, some words of the
Colonel’s inevitably reached her ear, in which he seemed to be
apologising for the badness of his house. This set the matter beyond a
doubt. She wondered, indeed, at his thinking it necessary to do so; but
supposed it to be the proper etiquette. What Elinor said in reply she
could not distinguish, but judged from the motion of her lips, that she
did not think _that_ any material objection; and Mrs. Jennings
commended her in her heart for being so honest. They then talked on for
a few minutes longer without her catching a syllable, when another
lucky stop in Marianne’s performance brought her these words in the
Colonel’s calm voice,—

“I am afraid it cannot take place very soon.”

Astonished and shocked at so unlover-like a speech, she was almost
ready to cry out, “Lord! what should hinder it?”—but checking her
desire, confined herself to this silent ejaculation.

“This is very strange!—sure he need not wait to be older.”

This delay on the Colonel’s side, however, did not seem to offend or
mortify his fair companion in the least, for on their breaking up the
conference soon afterwards, and moving different ways, Mrs. Jennings
very plainly heard Elinor say, and with a voice which showed her to
feel what she said,

“I shall always think myself very much obliged to you.”

Mrs. Jennings was delighted with her gratitude, and only wondered that
after hearing such a sentence, the Colonel should be able to take leave
of them, as he immediately did, with the utmost _sang-froid_, and go
away without making her any reply! She had not thought her old friend
could have made so indifferent a suitor.

What had really passed between them was to this effect.

“I have heard,” said he, with great compassion, “of the injustice your
friend Mr. Ferrars has suffered from his family; for if I understand
the matter right, he has been entirely cast off by them for persevering
in his engagement with a very deserving young woman. Have I been
rightly informed? Is it so?;”

Elinor told him that it was.

“The cruelty, the impolitic cruelty,” he replied, with great feeling,
“of dividing, or attempting to divide, two young people long attached
to each other, is terrible. Mrs. Ferrars does not know what she may be
doing—what she may drive her son to. I have seen Mr. Ferrars two or
three times in Harley Street, and am much pleased with him. He is not a
young man with whom one can be intimately acquainted in a short time,
but I have seen enough of him to wish him well for his own sake, and as
a friend of yours, I wish it still more. I understand that he intends
to take orders. Will you be so good as to tell him that the living of
Delaford, now just vacant, as I am informed by this day’s post, is his,
if he think it worth his acceptance; but _that_, perhaps, so
unfortunately circumstanced as he is now, it may be nonsense to appear
to doubt; I only wish it were more valuable. It is a rectory, but a
small one; the late incumbent, I believe, did not make more than 200£
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.”

Elinor’s astonishment at this commission could hardly have been
greater, had the Colonel been really making her an offer of his hand.
The preferment, which only two days before she had considered as
hopeless for Edward, was already provided to enable him to marry; and
_she_, of all people in the world, was fixed on to bestow it! Her
emotion was such as Mrs. Jennings had attributed to a very different
cause; but whatever minor feelings less pure, less pleasing, might have
a share in that emotion, her esteem for the general benevolence, and
her gratitude for the particular friendship, which together prompted
Colonel Brandon to this act, were strongly felt, and warmly expressed.
She thanked him for it with all her heart, spoke of Edward’s principles
and disposition with that praise which she knew them to deserve; and
promised to undertake the commission with pleasure, if it were really
his wish to put off so agreeable an office to another. But at the same
time, she could not help thinking that no one could so well perform it
as himself. It was an office in short, from which, unwilling to give
Edward the pain of receiving an obligation from _her_, she would have
been very glad to be spared herself; but Colonel Brandon, on motives of
equal delicacy, declining it likewise, still seemed so desirous of its
being given through her means, that she would not on any account make
farther opposition. Edward, she believed, was still in town, and
fortunately she had heard his address from Miss Steele. She could
undertake therefore to inform him of it, in the course of the day.
After this had been settled, Colonel Brandon began to talk of his own
advantage in securing so respectable and agreeable a neighbour, and
_then_ it was that he mentioned with regret, that the house was small
and indifferent; an evil which Elinor, as Mrs. Jennings had supposed
her to do, made very light of, at least as far as regarded its size.

“The smallness of the house,” said she, “I cannot imagine any
inconvenience to them, for it will be in proportion to their family and
income.”

By which the Colonel was surprised to find that _she_ was considering
Mr. Ferrars’s marriage as the certain consequence of the presentation;
for he did not suppose it possible that Delaford living could supply
such an income, as anybody in his style of life would venture to settle
on, and he said so.

“This little rectory _can_ do no more than make Mr. Ferrars comfortable
as a bachelor; it cannot enable him to marry. I am sorry to say that my
patronage ends with this; and my interest is hardly more extensive. If,
however, by an unforeseen chance it should be in my power to serve him
farther, I must think very differently of him from what I now do, if I
am not as ready to be useful to him then as I sincerely wish I could be
at present. What I am now doing indeed, seems nothing at all, since it
can advance him so little towards what must be his principal, his only
object of happiness. His marriage must still be a distant good; at
least, I am afraid it cannot take place very soon.”

Such was the sentence which, when misunderstood, so justly offended the
delicate feelings of Mrs. Jennings; but after this narration of what
really passed between Colonel Brandon and Elinor, while they stood at
the window, the gratitude expressed by the latter on their parting, may
perhaps appear in general, not less reasonably excited, nor less
properly worded than if it had arisen from an offer of marriage.




CHAPTER XL.


“Well, Miss Dashwood,” said Mrs. Jennings, sagaciously smiling, as soon
as the gentleman had withdrawn, “I do not ask you what the Colonel has
been saying to you; for though, upon my honour, I _tried_ to keep out
of hearing, I could not help catching enough to understand his
business. And I assure you I never was better pleased in my life, and I
wish you joy of it with all my heart.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” said Elinor. “It _is_ a matter of great joy to me;
and I feel the goodness of Colonel Brandon most sensibly. There are not
many men who would act as he has done. Few people who have so
compassionate a heart! I never was more astonished in my life.”

“Lord! my dear, you are very modest. I an’t the least astonished at it
in the world, for I have often thought of late, there was nothing more
likely to happen.”

“You judged from your knowledge of the Colonel’s general benevolence;
but at least you could not foresee that the opportunity would so very
soon occur.”

“Opportunity!” repeated Mrs. Jennings—“Oh! as to that, when a man has
once made up his mind to such a thing, somehow or other he will soon
find an opportunity. Well, my dear, I wish you joy of it again and
again; and if ever there was a happy couple in the world, I think I
shall soon know where to look for them.”

“You mean to go to Delaford after them I suppose,” said Elinor, with a
faint smile.

“Aye, my dear, that I do, indeed. And as to the house being a bad one,
I do not know what the Colonel would be at, for it is as good a one as
ever I saw.”

“He spoke of its being out of repair.”

“Well, and whose fault is that? why don’t he repair it?—who should do
it but himself?”

They were interrupted by the servant’s coming in to announce the
carriage being at the door; and Mrs. Jennings immediately preparing to
go, said,—

“Well, my dear, I must be gone before I have had half my talk out. But,
however, we may have it all over in the evening; for we shall be quite
alone. I do not ask you to go with me, for I dare say your mind is too
full of the matter to care for company; and besides, you must long to
tell your sister all about it.”

Marianne had left the room before the conversation began.

“Certainly, ma’am, I shall tell Marianne of it; but I shall not mention
it at present to any body else.”

“Oh! very well,” said Mrs. Jennings rather disappointed. “Then you
would not have me tell it to Lucy, for I think of going as far as
Holborn to-day.”

“No, ma’am, not even Lucy if you please. One day’s delay will not be
very material; and till I have written to Mr. Ferrars, I think it ought
not to be mentioned to any body else. I shall do _that_ directly. It is
of importance that no time should be lost with him, for he will of
course have much to do relative to his ordination.”

This speech at first puzzled Mrs. Jennings exceedingly. Why Mr. Ferrars
was to have been written to about it in such a hurry, she could not
immediately comprehend. A few moments’ reflection, however, produced a
very happy idea, and she exclaimed;—

“Oh, ho!—I understand you. Mr. Ferrars is to be the man. Well, so much
the better for him. Ay, to be sure, he must be ordained in readiness;
and I am very glad to find things are so forward between you. But, my
dear, is not this rather out of character? Should not the Colonel write
himself?—sure, he is the proper person.”

Elinor did not quite understand the beginning of Mrs. Jennings’s
speech, neither did she think it worth inquiring into; and therefore
only replied to its conclusion.

“Colonel Brandon is so delicate a man, that he rather wished any one to
announce his intentions to Mr. Ferrars than himself.”

“And so _you_ are forced to do it. Well _that_ is an odd kind of
delicacy! However, I will not disturb you (seeing her preparing to
write.) You know your own concerns best. So goodby, my dear. I have not
heard of any thing to please me so well since Charlotte was brought to
bed.”

And away she went; but returning again in a moment,

“I have just been thinking of Betty’s sister, my dear. I should be very
glad to get her so good a mistress. But whether she would do for a
lady’s maid, I am sure I can’t tell. She is an excellent housemaid, and
works very well at her needle. However, you will think of all that at
your leisure.”

“Certainly, ma’am,” replied Elinor, not hearing much of what she said,
and more anxious to be alone, than to be mistress of the subject.

How she should begin—how she should express herself in her note to
Edward, was now all her concern. The particular circumstances between
them made a difficulty of that which to any other person would have
been the easiest thing in the world; but she equally feared to say too
much or too little, and sat deliberating over her paper, with the pen
in her hand, till broken in on by the entrance of Edward himself.

He had met Mrs. Jennings at the door in her way to the carriage, as he
came to leave his farewell card; and she, after apologising for not
returning herself, had obliged him to enter, by saying that Miss
Dashwood was above, and wanted to speak with him on very particular
business.

Elinor had just been congratulating herself, in the midst of her
perplexity, that however difficult it might be to express herself
properly by letter, it was at least preferable to giving the
information by word of mouth, when her visitor entered, to force her
upon this greatest exertion of all. Her astonishment and confusion were
very great on his so sudden appearance. She had not seen him before
since his engagement became public, and therefore not since his knowing
her to be acquainted with it; which, with the consciousness of what she
had been thinking of, and what she had to tell him, made her feel
particularly uncomfortable for some minutes. He too was much
distressed; and they sat down together in a most promising state of
embarrassment.—Whether he had asked her pardon for his intrusion on
first coming into the room, he could not recollect; but determining to
be on the safe side, he made his apology in form as soon as he could
say any thing, after taking a chair.

“Mrs. Jennings told me,” said he, “that you wished to speak with me, at
least I understood her so—or I certainly should not have intruded on
you in such a manner; though at the same time, I should have been
extremely sorry to leave London without seeing you and your sister;
especially as it will most likely be some time—it is not probable that
I should soon have the pleasure of meeting you again. I go to Oxford
tomorrow.”

“You would not have gone, however,” said Elinor, recovering herself,
and determined to get over what she so much dreaded as soon as
possible, “without receiving our good wishes, even if we had not been
able to give them in person. Mrs. Jennings was quite right in what she
said. I have something of consequence to inform you of, which I was on
the point of communicating by paper. I am charged with a most agreeable
office (breathing rather faster than usual as she spoke.) Colonel
Brandon, who was here only ten minutes ago, has desired me to say, that
understanding you mean to take orders, he has great pleasure in
offering you the living of Delaford now just vacant, and only wishes it
were more valuable. Allow me to congratulate you on having so
respectable and well-judging a friend, and to join in his wish that the
living—it is about two hundred a-year—were much more considerable, and
such as might better enable you to—as might be more than a temporary
accommodation to yourself—such, in short, as might establish all your
views of happiness.”

What Edward felt, as he could not say it himself, it cannot be expected
that any one else should say for him. He _looked_ all the astonishment
which such unexpected, such unthought-of information could not fail of
exciting; but he said only these two words,—

“Colonel Brandon!”

“Yes,” continued Elinor, gathering more resolution, as some of the
worst was over, “Colonel Brandon means it as a testimony of his concern
for what has lately passed—for the cruel situation in which the
unjustifiable conduct of your family has placed you—a concern which I
am sure Marianne, myself, and all your friends, must share; and
likewise as a proof of his high esteem for your general character, and
his particular approbation of your behaviour on the present occasion.”

“Colonel Brandon give _me_ a living!—Can it be possible?”

“The unkindness of your own relations has made you astonished to find
friendship any where.”

“No,” replied he, with sudden consciousness, “not to find it in _you;_
for I cannot be ignorant that to you, to your goodness, I owe it all.—I
feel it—I would express it if I could—but, as you well know, I am no
orator.”

“You are very much mistaken. I do assure you that you owe it entirely,
at least almost entirely, to your own merit, and Colonel Brandon’s
discernment of it. I have had no hand in it. I did not even know, till
I understood his design, that the living was vacant; nor had it ever
occurred to me that he might have had such a living in his gift. As a
friend of mine, of my family, he may, perhaps—indeed I know he _has_,
still greater pleasure in bestowing it; but, upon my word, you owe
nothing to my solicitation.”

Truth obliged her to acknowledge some small share in the action, but
she was at the same time so unwilling to appear as the benefactress of
Edward, that she acknowledged it with hesitation; which probably
contributed to fix that suspicion in his mind which had recently
entered it. For a short time he sat deep in thought, after Elinor had
ceased to speak;—at last, and as if it were rather an effort, he said,

“Colonel Brandon seems a man of great worth and respectability. I have
always heard him spoken of as such, and your brother I know esteems him
highly. He is undoubtedly a sensible man, and in his manners perfectly
the gentleman.”

“Indeed,” replied Elinor, “I believe that you will find him, on farther
acquaintance, all that you have heard him to be, and as you will be
such very near neighbours (for I understand the parsonage is almost
close to the mansion-house,) it is particularly important that he
_should_ be all this.”

Edward made no answer; but when she had turned away her head, gave her
a look so serious, so earnest, so uncheerful, as seemed to say, that he
might hereafter wish the distance between the parsonage and the
mansion-house much greater.

“Colonel Brandon, I think, lodges in St. James Street,” said he, soon
afterwards, rising from his chair.

Elinor told him the number of the house.

“I must hurry away then, to give him those thanks which you will not
allow me to give _you;_ to assure him that he has made me a very—an
exceedingly happy man.”

Elinor did not offer to detain him; and they parted, with a very
earnest assurance on _her_ side of her unceasing good wishes for his
happiness in every change of situation that might befall him; on _his_,
with rather an attempt to return the same good will, than the power of
expressing it.

“When I see him again,” said Elinor to herself, as the door shut him
out, “I shall see him the husband of Lucy.”

And with this pleasing anticipation, she sat down to reconsider the
past, recall the words and endeavour to comprehend all the feelings of
Edward; and, of course, to reflect on her own with discontent.

When Mrs. Jennings came home, though she returned from seeing people
whom she had never seen before, and of whom therefore she must have a
great deal to say, her mind was so much more occupied by the important
secret in her possession, than by anything else, that she reverted to
it again as soon as Elinor appeared.

“Well, my dear,” she cried, “I sent you up the young man. Did not I do
right?—And I suppose you had no great difficulty—You did not find him
very unwilling to accept your proposal?”

“No, ma’am; _that_ was not very likely.”

“Well, and how soon will he be ready?—For it seems all to depend upon
that.”

“Really,” said Elinor, “I know so little of these kind of forms, that I
can hardly even conjecture as to the time, or the preparation
necessary; but I suppose two or three months will complete his
ordination.”

“Two or three months!” cried Mrs. Jennings; “Lord! my dear, how calmly
you talk of it; and can the Colonel wait two or three months! Lord
bless me!—I am sure it would put _me_ quite out of patience!—And though
one would be very glad to do a kindness by poor Mr. Ferrars, I do think
it is not worth while to wait two or three months for him. Sure
somebody else might be found that would do as well; somebody that is in
orders already.”

“My dear ma’am,” said Elinor, “what can you be thinking of? Why,
Colonel Brandon’s only object is to be of use to Mr. Ferrars.”

“Lord bless you, my dear! Sure you do not mean to persuade me that the
Colonel only marries you for the sake of giving ten guineas to Mr.
Ferrars!”

The deception could not continue after this; and an explanation
immediately took place, by which both gained considerable amusement for
the moment, without any material loss of happiness to either, for Mrs.
Jennings only exchanged one form of delight for another, and still
without forfeiting her expectation of the first.

“Aye, aye, the parsonage is but a small one,” said she, after the first
ebullition of surprise and satisfaction was over, “and very likely
_may_ be out of repair; but to hear a man apologising, as I thought,
for a house that to my knowledge has five sitting rooms on the
ground-floor, and I think the housekeeper told me could make up fifteen
beds! and to you too, that had been used to live in Barton cottage! It
seems quite ridiculous. But, my dear, we must touch up the Colonel to
do some thing to the parsonage, and make it comfortable for them,
before Lucy goes to it.”

“But Colonel Brandon does not seem to have any idea of the living’s
being enough to allow them to marry.”

“The Colonel is a ninny, my dear; because he has two thousand a-year
himself, he thinks that nobody else can marry on less. Take my word for
it, that, if I am alive, I shall be paying a visit at Delaford
Parsonage before Michaelmas; and I am sure I shan’t go if Lucy an’t
there.”

Elinor was quite of her opinion, as to the probability of their not
waiting for any thing more.




CHAPTER XLI.


Edward, having carried his thanks to Colonel Brandon, proceeded with
his happiness to Lucy; and such was the excess of it by the time he
reached Bartlett’s Buildings, that she was able to assure Mrs.
Jennings, who called on her again the next day with her
congratulations, that she had never seen him in such spirits before in
her life.

Her own happiness, and her own spirits, were at least very certain; and
she joined Mrs. Jennings most heartily in her expectation of their
being all comfortably together in Delaford Parsonage before Michaelmas.
So far was she, at the same time, from any backwardness to give Elinor
that credit which Edward _would_ give her, that she spoke of her
friendship for them both with the most grateful warmth, was ready to
own all their obligation to her, and openly declared that no exertion
for their good on Miss Dashwood’s part, either present or future, would
ever surprise her, for she believed her capable of doing any thing in
the world for those she really valued. As for Colonel Brandon, she was
not only ready to worship him as a saint, but was moreover truly
anxious that he should be treated as one in all worldly concerns;
anxious that his tithes should be raised to the utmost; and secretly
resolved to avail herself, at Delaford, as far as she possibly could,
of his servants, his carriage, his cows, and his poultry.

It was now above a week since John Dashwood had called in Berkeley
Street, and as since that time no notice had been taken by them of his
wife’s indisposition, beyond one verbal enquiry, Elinor began to feel
it necessary to pay her a visit.—This was an obligation, however, which
not only opposed her own inclination, but which had not the assistance
of any encouragement from her companions. Marianne, not contented with
absolutely refusing to go herself, was very urgent to prevent her
sister’s going at all; and Mrs. Jennings, though her carriage was
always at Elinor’s service, so very much disliked Mrs. John Dashwood,
that not even her curiosity to see how she looked after the late
discovery, nor her strong desire to affront her by taking Edward’s
part, could overcome her unwillingness to be in her company again. The
consequence was, that Elinor set out by herself to pay a visit, for
which no one could really have less inclination, and to run the risk of
a tête-à-tête with a woman, whom neither of the others had so much
reason to dislike.

Mrs. Dashwood was denied; but before the carriage could turn from the
house, her husband accidentally came out. He expressed great pleasure
in meeting Elinor, told her that he had been just going to call in
Berkeley Street, and, assuring her that Fanny would be very glad to see
her, invited her to come in.

They walked up stairs in to the drawing-room.—Nobody was there.

“Fanny is in her own room, I suppose,” said he: “I will go to her
presently, for I am sure she will not have the least objection in the
world to seeing _you_. Very far from it, indeed. _Now_ especially there
cannot be—but however, you and Marianne were always great favourites.
Why would not Marianne come?”

Elinor made what excuse she could for her.

“I am not sorry to see you alone,” he replied, “for I have a good deal
to say to you. This living of Colonel Brandon’s—can it be true?—has he
really given it to Edward?—I heard it yesterday by chance, and was
coming to you on purpose to enquire farther about it.”

“It is perfectly true.—Colonel Brandon has given the living of Delaford
to Edward.”

“Really!—Well, this is very astonishing!—no relationship!—no connection
between them!—and now that livings fetch such a price!—what was the
value of this?”

“About two hundred a year.”

“Very well—and for the next presentation to a living of that
value—supposing the late incumbent to have been old and sickly, and
likely to vacate it soon—he might have got I dare say—fourteen hundred
pounds. And how came he not to have settled that matter before this
person’s death? _Now_, indeed it would be too late to sell it, but a
man of Colonel Brandon’s sense! I wonder he should be so improvident in
a point of such common, such natural, concern! Well, I am convinced
that there is a vast deal of inconsistency in almost every human
character. I suppose, however—on recollection—that the case may
probably be _this_. Edward is only to hold the living till the person
to whom the Colonel has really sold the presentation, is old enough to
take it. Aye, aye, that is the fact, depend upon it.”

Elinor contradicted it, however, very positively; and by relating that
she had herself been employed in conveying the offer from Colonel
Brandon to Edward, and, therefore, must understand the terms on which
it was given, obliged him to submit to her authority.

“It is truly astonishing!”—he cried, after hearing what she said—“what
could be the Colonel’s motive?”

“A very simple one—to be of use to Mr. Ferrars.”

“Well, well; whatever Colonel Brandon may be, Edward is a very lucky
man.—You will not mention the matter to Fanny, however, for though I
have broke it to her, and she bears it vastly well,—she will not like
to hear it much talked of.”

Elinor had some difficulty here to refrain from observing, that she
thought Fanny might have borne with composure, an acquisition of wealth
to her brother, by which neither she nor her child could be possibly
impoverished.

“Mrs. Ferrars,” added he, lowering his voice to the tone becoming so
important a subject, “knows nothing about it at present, and I believe
it will be best to keep it entirely concealed from her as long as may
be. When the marriage takes place, I fear she must hear of it all.”

“But why should such precaution be used? Though it is not to be
supposed that Mrs. Ferrars can have the smallest satisfaction in
knowing that her son has money enough to live upon, for _that_ must be
quite out of the question; yet why, upon her late behaviour, is she
supposed to feel at all? She has done with her son,—she cast him off
for ever, and has made all those over whom she had any influence, cast
him off likewise. Surely, after doing so, she cannot be imagined liable
to any impression of sorrow or of joy on his account: she cannot be
interested in any thing that befalls him. She would not be so weak as
to throw away the comfort of a child, and yet retain the anxiety of a
parent!”

“Ah! Elinor,” said John, “your reasoning is very good, but it is
founded on ignorance of human nature. When Edward’s unhappy match takes
place, depend upon it his mother will feel as much as if she had never
discarded him; and, therefore every circumstance that may accelerate
that dreadful event, must be concealed from her as much as possible.
Mrs. Ferrars can never forget that Edward is her son.”

“You surprise me; I should think it must nearly have escaped her memory
by _this_ time.”

“You wrong her exceedingly. Mrs. Ferrars is one of the most
affectionate mothers in the world.”

Elinor was silent.

“We think _now_,”—said Mr. Dashwood, after a short pause, “of
_Robert’s_ marrying Miss Morton.”

Elinor, smiling at the grave and decisive importance of her brother’s
tone, calmly replied,—

“The lady, I suppose, has no choice in the affair.”

“Choice!—how do you mean?”

“I only mean that I suppose, from your manner of speaking, it must be
the same to Miss Morton whether she marry Edward or Robert.”

“Certainly, there can be no difference; for Robert will now to all
intents and purposes be considered as the eldest son;—and as to any
thing else, they are both very agreeable young men: I do not know that
one is superior to the other.”

Elinor said no more, and John was also for a short time silent.—His
reflections ended thus.

“Of _one_ thing, my dear sister,” kindly taking her hand, and speaking
in an awful whisper, “I may assure you;—and I _will_ do it, because I
know it must gratify you. I have good reason to think—indeed I have it
from the best authority, or I should not repeat it, for otherwise it
would be very wrong to say any thing about it,—but I have it from the
very best authority,—not that I ever precisely heard Mrs. Ferrars say
it herself—but her daughter _did_, and I have it from her,—that in
short, whatever objections there might be against a certain—a certain
connection, you understand me,—it would have been far preferable to
her,—it would not have given her half the vexation that _this_ does. I
was exceedingly pleased to hear that Mrs. Ferrars considered it in that
light; a very gratifying circumstance you know to us all. ‘It would
have been beyond comparison,’ she said, ‘the least evil of the two, and
she would be glad to compound _now_ for nothing worse.’ But however,
all that is quite out of the question,—not to be thought of or
mentioned—as to any attachment you know, it never could be: all that is
gone by. But I thought I would just tell you of this, because I knew
how much it must please you. Not that you have any reason to regret, my
dear Elinor. There is no doubt of your doing exceedingly well,—quite as
well, or better, perhaps, all things considered. Has Colonel Brandon
been with you lately?”

Elinor had heard enough, if not to gratify her vanity, and raise her
self-importance, to agitate her nerves and fill her mind;—and she was
therefore glad to be spared from the necessity of saying much in reply
herself, and from the danger of hearing any thing more from her
brother, by the entrance of Mr. Robert Ferrars. After a few moments’
chat, John Dashwood, recollecting that Fanny was yet uninformed of her
sister’s being there, quitted the room in quest of her; and Elinor was
left to improve her acquaintance with Robert, who, by the gay
unconcern, the happy self-complacency of his manner while enjoying so
unfair a division of his mother’s love and liberality, to the prejudice
of his banished brother, earned only by his own dissipated course of
life, and that brother’s integrity, was confirming her most
unfavourable opinion of his head and heart.

They had scarcely been two minutes by themselves, before he began to
speak of Edward; for he, too, had heard of the living, and was very
inquisitive on the subject. Elinor repeated the particulars of it, as
she had given them to John; and their effect on Robert, though very
different, was not less striking than it had been on _him_. He laughed
most immoderately. The idea of Edward’s being a clergyman, and living
in a small parsonage-house, diverted him beyond measure;—and when to
that was added the fanciful imagery of Edward reading prayers in a
white surplice, and publishing the banns of marriage between John Smith
and Mary Brown, he could conceive nothing more ridiculous.

Elinor, while she waited in silence and immovable gravity, the
conclusion of such folly, could not restrain her eyes from being fixed
on him with a look that spoke all the contempt it excited. It was a
look, however, very well bestowed, for it relieved her own feelings,
and gave no intelligence to him. He was recalled from wit to wisdom,
not by any reproof of hers, but by his own sensibility.

“We may treat it as a joke,” said he, at last, recovering from the
affected laugh which had considerably lengthened out the genuine gaiety
of the moment; “but, upon my soul, it is a most serious business. Poor
Edward! he is ruined for ever. I am extremely sorry for it; for I know
him to be a very good-hearted creature; as well-meaning a fellow
perhaps, as any in the world. You must not judge of him, Miss Dashwood,
from _your_ slight acquaintance. Poor Edward! His manners are certainly
not the happiest in nature. But we are not all born, you know, with the
same powers,—the same address. Poor fellow! to see him in a circle of
strangers! To be sure it was pitiable enough; but upon my soul, I
believe he has as good a heart as any in the kingdom; and I declare and
protest to you I never was so shocked in my life, as when it all burst
forth. I could not believe it. My mother was the first person who told
me of it; and I, feeling myself called on to act with resolution,
immediately said to her, ‘My dear madam, I do not know what you may
intend to do on the occasion, but as for myself, I must say, that if
Edward does marry this young woman, _I_ never will see him again.’ That
was what I said immediately. I was most uncommonly shocked, indeed!
Poor Edward! he has done for himself completely,—shut himself out for
ever from all decent society! But, as I directly said to my mother, I
am not in the least surprised at it; from his style of education, it
was always to be expected. My poor mother was half frantic.”

“Have you ever seen the lady?”

“Yes; once, while she was staying in this house, I happened to drop in
for ten minutes; and I saw quite enough of her. The merest awkward
country girl, without style, or elegance, and almost without beauty. I
remember her perfectly. Just the kind of girl I should suppose likely
to captivate poor Edward. I offered immediately, as soon as my mother
related the affair to me, to talk to him myself, and dissuade him from
the match; but it was too late _then_, I found, to do any thing, for
unluckily, I was not in the way at first, and knew nothing of it till
after the breach had taken place, when it was not for me, you know, to
interfere. But had I been informed of it a few hours earlier, I think
it is most probable that something might have been hit on. I certainly
should have represented it to Edward in a very strong light. ‘My dear
fellow,’ I should have said, ‘consider what you are doing. You are
making a most disgraceful connection, and such a one as your family are
unanimous in disapproving.’ I cannot help thinking, in short, that
means might have been found. But now it is all too late. He must be
starved, you know, that is certain; absolutely starved.”

He had just settled this point with great composure, when the entrance
of Mrs. John Dashwood put an end to the subject. But though _she_ never
spoke of it out of her own family, Elinor could see its influence on
her mind, in the something like confusion of countenance with which she
entered, and an attempt at cordiality in her behaviour to herself. She
even proceeded so far as to be concerned to find that Elinor and her
sister were so soon to leave town, as she had hoped to see more of
them;—an exertion in which her husband, who attended her into the room,
and hung enamoured over her accents, seemed to distinguish every thing
that was most affectionate and graceful.




CHAPTER XLII.


One other short call in Harley Street, in which Elinor received her
brother’s congratulations on their travelling so far towards Barton
without any expense, and on Colonel Brandon’s being to follow them to
Cleveland in a day or two, completed the intercourse of the brother and
sisters in town;—and a faint invitation from Fanny, to come to Norland
whenever it should happen to be in their way, which of all things was
the most unlikely to occur, with a more warm, though less public,
assurance, from John to Elinor, of the promptitude with which he should
come to see her at Delaford, was all that foretold any meeting in the
country.

It amused her to observe that all her friends seemed determined to send
her to Delaford;—a place, in which, of all others, she would now least
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.

Very early in April, and tolerably early in the day, the two parties
from Hanover Square and Berkeley Street set out from their respective
homes, to meet, by appointment, on the road. For the convenience of
Charlotte and her child, they were to be more than two days on their
journey, and Mr. Palmer, travelling more expeditiously with Colonel
Brandon, was to join them at Cleveland soon after their arrival.

Marianne, few as had been her hours of comfort in London, and eager as
she had long been to quit it, could not, when it came to the point, bid
adieu to the house in which she had for the last time enjoyed those
hopes, and that confidence, in Willoughby, which were now extinguished
for ever, without great pain. Nor could she leave the place in which
Willoughby remained, busy in new engagements, and new schemes, in which
_she_ could have no share, without shedding many tears.

Elinor’s satisfaction, at the moment of removal, was more positive. She
had no such object for her lingering thoughts to fix on, she left no
creature behind, from whom it would give her a moment’s regret to be
divided for ever, she was pleased to be free herself from the
persecution of Lucy’s friendship, she was grateful for bringing her
sister away unseen by Willoughby since his marriage, and she looked
forward with hope to what a few months of tranquility at Barton might
do towards restoring Marianne’s peace of mind, and confirming her own.

Their journey was safely performed. The second day brought them into
the cherished, or the prohibited, county of Somerset, for as such was
it dwelt on by turns in Marianne’s imagination; and in the forenoon of
the third they drove up to Cleveland.

Cleveland was a spacious, modern-built house, situated on a sloping
lawn. It had no park, but the pleasure-grounds were tolerably
extensive; and like every other place of the same degree of importance,
it had its open shrubbery, and closer wood walk, a road of smooth
gravel winding round a plantation, led to the front, the lawn was
dotted over with timber, the house itself was under the guardianship of
the fir, the mountain-ash, and the acacia, and a thick screen of them
altogether, interspersed with tall Lombardy poplars, shut out the
offices.

Marianne entered the house with a heart swelling with emotion from the
consciousness of being only eighty miles from Barton, and not thirty
from Combe Magna; and before she had been five minutes within its
walls, while the others were busily helping Charlotte to show her child
to the housekeeper, she quitted it again, stealing away through the
winding shrubberies, now just beginning to be in beauty, to gain a
distant eminence; where, from its Grecian temple, her eye, wandering
over a wide tract of country to the south-east, could fondly rest on
the farthest ridge of hills in the horizon, and fancy that from their
summits Combe Magna might be seen.

In such moments of precious, invaluable misery, she rejoiced in tears
of agony to be at Cleveland; and as she returned by a different circuit
to the house, feeling all the happy privilege of country liberty, of
wandering from place to place in free and luxurious solitude, she
resolved to spend almost every hour of every day while she remained
with the Palmers, in the indulgence of such solitary rambles.

She returned just in time to join the others as they quitted the house,
on an excursion through its more immediate premises; and the rest of
the morning was easily whiled away, in lounging round the kitchen
garden, examining the bloom upon its walls, and listening to the
gardener’s lamentations upon blights, in dawdling through the
green-house, where the loss of her favourite plants, unwarily exposed,
and nipped by the lingering frost, raised the laughter of
Charlotte,—and in visiting her poultry-yard, where, in the disappointed
hopes of her dairy-maid, by hens forsaking their nests, or being stolen
by a fox, or in the rapid decrease of a promising young brood, she
found fresh sources of merriment.

The morning was fine and dry, and Marianne, in her plan of employment
abroad, had not calculated for any change of weather during their stay
at Cleveland. With great surprise therefore, did she find herself
prevented by a settled rain from going out again after dinner. She had
depended on a twilight walk to the Grecian temple, and perhaps all over
the grounds, and an evening merely cold or damp would not have deterred
her from it; but a heavy and settled rain even _she_ could not fancy
dry or pleasant weather for walking.

Their party was small, and the hours passed quietly away. Mrs. Palmer
had her child, and Mrs. Jennings her carpet-work; they talked of the
friends they had left behind, arranged Lady Middleton’s engagements,
and wondered whether Mr. Palmer and Colonel Brandon would get farther
than Reading that night. Elinor, however little concerned in it, joined
in their discourse; and Marianne, who had the knack of finding her way
in every house to the library, however it might be avoided by the
family in general, soon procured herself a book.

Nothing was wanting on Mrs. Palmer’s side that constant and friendly
good humour could do, to make them feel themselves welcome. The
openness and heartiness of her manner more than atoned for that want of
recollection and elegance which made her often deficient in the forms
of politeness; her kindness, recommended by so pretty a face, was
engaging; her folly, though evident was not disgusting, because it was
not conceited; and Elinor could have forgiven every thing but her
laugh.

The two gentlemen arrived the next day to a very late dinner, affording
a pleasant enlargement of the party, and a very welcome variety to
their conversation, which a long morning of the same continued rain had
reduced very low.

Elinor had seen so little of Mr. Palmer, and in that little had seen so
much variety in his address to her sister and herself, that she knew
not what to expect to find him in his own family. She found him,
however, perfectly the gentleman in his behaviour to all his visitors,
and only occasionally rude to his wife and her mother; she found him
very capable of being a pleasant companion, and only prevented from
being so always, by too great an aptitude to fancy himself as much
superior to people in general, as he must feel himself to be to Mrs.
Jennings and Charlotte. For the rest of his character and habits, they
were marked, as far as Elinor could perceive, with no traits at all
unusual in his sex and time of life. He was nice in his eating,
uncertain in his hours; fond of his child, though affecting to slight
it; and idled away the mornings at billiards, which ought to have been
devoted to business. She liked him, however, upon the whole, much
better than she had expected, and in her heart was not sorry that she
could like him no more;—not sorry to be driven by the observation of
his Epicurism, his selfishness, and his conceit, to rest with
complacency on the remembrance of Edward’s generous temper, simple
taste, and diffident feelings.

Of Edward, or at least of some of his concerns, she now received
intelligence from Colonel Brandon, who had been into Dorsetshire
lately; and who, treating her at once as the disinterested friend of
Mr. Ferrars, and the kind confidante of himself, talked to her a great
deal of the parsonage at Delaford, described its deficiencies, and told
her what he meant to do himself towards removing them.—His behaviour to
her in this, as well as in every other particular, his open pleasure in
meeting her after an absence of only ten days, his readiness to
converse with her, and his deference for her opinion, might very well
justify Mrs. Jennings’s persuasion of his attachment, and would have
been enough, perhaps, had not Elinor still, as from the first, believed
Marianne his real favourite, to make her suspect it herself. But as it
was, such a notion had scarcely ever entered her head, except by Mrs.
Jennings’s suggestion; and she could not help believing herself the
nicest observer of the two;—she watched his eyes, while Mrs. Jennings
thought only of his behaviour;—and while his looks of anxious
solicitude on Marianne’s feeling, in her head and throat, the beginning
of a heavy cold, because unexpressed by words, entirely escaped the
latter lady’s observation;—_she_ could discover in them the quick
feelings, and needless alarm of a lover.

Two delightful twilight walks on the third and fourth evenings of her
being there, not merely on the dry gravel of the shrubbery, but all
over the grounds, and especially in the most distant parts of them,
where there was something more of wildness than in the rest, where the
trees were the oldest, and the grass was the longest and wettest,
had—assisted by the still greater imprudence of sitting in her wet
shoes and stockings—given Marianne a cold so violent as, though for a
day or two trifled with or denied, would force itself by increasing
ailments on the concern of every body, and the notice of herself.
Prescriptions poured in from all quarters, and as usual, were all
declined. Though heavy and feverish, with a pain in her limbs, and a
cough, and a sore throat, a good night’s rest was to cure her entirely;
and it was with difficulty that Elinor prevailed on her, when she went
to bed, to try one or two of the simplest of the remedies.




CHAPTER XLIII.


Marianne got up the next morning at her usual time; to every inquiry
replied that she was better, and tried to prove herself so, by engaging
in her accustomary employments. But a day spent in sitting shivering
over the fire with a book in her hand, which she was unable to read, or
in lying, weary and languid, on a sofa, did not speak much in favour of
her amendment; and when, at last, she went early to bed, more and more
indisposed, Colonel Brandon was only astonished at her sister’s
composure, who, though attending and nursing her the whole day, against
Marianne’s inclination, and forcing proper medicines on her at night,
trusted, like Marianne, to the certainty and efficacy of sleep, and
felt no real alarm.

A very restless and feverish night, however, disappointed the
expectation of both; and when Marianne, after persisting in rising,
confessed herself unable to sit up, and returned voluntarily to her
bed, Elinor was very ready to adopt Mrs. Jennings’s advice, of sending
for the Palmers’ apothecary.

He came, examined his patient, and though encouraging Miss Dashwood to
expect that a very few days would restore her sister to health, yet, by
pronouncing her disorder to have a putrid tendency, and allowing the
word “infection” to pass his lips, gave instant alarm to Mrs. Palmer,
on her baby’s account. Mrs. Jennings, who had been inclined from the
first to think Marianne’s complaint more serious than Elinor, now
looked very grave on Mr. Harris’s report, and confirming Charlotte’s
fears and caution, urged the necessity of her immediate removal with
her infant; and Mr. Palmer, though treating their apprehensions as
idle, found the anxiety and importunity of his wife too great to be
withstood. Her departure, therefore, was fixed on; and within an hour
after Mr. Harris’s arrival, she set off, with her little boy and his
nurse, for the house of a near relation of Mr. Palmer’s, who lived a
few miles on the other side of Bath; whither her husband promised, at
her earnest entreaty, to join her in a day or two; and whither she was
almost equally urgent with her mother to accompany her. Mrs. Jennings,
however, with a kindness of heart which made Elinor really love her,
declared her resolution of not stirring from Cleveland as long as
Marianne remained ill, and of endeavouring, by her own attentive care,
to supply to her the place of the mother she had taken her from; and
Elinor found her on every occasion a most willing and active helpmate,
desirous to share in all her fatigues, and often by her better
experience in nursing, of material use.

Poor Marianne, languid and low from the nature of her malady, and
feeling herself universally ill, could no longer hope that tomorrow
would find her recovered; and the idea of what tomorrow would have
produced, but for this unlucky illness, made every ailment severe; for
on that day they were to have begun their journey home; and, attended
the whole way by a servant of Mrs. Jennings, were to have taken their
mother by surprise on the following forenoon. The little she said was
all in lamentation of this inevitable delay; though Elinor tried to
raise her spirits, and make her believe, as she _then_ really believed
herself, that it would be a very short one.

The next day produced little or no alteration in the state of the
patient; she certainly was not better, and, except that there was no
amendment, did not appear worse. Their party was now farther reduced;
for Mr. Palmer, though very unwilling to go as well from real humanity
and good-nature, as from a dislike of appearing to be frightened away
by his wife, was persuaded at last by Colonel Brandon to perform his
promise of following her; and while he was preparing to go, Colonel
Brandon himself, with a much greater exertion, began to talk of going
likewise.—Here, however, the kindness of Mrs. Jennings interposed most
acceptably; for to send the Colonel away while his love was in so much
uneasiness on her sister’s account, would be to deprive them both, she
thought, of every comfort; and therefore telling him at once that his
stay at Cleveland was necessary to herself, that she should want him to
play at piquet of an evening, while Miss Dashwood was above with her
sister, &c. she urged him so strongly to remain, that he, who was
gratifying the first wish of his own heart by a compliance, could not
long even affect to demur; especially as Mrs. Jennings’s entreaty was
warmly seconded by Mr. Palmer, who seemed to feel a relief to himself,
in leaving behind him a person so well able to assist or advise Miss
Dashwood in any emergence.

Marianne was, of course, kept in ignorance of all these arrangements.
She knew not that she had been the means of sending the owners of
Cleveland away, in about seven days from the time of their arrival. It
gave her no surprise that she saw nothing of Mrs. Palmer; and as it
gave her likewise no concern, she never mentioned her name.

Two days passed away from the time of Mr. Palmer’s departure, and her
situation continued, with little variation, the same. Mr. Harris, who
attended her every day, still talked boldly of a speedy recovery, and
Miss Dashwood was equally sanguine; but the expectation of the others
was by no means so cheerful. Mrs. Jennings had determined very early in
the seizure that Marianne would never get over it, and Colonel Brandon,
who was chiefly of use in listening to Mrs. Jennings’s forebodings, was
not in a state of mind to resist their influence. He tried to reason
himself out of fears, which the different judgment of the apothecary
seemed to render absurd; but the many hours of each day in which he was
left entirely alone, were but too favourable for the admission of every
melancholy idea, and he could not expel from his mind the persuasion
that he should see Marianne no more.

On the morning of the third day however, the gloomy anticipations of
both were almost done away; for when Mr. Harris arrived, he declared
his patient materially better. Her pulse was much stronger, and every
symptom more favourable than on the preceding visit. Elinor, confirmed
in every pleasant hope, was all cheerfulness; rejoicing that in her
letters to her mother, she had pursued her own judgment rather than her
friend’s, in making very light of the indisposition which delayed them
at Cleveland; and almost fixing on the time when Marianne would be able
to travel.

But the day did not close so auspiciously as it began. Towards the
evening Marianne became ill again, growing more heavy, restless, and
uncomfortable than before. Her sister, however, still sanguine, was
willing to attribute the change to nothing more than the fatigue of
having sat up to have her bed made; and carefully administering the
cordials prescribed, saw her, with satisfaction, sink at last into a
slumber, from which she expected the most beneficial effects. Her
sleep, though not so quiet as Elinor wished to see it, lasted a
considerable time; and anxious to observe the result of it herself, she
resolved to sit with her during the whole of it. Mrs. Jennings, knowing
nothing of any change in the patient, went unusually early to bed; her
maid, who was one of the principal nurses, was recreating herself in
the housekeeper’s room, and Elinor remained alone with Marianne.

The repose of the latter became more and more disturbed; and her
sister, who watched, with unremitting attention her continual change of
posture, and heard the frequent but inarticulate sounds of complaint
which passed her lips, was almost wishing to rouse her from so painful
a slumber, when Marianne, suddenly awakened by some accidental noise in
the house, started hastily up, and, with feverish wildness, cried out,—

“Is mama coming?”

“Not yet,” cried the other, concealing her terror, and assisting
Marianne to lie down again, “but she will be here, I hope, before it is
long. It is a great way, you know, from hence to Barton.”

“But she must not go round by London,” cried Marianne, in the same
hurried manner. “I shall never see her, if she goes by London.”

Elinor perceived with alarm that she was not quite herself, and, while
attempting to soothe her, eagerly felt her pulse. It was lower and
quicker than ever! and Marianne, still talking wildly of mama, her
alarm increased so rapidly, as to determine her on sending instantly
for Mr. Harris, and despatching a messenger to Barton for her mother.
To consult with Colonel Brandon on the best means of effecting the
latter, was a thought which immediately followed the resolution of its
performance; and as soon she had rung up the maid to take her place by
her sister, she hastened down to the drawing-room, where she knew he
was generally to be found at a much later hour than the present.

It was no time for hesitation. Her fears and her difficulties were
immediately before him. Her fears, he had no courage, no confidence to
attempt the removal of:—he listened to them in silent despondence;—but
her difficulties were instantly obviated, for with a readiness that
seemed to speak the occasion, and the service pre-arranged in his mind,
he offered himself as the messenger who should fetch Mrs. Dashwood.
Elinor made no resistance that was not easily overcome. She thanked him
with brief, though fervent gratitude, and while he went to hurry off
his servant with a message to Mr. Harris, and an order for post-horses
directly, she wrote a few lines to her mother.

The comfort of such a friend at that moment as Colonel Brandon—or such
a companion for her mother,—how gratefully was it felt!—a companion
whose judgment would guide, whose attendance must relieve, and whose
friendship might soothe her!—as far as the shock of such a summons
_could_ be lessened to her, his presence, his manners, his assistance,
would lessen it.

_He_, meanwhile, whatever he might feel, acted with all the firmness of
a collected mind, made every necessary arrangement with the utmost
despatch, and calculated with exactness the time in which she might
look for his return. Not a moment was lost in delay of any kind. The
horses arrived, even before they were expected, and Colonel Brandon
only pressing her hand with a look of solemnity, and a few words spoken
too low to reach her ear, hurried into the carriage. It was then about
twelve o’clock, and she returned to her sister’s apartment to wait for
the arrival of the apothecary, and to watch by her the rest of the
night. It was a night of almost equal suffering to both. Hour after
hour passed away in sleepless pain and delirium on Marianne’s side, and
in the most cruel anxiety on Elinor’s, before Mr. Harris appeared. Her
apprehensions once raised, paid by their excess for all her former
security; and the servant who sat up with her, for she would not allow
Mrs. Jennings to be called, only tortured her more, by hints of what
her mistress had always thought.

Marianne’s ideas were still, at intervals, fixed incoherently on her
mother, and whenever she mentioned her name, it gave a pang to the
heart of poor Elinor, who, reproaching herself for having trifled with
so many days of illness, and wretched for some immediate relief,
fancied that all relief might soon be in vain, that every thing had
been delayed too long, and pictured to herself her suffering mother
arriving too late to see this darling child, or to see her rational.

She was on the point of sending again for Mr. Harris, or if _he_ could
not come, for some other advice, when the former—but not till after
five o’clock—arrived. His opinion, however, made some little amends for
his delay, for though acknowledging a very unexpected and unpleasant
alteration in his patient, he would not allow the danger to be
material, and talked of the relief which a fresh mode of treatment must
procure, with a confidence which, in a lesser degree, was communicated
to Elinor. He promised to call again in the course of three or four
hours, and left both the patient and her anxious attendant more
composed than he had found them.

With strong concern, and with many reproaches for not being called to
their aid, did Mrs. Jennings hear in the morning of what had passed.
Her former apprehensions, now with greater reason restored, left her no
doubt of the event; and though trying to speak comfort to Elinor, her
conviction of her sister’s danger would not allow her to offer the
comfort of hope. Her heart was really grieved. The rapid decay, the
early death of a girl so young, so lovely as Marianne, must have struck
a less interested person with concern. On Mrs. Jennings’s compassion
she had other claims. She had been for three months her companion, was
still under her care, and she was known to have been greatly injured,
and long unhappy. The distress of her sister too, particularly a
favourite, was before her;—and as for their mother, when Mrs. Jennings
considered that Marianne might probably be to _her_ what Charlotte was
to herself, her sympathy in _her_ sufferings was very sincere.

Mr. Harris was punctual in his second visit;—but he came to be
disappointed in his hopes of what the last would produce. His medicines
had failed;—the fever was unabated; and Marianne only more quiet—not
more herself—remained in a heavy stupor. Elinor, catching all, and more
than all, his fears in a moment, proposed to call in further advice.
But he judged it unnecessary: he had still something more to try, some
more fresh application, of whose success he was as confident as the
last, and his visit concluded with encouraging assurances which reached
the ear, but could not enter the heart of Miss Dashwood. She was calm,
except when she thought of her mother; but she was almost hopeless; and
in this state she continued till noon, scarcely stirring from her
sister’s bed, her thoughts wandering from one image of grief, one
suffering friend to another, and her spirits oppressed to the utmost by
the conversation of Mrs. Jennings, who scrupled not to attribute the
severity and danger of this attack to the many weeks of previous
indisposition which Marianne’s disappointment had brought on. Elinor
felt all the reasonableness of the idea, and it gave fresh misery to
her reflections.

About noon, however, she began—but with a caution—a dread of
disappointment which for some time kept her silent, even to her
friend—to fancy, to hope she could perceive a slight amendment in her
sister’s pulse;—she waited, watched, and examined it again and
again;—and at last, with an agitation more difficult to bury under
exterior calmness, than all her foregoing distress, ventured to
communicate her hopes. Mrs. Jennings, though forced, on examination, to
acknowledge a temporary revival, tried to keep her young friend from
indulging a thought of its continuance;—and Elinor, conning over every
injunction of distrust, told herself likewise not to hope. But it was
too late. Hope had already entered; and feeling all its anxious
flutter, she bent over her sister to watch—she hardly knew for what.
Half an hour passed away, and the favourable symptom yet blessed her.
Others even arose to confirm it. Her breath, her skin, her lips, all
flattered Elinor with signs of amendment; and Marianne fixed her eyes
on her with a rational, though languid, gaze. Anxiety and hope now
oppressed her in equal degrees, and left her no moment of tranquillity
till the arrival of Mr. Harris at four o’clock;—when his assurances,
his felicitations on a recovery in her sister even surpassing his
expectation, gave her confidence, comfort, and tears of joy.

Marianne was in every respect materially better, and he declared her
entirely out of danger. Mrs. Jennings, perhaps satisfied with the
partial justification of her forebodings which had been found in their
late alarm, allowed herself to trust in his judgment, and admitted,
with unfeigned joy, and soon with unequivocal cheerfulness, the
probability of an entire recovery.

Elinor could not be cheerful. Her joy was of a different kind, and led
to any thing rather than to gaiety. Marianne restored to life, health,
friends, and to her doting mother, was an idea to fill her heart with
sensations of exquisite comfort, and expand it in fervent
gratitude;—but it led to no outward demonstrations of joy, no words, no
smiles. All within Elinor’s breast was satisfaction, silent and strong.

She continued by the side of her sister, with little intermission the
whole afternoon, calming every fear, satisfying every inquiry of her
enfeebled spirits, supplying every succour, and watching almost every
look and every breath. The possibility of a relapse would of course, in
some moments, occur to remind her of what anxiety was—but when she saw,
on her frequent and minute examination, that every symptom of recovery
continued, and saw Marianne at six o’clock sink into a quiet, steady,
and to all appearance comfortable, sleep, she silenced every doubt.

The time was now drawing on, when Colonel Brandon might be expected
back. At ten o’clock, she trusted, or at least not much later her
mother would be relieved from the dreadful suspense in which she must
now be travelling towards them. The Colonel, too!—perhaps scarcely less
an object of pity!—Oh!—how slow was the progress of time which yet kept
them in ignorance!

At seven o’clock, leaving Marianne still sweetly asleep, she joined
Mrs. Jennings in the drawing-room to tea. Of breakfast she had been
kept by her fears, and of dinner by their sudden reverse, from eating
much;—and the present refreshment, therefore, with such feelings of
content as she brought to it, was particularly welcome. Mrs. Jennings
would have persuaded her, at its conclusion, to take some rest before
her mother’s arrival, and allow _her_ to take her place by Marianne;
but Elinor had no sense of fatigue, no capability of sleep at that
moment about her, and she was not to be kept away from her sister an
unnecessary instant. Mrs. Jennings therefore attending her up stairs
into the sick chamber, to satisfy herself that all continued right,
left her there again to her charge and her thoughts, and retired to her
own room to write letters and sleep.

The night was cold and stormy. The wind roared round the house, and the
rain beat against the windows; but Elinor, all happiness within,
regarded it not. Marianne slept through every blast; and the
travellers—they had a rich reward in store, for every present
inconvenience.

The clock struck eight. Had it been ten, Elinor would have been
convinced that at that moment she heard a carriage driving up to the
house; and so strong was the persuasion that she _did_, in spite of the
_almost_ impossibility of their being already come, that she moved into
the adjoining dressing-closet and opened a window shutter, to be
satisfied of the truth. She instantly saw that her ears had not
deceived her. The flaring lamps of a carriage were immediately in view.
By their uncertain light she thought she could discern it to be drawn
by four horses; and this, while it told the excess of her poor mother’s
alarm, gave some explanation to such unexpected rapidity.

Never in her life had Elinor found it so difficult to be calm, as at
that moment. The knowledge of what her mother must be feeling as the
carriage stopt at the door—of her doubt—her dread—perhaps her
despair!—and of what _she_ had to tell!—with such knowledge it was
impossible to be calm. All that remained to be done was to be speedy;
and, therefore staying only till she could leave Mrs. Jennings’s maid
with her sister, she hurried down stairs.

The bustle in the vestibule, as she passed along an inner lobby,
assured her that they were already in the house. She rushed to the
drawing-room,—she entered it,—and saw only Willoughby.




CHAPTER XLIV.


Elinor, starting back with a look of horror at the sight of him, obeyed
the first impulse of her heart in turning instantly to quit the room,
and her hand was already on the lock, when its action was suspended by
his hastily advancing, and saying, in a voice rather of command than
supplication,

“Miss Dashwood, for half an hour—for ten minutes—I entreat you to
stay.”

“No, sir,” she replied with firmness, “I shall _not_ stay. Your
business cannot be with _me_. The servants, I suppose, forgot to tell
you that Mr. Palmer was not in the house.”

“Had they told me,” he cried with vehemence, “that Mr. Palmer and all
his relations were at the devil, it would not have turned me from the
door. My business is with you, and only you.”

“With me!”—in the utmost amazement—“well, sir,—be quick—and if you
can—less violent.”

“Sit down, and I will be both.”

She hesitated; she knew not what to do. The possibility of Colonel
Brandon’s arriving and finding her there, came across her. But she had
promised to hear him, and her curiosity no less than her honor was
engaged. After a moment’s recollection, therefore, concluding that
prudence required dispatch, and that her acquiescence would best
promote it, she walked silently towards the table, and sat down. He
took the opposite chair, and for half a minute not a word was said by
either.

“Pray be quick, sir,”—said Elinor, impatiently;—“I have no time to
spare.”

He was sitting in an attitude of deep meditation, and seemed not to
hear her.

“Your sister,” said he, with abruptness, a moment afterwards—“is out of
danger. I heard it from the servant. God be praised!—But is it true? is
it really true?”

Elinor would not speak. He repeated the inquiry with yet greater
eagerness.

“For God’s sake tell me, is she out of danger, or is she not?”

“We hope she is.”

He rose up, and walked across the room.

“Had I known as much half an hour ago;—but since I _am_ here,” speaking
with a forced vivacity as he returned to his seat,—“what does it
signify? For once, Miss Dashwood—it will be the last time, perhaps—let
us be cheerful together. I am in a fine mood for gaiety. Tell me
honestly” a deeper glow overspreading his cheeks, “do you think me most
a knave or a fool?”

Elinor looked at him with greater astonishment than ever. She began to
think that he must be in liquor;—the strangeness of such a visit, and
of such manners, seemed no otherwise intelligible; and with this
impression she immediately rose, saying,

“Mr. Willoughby, I advise you at present to return to Combe. I am not
at leisure to remain with you longer. Whatever your business may be
with me, it will be better recollected and explained to-morrow.”

“I understand you,” he replied, with an expressive smile, and a voice
perfectly calm; “yes, I am very drunk. A pint of porter with my cold
beef at Marlborough was enough to over-set me.”

“At Marlborough!”—cried Elinor, more and more at a loss to understand
what he would be at.

“Yes,—I left London this morning at eight o’clock, and the only ten
minutes I have spent out of my chaise since that time procured me a
nuncheon at Marlborough.”

The steadiness of his manner, and the intelligence of his eye as he
spoke, convincing Elinor, that whatever other unpardonable folly might
bring him to Cleveland, he was not brought there by intoxication, she
said, after a moment’s recollection,

“Mr. Willoughby, you _ought_ to feel, and I certainly _do_, that after
what has passed, your coming here in this manner, and forcing yourself
upon my notice, requires a very particular excuse. What is it, that you
mean by it?”

“I mean,” said he, with serious energy, “if I can, to make you hate me
one degree less than you do _now_. I mean to offer some kind of
explanation, some kind of apology, for the past; to open my whole heart
to you, and by convincing you, that though I have been always a
blockhead, I have not been always a rascal, to obtain something like
forgiveness from Ma— from your sister.”

“Is this the real reason of your coming?”

“Upon my soul it is,”—was his answer, with a warmth which brought all
the former Willoughby to her remembrance, and in spite of herself made
her think him sincere.

“If that is all, you may be satisfied already; for Marianne _does_, she
has _long_ forgiven you.”

“Has she?” he cried, in the same eager tone. “Then she has forgiven me
before she ought to have done it. But she shall forgive me again, and
on more reasonable grounds. _Now_ will you listen to me?”

Elinor bowed her assent.

“I do not know,” said he, after a pause of expectation on her side, and
thoughtfulness on his own, “how _you_ may have accounted for my
behaviour to your sister, or what diabolical motive you may have
imputed to me. Perhaps you will hardly think the better of me,—it is
worth the trial however, and you shall hear every thing. When I first
became intimate in your family, I had no other intention, no other view
in the acquaintance than to pass my time pleasantly while I was obliged
to remain in Devonshire, more pleasantly than I had ever done before.
Your sister’s lovely person and interesting manners could not but
please me; and her behaviour to me almost from the first, was of a
kind—it is astonishing, when I reflect on what it was, and what _she_
was, that my heart should have been so insensible! But at first I must
confess, my vanity only was elevated by it. Careless of her happiness,
thinking only of my own amusement, giving way to feelings which I had
always been too much in the habit of indulging, I endeavoured, by every
means in my power, to make myself pleasing to her, without any design
of returning her affection.”

Miss Dashwood, at this point, turning her eyes on him with the most
angry contempt, stopped him, by saying,

“It is hardly worth while, Mr. Willoughby, for you to relate, or for me
to listen any longer. Such a beginning as this cannot be followed by
any thing. Do not let me be pained by hearing any thing more on the
subject.”

“I insist on you hearing the whole of it,” he replied, “My fortune was
never large, and I had always been expensive, always in the habit of
associating with people of better income than myself. Every year since
my coming of age, or even before, I believe, had added to my debts; and
though the death of my old cousin, Mrs. Smith, was to set me free; yet
that event being uncertain, and possibly far distant, it had been for
some time my intention to re-establish my circumstances by marrying a
woman of fortune. To attach myself to your sister, therefore, was not a
thing to be thought of; and with a meanness, selfishness, cruelty,
which no indignant, no contemptuous look, even of yours, Miss Dashwood,
can ever reprobate too much,—I was acting in this manner, trying to
engage her regard, without a thought of returning it. But one thing may
be said for me: even in that horrid state of selfish vanity, I did not
know the extent of the injury I meditated, because I did not _then_
know what it was to love. But have I ever known it? Well may it be
doubted; for, had I really loved, could I have sacrificed my feelings
to vanity, to avarice? or, what is more, could I have sacrificed hers?
But I have done it. To avoid a comparative poverty, which her affection
and her society would have deprived of all its horrors, I have, by
raising myself to affluence, lost every thing that could make it a
blessing.”

“You did then,” said Elinor, a little softened, “believe yourself at
one time attached to her?”

“To have resisted such attractions, to have withstood such tenderness!
Is there a man on earth who could have done it? Yes, I found myself, by
insensible degrees, sincerely fond of her; and the happiest hours of my
life were what I spent with her when I felt my intentions were strictly
honourable, and my feelings blameless. Even _then_, however, when fully
determined on paying my addresses to her, I allowed myself most
improperly to put off, from day to day, the moment of doing it, from an
unwillingness to enter into an engagement while my circumstances were
so greatly embarrassed. I will not reason here—nor will I stop for
_you_ to expatiate on the absurdity, and the worse than absurdity, of
scrupling to engage my faith where my honour was already bound. The
event has proved, that I was a cunning fool, providing with great
circumspection for a possible opportunity of making myself contemptible
and wretched for ever. At last, however, my resolution was taken, and I
had determined, as soon as I could engage her alone, to justify the
attentions I had so invariably paid her, and openly assure her of an
affection which I had already taken such pains to display. But in the
interim—in the interim of the very few hours that were to pass, before
I could have an opportunity of speaking with her in private—a
circumstance occurred—an unlucky circumstance, to ruin all my
resolution, and with it all my comfort. A discovery took place,”—here
he hesitated and looked down. “Mrs. Smith had somehow or other been
informed, I imagine by some distant relation, whose interest it was to
deprive me of her favour, of an affair, a connection—but I need not
explain myself farther,” he added, looking at her with an heightened
colour and an enquiring eye,—“your particular intimacy—you have
probably heard the whole story long ago.”

“I have,” returned Elinor, colouring likewise, and hardening her heart
anew against any compassion for him, “I have heard it all. And how you
will explain away any part of your guilt in that dreadful business, I
confess is beyond my comprehension.”

“Remember,” cried Willoughby, “from whom you received the account.
Could it be an impartial one? I acknowledge that her situation and her
character ought to have been respected by me. I do not mean to justify
myself, but at the same time cannot leave you to suppose that I have
nothing to urge—that because she was injured she was irreproachable,
and because _I_ was a libertine, _she_ must be a saint. If the violence
of her passions, the weakness of her understanding—I do not mean,
however, to defend myself. Her affection for me deserved better
treatment, and I often, with great self-reproach, recall the tenderness
which, for a very short time, had the power of creating any return. I
wish—I heartily wish it had never been. But I have injured more than
herself; and I have injured one, whose affection for me (may I say it?)
was scarcely less warm than hers; and whose mind—Oh! how infinitely
superior!”

“Your indifference, however, towards that unfortunate girl—I must say
it, unpleasant to me as the discussion of such a subject may well
be—your indifference is no apology for your cruel neglect of her. Do
not think yourself excused by any weakness, any natural defect of
understanding on her side, in the wanton cruelty so evident on yours.
You must have known, that while you were enjoying yourself in
Devonshire pursuing fresh schemes, always gay, always happy, she was
reduced to the extremest indigence.”

“But, upon my soul, I did _not_ know it,” he warmly replied; “I did not
recollect that I had omitted to give her my direction; and common sense
might have told her how to find it out.”

“Well, sir, and what said Mrs. Smith?”

“She taxed me with the offence at once, and my confusion may be
guessed. The purity of her life, the formality of her notions, her
ignorance of the world—every thing was against me. The matter itself I
could not deny, and vain was every endeavour to soften it. She was
previously disposed, I believe, to doubt the morality of my conduct in
general, and was moreover discontented with the very little attention,
the very little portion of my time that I had bestowed on her, in my
present visit. In short, it ended in a total breach. By one measure I
might have saved myself. In the height of her morality, good woman! she
offered to forgive the past, if I would marry Eliza. That could not
be—and I was formally dismissed from her favour and her house. The
night following this affair—I was to go the next morning—was spent by
me in deliberating on what my future conduct should be. The struggle
was great—but it ended too soon. My affection for Marianne, my thorough
conviction of her attachment to me—it was all insufficient to outweigh
that dread of poverty, or get the better of those false ideas of the
necessity of riches, which I was naturally inclined to feel, and
expensive society had increased. I had reason to believe myself secure
of my present wife, if I chose to address her, and I persuaded myself
to think that nothing else in common prudence remained for me to do. A
heavy scene however awaited me, before I could leave Devonshire;—I was
engaged to dine with you on that very day; some apology was therefore
necessary for my breaking this engagement. But whether I should write
this apology, or deliver it in person, was a point of long debate. To
see Marianne, I felt, would be dreadful, and I even doubted whether I
could see her again, and keep to my resolution. In that point, however,
I undervalued my own magnanimity, as the event declared; for I went, I
saw her, and saw her miserable, and left her miserable—and left her
hoping never to see her again.”

“Why did you call, Mr. Willoughby?” said Elinor, reproachfully; “a note
would have answered every purpose. Why was it necessary to call?”

“It was necessary to my own pride. I could not bear to leave the
country in a manner that might lead you, or the rest of the
neighbourhood, to suspect any part of what had really passed between
Mrs. Smith and myself—and I resolved therefore on calling at the
cottage, in my way to Honiton. The sight of your dear sister, however,
was really dreadful; and, to heighten the matter, I found her alone.
You were all gone I do not know where. I had left her only the evening
before, so fully, so firmly resolved within my self on doing right! A
few hours were to have engaged her to me for ever; and I remember how
happy, how gay were my spirits, as I walked from the cottage to
Allenham, satisfied with myself, delighted with every body! But in
this, our last interview of friendship, I approached her with a sense
of guilt that almost took from me the power of dissembling. Her sorrow,
her disappointment, her deep regret, when I told her that I was obliged
to leave Devonshire so immediately—I never shall forget it—united too
with such reliance, such confidence in me!—Oh, God!—what a hard-hearted
rascal I was!”

They were both silent for a few moments. Elinor first spoke.

“Did you tell her that you should soon return?”

“I do not know what I told her,” he replied, impatiently; “less than
was due to the past, beyond a doubt, and in all likelihood much more
than was justified by the future. I cannot think of it.—It won’t
do.—Then came your dear mother to torture me farther, with all her
kindness and confidence. Thank Heaven! it _did_ torture me. I was
miserable. Miss Dashwood, you cannot have an idea of the comfort it
gives me to look back on my own misery. I owe such a grudge to myself
for the stupid, rascally folly of my own heart, that all my past
sufferings under it are only triumph and exultation to me now. Well, I
went, left all that I loved, and went to those to whom, at best, I was
only indifferent. My journey to town—travelling with my own horses, and
therefore so tediously—no creature to speak to—my own reflections so
cheerful—when I looked forward every thing so inviting!—when I looked
back at Barton, the picture so soothing!—oh, it was a blessed journey!”

He stopped.

“Well, sir,” said Elinor, who, though pitying him, grew impatient for
his departure, “and this is all?”

“All!—no:—have you forgot what passed in town? That infamous letter?
Did she show it you?”

“Yes, I saw every note that passed.”

“When the first of hers reached me (as it immediately did, for I was in
town the whole time,) what I felt is—in the common phrase, not to be
expressed; in a more simple one—perhaps too simple to raise any
emotion—my feelings were very, very painful.—Every line, every word
was—in the hackneyed metaphor which their dear writer, were she here,
would forbid—a dagger to my heart. To know that Marianne was in town
was—in the same language—a thunderbolt.—Thunderbolts and daggers!—what
a reproof would she have given me!—her taste, her opinions—I believe
they are better known to me than my own,—and I am sure they are
dearer.”

Elinor’s heart, which had undergone many changes in the course of this
extraordinary conversation, was now softened again;—yet she felt it her
duty to check such ideas in her companion as the last.

“This is not right, Mr. Willoughby.—Remember that you are married.
Relate only what in your conscience you think necessary for me to
hear.”

“Marianne’s note, by assuring me that I was still as dear to her as in
former days,—that in spite of the many, many weeks we had been
separated, she was as constant in her own feelings, and as full of
faith in the constancy of mine as ever,—awakened all my remorse. I say
awakened, because time and London, business and dissipation, had in
some measure quieted it, and I had been growing a fine hardened
villain, fancying myself indifferent to her, and 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, ‘I shall be
heartily glad to hear she is well married.’ But this note made me know
myself better. I felt that she was infinitely dearer to me than any
other woman in the world, and that I was using her infamously. But
every thing was then just settled between Miss Grey and me. To retreat
was impossible. All that I had to do, was to avoid you both. I sent no
answer to Marianne, intending by that to preserve myself from her
farther notice; and for some time I was even determined not to call in
Berkeley Street;—but at last, judging it wiser to affect the air of a
cool, common acquaintance than anything else, I watched you all safely
out of the house one morning, and left my name.”

“Watched us out of the house!”

“Even so. You would be surprised to hear how often I watched you, how
often I was on the point of falling in with you. I have entered many a
shop to avoid your sight, as the carriage drove by. Lodging as I did in
Bond Street, there was hardly a day in which I did not catch a glimpse
of one or other of you; and nothing but the most constant watchfulness
on my side, a most invariably prevailing desire to keep out of your
sight, could have separated us so long. I avoided the Middletons as
much as possible, as well as everybody else who was likely to prove an
acquaintance in common. Not aware of their being in town, however, I
blundered on Sir John, I believe, the first day of his coming, and the
day after I had called at Mrs. Jennings’s. He asked me to a party, a
dance at his house in the evening. Had he _not_ told me as an
inducement that you and your sister were to be there, I should have
felt it too certain a thing, to trust myself near him. The next morning
brought another short note from Marianne—still affectionate, open,
artless, confiding—everything that could make _my_ conduct most
hateful. I could not answer it. I tried—but could not frame a sentence.
But I thought of her, I believe, every moment of the day. If you _can_
pity me, Miss Dashwood, pity my situation as it was _then_. With my
head and heart full of your sister, I was forced to play the happy
lover to another woman! Those three or four weeks were worse than all.
Well, at last, as I need not tell you, you were forced on me; and what
a sweet figure I cut! what an evening of agony it was! Marianne,
beautiful as an angel on one side, calling me Willoughby in such a
tone! Oh, God! holding out her hand to me, asking me for an
explanation, with those bewitching eyes fixed in such speaking
solicitude on my face! and Sophia, jealous as the devil on the other
hand, looking all that was—Well, it does not signify; it is over now.
Such an evening! I ran away from you all as soon as I could; but not
before I had seen Marianne’s sweet face as white as death. _That_ was
the last, last look I ever had of her; the last manner in which she
appeared to me. It was a horrid sight! yet when I thought of her to-day
as really dying, it was a kind of comfort to me to imagine that I knew
exactly how she would appear to those, who saw her last in this world.
She was before me, constantly before me, as I travelled, in the same
look and hue.”

A short pause of mutual thoughtfulness succeeded. Willoughby first
rousing himself, broke it thus:

“Well, let me make haste and be gone. Your sister is certainly better,
certainly out of danger?”

“We are assured of it.”

“Your poor mother, too!—doting on Marianne.”

“But the letter, Mr. Willoughby, your own letter; have you any thing to
say about that?”

“Yes, yes, _that_ in particular. Your sister wrote to me again, you
know, the very next morning. You saw what she said. I was breakfasting
at the Ellisons,—and her letter, with some others, was brought to me
there from my lodgings. It happened to catch Sophia’s eye before it
caught mine—and its size, the elegance of the paper, the hand-writing
altogether, immediately gave her a suspicion. Some vague report had
reached her before of my attachment to some young lady in Devonshire,
and what had passed within her observation the preceding evening had
marked who the young lady was, and made her more jealous than ever.
Affecting that air of playfulness, therefore, which is delightful in a
woman one loves, she opened the letter directly, and read its contents.
She was well paid for her impudence. She read what made her wretched.
Her wretchedness I could have borne, but her passion—her malice—At all
events it must be appeased. And, in short—what do you think of my
wife’s style of letter-writing?—delicate—tender—truly feminine—was it
not?”

“Your wife!—The letter was in your own hand-writing.”

“Yes, but I had only the credit of servilely copying such sentences as
I was ashamed to put my name to. The original was all her own—her own
happy thoughts and gentle diction. But what could I do!—we were
engaged, every thing in preparation, the day almost fixed—But I am
talking like a fool. Preparation! Day! In honest words, her money was
necessary to me, and in a situation like mine, any thing was to be done
to prevent a rupture. And after all, what did it signify to my
character in the opinion of Marianne and her friends, in what language
my answer was couched? It must have been only to one end. My business
was to declare myself a scoundrel, and whether I did it with a bow or a
bluster was of little importance. ‘I am ruined for ever in their
opinion,’ said I to myself: ‘I am shut out for ever from their society,
they already think me an unprincipled fellow, this letter will only
make them think me a blackguard one.’ Such were my reasonings, as, in a
sort of desperate carelessness, I copied my wife’s words, and parted
with the last relics of Marianne. Her three notes,—unluckily they were
all in my pocketbook, or I should have denied their existence, and
hoarded them for ever,—I was forced to put them up, and could not even
kiss them. And the lock of hair—that too I had always carried about me
in the same pocket-book, which was now searched by Madam with the most
ingratiating virulence,—the dear lock,—all, every memento was torn from
me.”

“You are very wrong, Mr. Willoughby, very blamable,” said Elinor, while
her voice, in spite of herself, betrayed her compassionate emotion;
“you ought not to speak in this way, either of Mrs. Willoughby or my
sister. You had made your own choice. It was not forced on you. Your
wife has a claim to your politeness, to your respect, at least. She
must be attached to you, or she would not have married you. To treat
her with unkindness, to speak of her slightingly is no atonement to
Marianne—nor can I suppose it a relief to your own conscience.”

“Do not talk to me of my wife,” said he with a heavy sigh; “she does
not deserve your compassion. She knew I had no regard for her when we
married. Well, married we were, and came down to Combe Magna to be
happy, and afterwards returned to town to be gay. And now do you pity
me, Miss Dashwood? Or have I said all this to no purpose? Am I,—be it
only one degree,—am I less guilty in your opinion than I was before? My
intentions were not always wrong. Have I explained away any part of my
guilt?”

“Yes, you have certainly removed something—a little. You have proved
yourself, on the whole, less faulty than I had believed you. You have
proved your heart less wicked, much less wicked. But I hardly know—the
misery that you have inflicted—I hardly know what could have made it
worse.”

“Will you repeat to your sister when she is recovered, what I have been
telling you?—Let me be a little lightened too in her opinion as well as
in yours. You tell me that she has forgiven me already. Let me be able
to fancy that a better knowledge of my heart, and of my present
feelings, will draw from her a more spontaneous, more natural, more
gentle, less dignified, forgiveness. Tell her of my misery and my
penitence—tell her that my heart was never inconstant to her, and if
you will, that at this moment she is dearer to me than ever.”

“I will tell her all that is necessary to what may comparatively be
called, your justification. But you have not explained to me the
particular reason of your coming now, nor how you heard of her
illness.”

“Last night, in Drury Lane lobby, I ran against Sir John Middleton, and
when he saw who I was, for the first time these two months, he spoke to
me. That he had cut me ever since my marriage, I had seen without
surprise or resentment. Now, however, his good-natured, honest, stupid
soul, full of indignation against me, and concern for your sister,
could not resist the temptation of telling me what he knew ought to,
though probably he did not think it _would_, vex me horridly. As
bluntly as he could speak it, therefore, he told me that Marianne
Dashwood was dying of a putrid fever at Cleveland—a letter that morning
received from Mrs. Jennings declared her danger most imminent—the
Palmers are all gone off in a fright, &c. I was too much shocked to be
able to pass myself off as insensible even to the undiscerning Sir
John. His heart was softened in seeing mine suffer; and so much of his
ill-will was done away, that when we parted, he almost shook me by the
hand while he reminded me of an old promise about a pointer puppy. What
I felt on hearing that your sister was dying, and dying too, believing
me the greatest villain upon earth, scorning, hating me in her latest
moments—for how could I tell what horrid projects might not have been
imputed? _One_ person I was sure would represent me as capable of
anything—What I felt was dreadful! My resolution was soon made, and at
eight o’clock this morning I was in my carriage. Now you know all.”

Elinor made no answer. Her thoughts were silently fixed on the
irreparable injury which too early an independence and its consequent
habits of idleness, dissipation, and luxury, had made in the mind, the
character, the happiness, of a man who, to every advantage of person
and talents, united a disposition naturally open and honest, and a
feeling, affectionate temper. The world had made him extravagant and
vain—Extravagance and vanity had made him cold-hearted and selfish.
Vanity, while seeking its own guilty triumph at the expense of another,
had involved him in a real attachment, which extravagance, or at least
its offspring, necessity, had required to be sacrificed. Each faulty
propensity in leading him to evil, had led him likewise to punishment.
The attachment, from which against honour, against feeling, against
every better interest he had outwardly torn himself, now, when no
longer allowable, governed every thought; and the connection, for the
sake of which he had, with little scruple, left her sister to misery,
was likely to prove a source of unhappiness to himself of a far more
incurable nature. From a reverie of this kind she was recalled at the
end of some minutes by Willoughby, who, rousing himself from a reverie
at least equally painful, started up in preparation for going, and
said—

“There is no use in staying here; I must be off.”

“Are you going back to town?”

“No—to Combe Magna. I have business there; from thence to town in a day
or two. Good bye.”

He held out his hand. She could not refuse to give him hers;—he pressed
it with affection.

“And you _do_ think something better of me than you did?” said he,
letting it fall, and leaning against the mantel-piece as if forgetting
he was to go.

Elinor assured him that she did;—that she forgave, pitied, wished him
well—was even interested in his happiness—and added some gentle counsel
as to the behaviour most likely to promote it. His answer was not very
encouraging.

“As to that,” said he, “I must rub through the world as well as I can.
Domestic happiness is out of the question. If, however, I am allowed to
think that you and yours feel an interest in my fate and actions, it
may be the means—it may put me on my guard—at least, it may be
something to live for. Marianne to be sure is lost to me for ever. Were
I even by any blessed chance at liberty again—”

Elinor stopped him with a reproof.

“Well,”—he replied—“once more good bye. I shall now go away and live in
dread of one event.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your sister’s marriage.”

“You are very wrong. She can never be more lost to you than she is
now.”

“But she will be gained by some one else. And if that some one should
be the very he whom, of all others, I could least bear—but I will not
stay to rob myself of all your compassionate goodwill, by showing that
where I have most injured I can least forgive. Good bye,—God bless
you!”

And with these words, he almost ran out of the room.




CHAPTER XLV.


Elinor, for some time after he left her, for some time even after the
sound of his carriage had died away, remained too much oppressed by a
crowd of ideas, widely differing in themselves, but of which sadness
was the general result, to think even of her sister.

Willoughby, he, whom only half an hour ago she had abhorred as the most
worthless of men, Willoughby, in spite of all his faults, excited a
degree of commiseration for the sufferings produced by them, which made
her think of him as now separated for ever from her family, with a
tenderness, a regret, rather in proportion, as she soon acknowledged
within herself—to his wishes than to his merits. She felt that his
influence over her mind was heightened by circumstances which ought not
in reason to have weight; by that person of uncommon attraction, that
open, affectionate, and lively manner which it was no merit to possess;
and by that still ardent love for Marianne, which it was not even
innocent to indulge. But she felt that it was so, long, long before she
could feel his influence less.

When at last she returned to the unconscious Marianne, she found her
just awaking, refreshed by so long and sweet a sleep to the extent of
her hopes. Elinor’s heart was full. The past, the present, the future,
Willoughby’s visit, Marianne’s safety, and her mother’s expected
arrival, threw her altogether into an agitation of spirits which kept
off every indication of fatigue, and made her only fearful of betraying
herself to her sister. Short was the time, however, in which that fear
could affect her, for within half an hour after Willoughby’s leaving
the house, she was again called down stairs by the sound of another
carriage.—Eager to save her mother from every unnecessary moment’s
horrible suspense, she ran immediately into the hall, and reached the
outward door just in time to receive and support her as she entered it.

Mrs. Dashwood, whose terror as they drew near the house had produced
almost the conviction of Marianne’s being no more, had no voice to
inquire after her, no voice even for Elinor; but _she_, waiting neither
for salutation nor inquiry, instantly gave the joyful relief; and her
mother, catching it with all her usual warmth, was in a moment as much
overcome by her happiness, as she had been before by her fears. She was
supported into the drawing-room between her daughter and her friend;
and there, shedding tears of joy, though still unable to speak,
embraced Elinor again and again, turning from her at intervals to press
Colonel Brandon’s hand, with a look which spoke at once her gratitude,
and her conviction of his sharing with herself in the bliss of the
moment. He shared it, however, in a silence even greater than her own.

As soon as Mrs. Dashwood had recovered herself, to see Marianne was her
first desire; and in two minutes she was with her beloved child,
rendered dearer to her than ever by absence, unhappiness, and danger.
Elinor’s delight, as she saw what each felt in the meeting, was only
checked by an apprehension of its robbing Marianne of farther sleep:
but Mrs. Dashwood could be calm, could be even prudent, when the life
of a child was at stake, and Marianne, satisfied in knowing her mother
was near her, and conscious of being too weak for conversation,
submitted readily to the silence and quiet prescribed by every nurse
around her. Mrs. Dashwood _would_ sit up with her all night; and
Elinor, in compliance with her mother’s entreaty, went to bed. But the
rest, which one night entirely sleepless, and many hours of the most
wearing anxiety seemed to make requisite, was kept off by irritation of
spirits. Willoughby, “poor Willoughby,” as she now allowed herself to
call him, was constantly in her thoughts; she would not but have heard
his vindication for the world, and now blamed, now acquitted herself
for having judged him so harshly before. But her promise of relating it
to her sister was invariably painful. She dreaded the performance of
it, dreaded what its effect on Marianne might be; doubted whether after
such an explanation she could ever be happy with another; and for a
moment wished Willoughby a widower. Then, remembering Colonel Brandon,
reproved herself, felt that to _his_ sufferings and _his_ constancy far
more than to his rival’s, the reward of her sister was due, and wished
any thing rather than Mrs. Willoughby’s death.

The shock of Colonel Brandon’s errand at Barton had been much softened
to Mrs. Dashwood by her own previous alarm; for so great was her
uneasiness about Marianne, that she had already determined to set out
for Cleveland on that very day, without waiting for any further
intelligence, and had so far settled her journey before his arrival,
that the Careys were then expected every moment to fetch Margaret away,
as her mother was unwilling to take her where there might be infection.

Marianne continued to mend every day, and the brilliant cheerfulness of
Mrs. Dashwood’s looks and spirits proved her to be, as she repeatedly
declared herself, one of the happiest women in the world. Elinor could
not hear the declaration, nor witness its proofs without sometimes
wondering whether her mother ever recollected Edward. But Mrs.
Dashwood, trusting to the temperate account of her own disappointment
which Elinor had sent her, was led away by the exuberance of her joy to
think only of what would increase it. Marianne was restored to her from
a danger in which, as she now began to feel, her own mistaken judgment
in encouraging the unfortunate attachment to Willoughby, had
contributed to place her;—and in her recovery she had yet another
source of joy unthought of by Elinor. It was thus imparted to her, as
soon as any opportunity of private conference between them occurred.

“At last we are alone. My Elinor, you do not yet know all my happiness.
Colonel Brandon loves Marianne. He has told me so himself.”

Her daughter, feeling by turns both pleased and pained, surprised and
not surprised, was all silent attention.

“You are never like me, dear Elinor, or I should wonder at your
composure now. Had I sat down to wish for any possible good to my
family, I should have fixed on Colonel Brandon’s marrying one of you as
the object most desirable. And I believe Marianne will be the most
happy with him of the two.”

Elinor was half inclined to ask her reason for thinking so, because
satisfied that none founded on an impartial consideration of their age,
characters, or feelings, could be given;—but her mother must always be
carried away by her imagination on any interesting subject, and
therefore instead of an inquiry, she passed it off with a smile.

“He opened his whole heart to me yesterday as we travelled. It came out
quite unawares, quite undesignedly. I, you may well believe, could talk
of nothing but my child;—he could not conceal his distress; I saw that
it equalled my own, and he perhaps, thinking that mere friendship, as
the world now goes, would not justify so warm a sympathy—or rather, not
thinking at all, I suppose—giving way to irresistible feelings, made me
acquainted with his earnest, tender, constant, affection for Marianne.
He has loved her, my Elinor, ever since the first moment of seeing
her.”

Here, however, Elinor perceived,—not the language, not the professions
of Colonel Brandon, but the natural embellishments of her mother’s
active fancy, which fashioned every thing delightful to her as it
chose.

“His regard for her, infinitely surpassing anything that Willoughby
ever felt or feigned, as much more warm, as more sincere or
constant—which ever we are to call it—has subsisted through all the
knowledge of dear Marianne’s unhappy prepossession for that worthless
young man!—and without selfishness—without encouraging a hope!—could he
have seen her happy with another—Such a noble mind!—such openness, such
sincerity!—no one can be deceived in _him_.”

“Colonel Brandon’s character,” said Elinor, “as an excellent man, is
well established.”

“I know it is,”—replied her mother seriously, “or after such a warning,
_I_ should be the last to encourage such affection, or even to be
pleased by it. But his coming for me as he did, with such active, such
ready friendship, is enough to prove him one of the worthiest of men.”

“His character, however,” answered Elinor, “does not rest on _one_ act
of kindness, to which his affection for Marianne, were humanity out of
the case, would have prompted him. To Mrs. Jennings, to the Middletons,
he has been long and intimately known; they equally love and respect
him; and even my own knowledge of him, though lately acquired, is very
considerable; and so highly do _I_ value and esteem him, that if
Marianne can be happy with him, I shall be as ready as yourself to
think our connection the greatest blessing to us in the world. What
answer did you give him?—Did you allow him to hope?”

“Oh! my love, I could not then talk of hope to him or to myself.
Marianne might at that moment be dying. But he did not ask for hope or
encouragement. His was an involuntary confidence, an irrepressible
effusion to a soothing friend, not an application to a parent. Yet
after a time I _did_ say, for at first I was quite overcome, that if
she lived, as I trusted she might, my greatest happiness would lie in
promoting their marriage; and since our arrival, since our delightful
security, I have repeated it to him more fully, have given him every
encouragement in my power. Time, a very little time, I tell him, will
do everything; Marianne’s heart is not to be wasted for ever on such a
man as Willoughby. His own merits must soon secure it.”

“To judge from the Colonel’s spirits, however, you have not yet made
him equally sanguine.”

“No. He thinks Marianne’s affection too deeply rooted for any change in
it under a great length of time, and even supposing her heart again
free, is too diffident of himself to believe, that with such a
difference of age and disposition he could ever attach her. There,
however, he is quite mistaken. His age is only so much beyond hers as
to be an advantage, as to make his character and principles fixed; and
his disposition, I am well convinced, is exactly the very one to make
your sister happy. And his person, his manners too, are all in his
favour. My partiality does not blind me; he certainly is not so
handsome as Willoughby; but at the same time, there is something much
more pleasing in his countenance. There was always a something, if you
remember, in Willoughby’s eyes at times, which I did not like.”

Elinor could _not_ remember it; but her mother, without waiting for her
assent, continued,

“And his manners, the Colonel’s manners are not only more pleasing to
me than Willoughby’s ever were, but they are of a kind I well know to
be more solidly attaching to Marianne. Their gentleness, their genuine
attention to other people, and their manly unstudied simplicity is much
more accordant with her real disposition, than the liveliness, often
artificial, and often ill-timed of the other. I am very sure myself,
that had Willoughby turned out as really amiable, as he has proved
himself the contrary, Marianne would yet never have been so happy with
_him_ as she will be with Colonel Brandon.”

She paused.—Her daughter could not quite agree with her, but her
dissent was not heard, and therefore gave no offence.

“At Delaford, she will be within an easy distance of me,” added Mrs.
Dashwood, “even if I remain at Barton; and in all probability,—for I
hear it is a large village,—indeed there certainly _must_ be some small
house or cottage close by, that would suit us quite as well as our
present situation.”

Poor Elinor!—here was a new scheme for getting her to Delaford!—but her
spirit was stubborn.

“His fortune too!—for at my time of life you know, everybody cares
about _that;_—and though I neither know nor desire to know, what it
really is, I am sure it must be a good one.”

Here they were interrupted by the entrance of a third person, and
Elinor withdrew to think it all over in private, to wish success to her
friend, and yet in wishing it, to feel a pang for Willoughby.




CHAPTER XLVI.


Marianne’s illness, though weakening in its kind, had not been long
enough to make her recovery slow; and with youth, natural strength, and
her mother’s presence in aid, it proceeded so smoothly as to enable her
to remove, within four days after the arrival of the latter, into Mrs.
Palmer’s dressing-room. When there, at her own particular request, for
she was impatient to pour forth her thanks to him for fetching her
mother, Colonel Brandon was invited to visit her.

His emotion on entering the room, in seeing her altered looks, and in
receiving the pale hand which she immediately held out to him, was
such, as, in Elinor’s conjecture, must arise from something more than
his affection for Marianne, or the consciousness of its being known to
others; and she soon discovered in his melancholy eye and varying
complexion as he looked at her sister, the probable recurrence of many
past scenes of misery to his mind, brought back by that resemblance
between Marianne and Eliza already acknowledged, and now strengthened
by the hollow eye, the sickly skin, the posture of reclining weakness,
and the warm acknowledgment of peculiar obligation.

Mrs. Dashwood, not less watchful of what passed than her daughter, but
with a mind very differently influenced, and therefore watching to very
different effect, saw nothing in the Colonel’s behaviour but what arose
from the most simple and self-evident sensations, while in the actions
and words of Marianne she persuaded herself to think that something
more than gratitude already dawned.

At the end of another day or two, Marianne growing visibly stronger
every twelve hours, Mrs. Dashwood, urged equally by her own and her
daughter’s wishes, began to talk of removing to Barton. On _her_
measures depended those of her two friends; Mrs. Jennings could not
quit Cleveland during the Dashwoods’ stay; and Colonel Brandon was soon
brought, by their united request, to consider his own abode there as
equally determinate, if not equally indispensable. At his and Mrs.
Jennings’s united request in return, Mrs. Dashwood was prevailed on to
accept the use of his carriage on her journey back, for the better
accommodation of her sick child; and the Colonel, at the joint
invitation of Mrs. Dashwood and Mrs. Jennings, whose active good-nature
made her friendly and hospitable for other people as well as herself,
engaged with pleasure to redeem it by a visit at the cottage, in the
course of a few weeks.

The day of separation and departure arrived; and Marianne, after taking
so particular and lengthened a leave of Mrs. Jennings, one so earnestly
grateful, so full of respect and kind wishes as seemed due to her own
heart from a secret acknowledgment of past inattention, and bidding
Colonel Brandon farewell with a cordiality of a friend, was carefully
assisted by him into the carriage, of which he seemed anxious that she
should engross at least half. Mrs. Dashwood and Elinor then followed,
and the others were left by themselves, to talk of the travellers, and
feel their own dullness, till Mrs. Jennings was summoned to her chaise
to take comfort in the gossip of her maid for the loss of her two young
companions; and Colonel Brandon immediately afterwards took his
solitary way to Delaford.

The Dashwoods were two days on the road, and Marianne bore her journey
on both, without essential fatigue. Every thing that the most zealous
affection, the most solicitous care could do to render her comfortable,
was the office of each watchful companion, and each found their reward
in her bodily ease, and her calmness of spirits. To Elinor, the
observation of the latter was particularly grateful. She, who had seen
her week after week so constantly suffering, oppressed by anguish of
heart which she had neither courage to speak of, nor fortitude to
conceal, now saw with a joy, which no other could equally share, an
apparent composure of mind, which, in being the result as she trusted
of serious reflection, must eventually lead her to contentment and
cheerfulness.

As they approached Barton, indeed, and entered on scenes of which every
field and every tree brought some peculiar, some painful recollection,
she grew silent and thoughtful, and turning away her face from their
notice, sat earnestly gazing through the window. But here, Elinor could
neither wonder nor blame; and when she saw, as she assisted Marianne
from the carriage, that she had been crying, she saw only an emotion
too natural in itself to raise any thing less tender than pity, and in
its unobtrusiveness entitled to praise. In the whole of her subsequent
manner, she traced the direction of a mind awakened to reasonable
exertion; for no sooner had they entered their common sitting-room,
than Marianne turned her eyes around it with a look of resolute
firmness, as if determined at once to accustom herself to the sight of
every object with which the remembrance of Willoughby could be
connected.—She said little, but every sentence aimed at cheerfulness,
and though a sigh sometimes escaped her, it never passed away without
the atonement of a smile. After dinner she would try her piano-forte.
She went to it; but the music on which her eye first rested was an
opera, procured for her by Willoughby, containing some of their
favourite duets, and bearing on its outward leaf her own name in his
hand-writing.—That would not do.—She shook her head, put the music
aside, and after running over the keys for a minute, complained of
feebleness in her fingers, and closed the instrument again; declaring
however with firmness as she did so, that she should in future practice
much.

The next morning produced no abatement in these happy symptoms. On the
contrary, with a mind and body alike strengthened by rest, she looked
and spoke with more genuine spirit, anticipating the pleasure of
Margaret’s return, and talking of the dear family party which would
then be restored, of their mutual pursuits and cheerful society, as the
only happiness worth a wish.

“When the weather is settled, and I have recovered my strength,” said
she, “we will take long walks together every day. We will walk to the
farm at the edge of the down, and see how the children go on; we will
walk to Sir John’s new plantations at Barton Cross, and the Abbeyland;
and we will often go 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.”

Elinor honoured her for a plan which originated so nobly as this;
though smiling to see the same eager fancy which had been leading her
to the extreme of languid indolence and selfish repining, now at work
in introducing excess into a scheme of such rational employment and
virtuous self-control. Her smile however changed to a sigh when she
remembered that promise to Willoughby was yet unfulfilled, and feared
she had that to communicate which might again unsettle the mind of
Marianne, and ruin at least for a time this fair prospect of busy
tranquillity. Willing therefore to delay the evil hour, she resolved to
wait till her sister’s health were more secure, before she appointed
it. But the resolution was made only to be broken.

Marianne had been two or three days at home, before the weather was
fine enough for an invalid like herself to venture out. But at last a
soft, genial morning appeared; such as might tempt the daughter’s
wishes and the mother’s confidence; and Marianne, leaning on Elinor’s
arm, was authorised to walk as long as she could without fatigue, in
the lane before the house.

The sisters set out at a pace, slow as the feebleness of Marianne in an
exercise hitherto untried since her illness required; and they had
advanced only so far beyond the house as to admit a full view of the
hill, the important hill behind, when pausing with her eyes turned
towards it, Marianne calmly said,—

“There, exactly there,”—pointing with one hand, “on that projecting
mound,—there I fell; and there I first saw Willoughby.”

Her voice sunk with the word, but presently reviving she added,

“I am thankful to find that I can look with so little pain on the spot!
shall we ever talk on that subject, Elinor?” hesitatingly it was said.
“Or will it be wrong? I _can_ talk of it now, I hope, as I ought to
do.”

Elinor tenderly invited her to be open.

“As for regret,” said Marianne, “I have done with that, as far as _he_
is concerned. I do not mean to talk to you of what my feelings have
been for him, but what they are _now_. At present, if I could be
satisfied on one point, if I could be allowed to think that he was not
_always_ acting a part, not _always_ deceiving me; but above all, if I
could be assured that he never was so _very_ wicked as my fears have
sometimes fancied him, since the story of that unfortunate girl—”

She stopt. Elinor joyfully treasured her words as she answered,

“If you could be assured of that, you think you should be easy.”

“Yes. My peace of mind is doubly involved in it; for not only is it
horrible to suspect a person, who has been what _he_ has been to _me_,
of such designs, but what must it make me appear to myself? What in a
situation like mine, but a most shamefully unguarded affection could
expose me to—”

“How then,” asked her sister, “would you account for his behaviour?”

“I would suppose him,—Oh, how gladly would I suppose him, only fickle,
very, very fickle.”

Elinor said no more. She was debating within herself on the eligibility
of beginning her story directly, or postponing it till Marianne were in
stronger health;—and they crept on for a few minutes in silence.

“I am not wishing him too much good,” said Marianne at last with a
sigh, “when I wish his secret reflections may be no more unpleasant
than my own. He will suffer enough in them.”

“Do you compare your conduct with his?”

“No. I compare it with what it ought to have been; I compare it with
yours.”

“Our situations have borne little resemblance.”

“They have borne more than our conduct. Do not, my dearest Elinor, let
your kindness defend what I know your judgment must censure. My illness
has made me think. It has given me leisure and calmness for serious
recollection. Long before I was enough recovered to talk, I was
perfectly able to reflect. I considered the past: I saw in my own
behaviour, since the beginning of our acquaintance with him last
autumn, nothing but a series of imprudence towards myself, and want of
kindness to others. I saw that my own feelings had prepared my
sufferings, and that my want of fortitude under them had almost led me
to the grave. My illness, I well knew, had been entirely brought on by
myself by such negligence of my own health, as I had felt even at the
time to be wrong. Had I died, it would have been self-destruction. I
did not know my danger till the danger was removed; but with such
feelings as these reflections gave me, I wonder at my recovery,—wonder
that the very eagerness of my desire to live, to have time for
atonement to my God, and to you all, did not kill me at once. Had I
died, in what peculiar misery should I have left you, my nurse, my
friend, my sister! You, who had seen all the fretful selfishness of my
latter days; who had known all the murmurings of my heart! How should I
have lived in _your_ remembrance! My mother too! How could you have
consoled her! I cannot express my own abhorrence of myself. Whenever I
looked towards the past, I saw some duty neglected, or some failing
indulged. Every body seemed injured by me. The kindness, the unceasing
kindness of Mrs. Jennings, I had repaid with ungrateful contempt. To
the Middletons, to the Palmers, the Steeles, to every common
acquaintance even, I had been insolent and unjust; with a heart
hardened against their merits, and a temper irritated by their very
attention. To John, to Fanny, yes, even to them, little as they
deserve, I had given less than their due. But you, you above all, above
my mother, had been wronged by me. I, and only I, knew your heart and
its sorrows; yet to what did it influence me?—not to any compassion
that could benefit you or myself.—Your example was before me; but to
what avail? Was I more considerate of you and your comfort? Did I
imitate your forbearance, or lessen your restraints, by taking any part
in those offices of general complaisance or particular gratitude which
you had hitherto been left to discharge alone? No; not less when I knew
you to be unhappy, than when I had believed you at ease, did I turn
away from every exertion of duty or friendship; scarcely allowing
sorrow to exist but with me, regretting only _that_ heart which had
deserted and wronged me, and leaving you, for whom I professed an
unbounded affection, to be miserable for my sake.”

Here ceased the rapid flow of her self-reproving spirit; and Elinor,
impatient to soothe, though too honest to flatter, gave her instantly
that praise and support which her frankness and her contrition so well
deserved. Marianne pressed her hand and replied,—

“You are very good.—The future must be my proof. I have laid down my
plan, and if I am capable of adhering to it—my feelings shall be
governed and my temper improved. They shall no longer worry others, nor
torture myself. I shall now live solely for my family. You, my mother,
and Margaret, must henceforth be all the world to me; you will share my
affections entirely between you. From you, from my home, I shall never
again have the smallest incitement to move; and if I do mix in other
society, it will be only to show that my spirit is humbled, my heart
amended, and that I can practise the civilities, the lesser duties of
life, with gentleness and forbearance. As for Willoughby—to say that I
shall soon or that I shall ever forget him, would be idle. His
remembrance can be overcome by no change of circumstances or opinions.
But it shall be regulated, it shall be checked by religion, by reason,
by constant employment.”

She paused—and added in a low voice, “If I could but know _his_ heart,
everything would become easy.”

Elinor, who had now been for some time reflecting on the propriety or
impropriety of speedily hazarding her narration, without feeling at all
nearer decision than at first, heard this; and perceiving that as
reflection did nothing, resolution must do all, soon found herself
leading to the fact.

She managed the recital, as she hoped, with address; prepared her
anxious listener with caution; related simply and honestly the chief
points on which Willoughby grounded his apology; did justice to his
repentance, and softened only his protestations of present regard.
Marianne said not a word.—She trembled, her eyes were fixed on the
ground, and her lips became whiter than even sickness had left them. A
thousand inquiries sprung up from her heart, but she dared not urge
one. She caught every syllable with panting eagerness; her hand,
unknowingly to herself, closely pressed her sister’s, and tears covered
her cheeks.

Elinor, dreading her being tired, led her towards home; and till they
reached the door of the cottage, easily conjecturing what her curiosity
must be though no question was suffered to speak it, talked of nothing
but Willoughby, and their conversation together; and was carefully
minute in every particular of speech and look, where minuteness could
be safely indulged. As soon as they entered the house, Marianne with a
kiss of gratitude and these two words just articulate through her
tears, “Tell mama,” withdrew from her sister and walked slowly up
stairs. Elinor would not attempt to disturb a solitude so reasonable as
what she now sought; and with a mind anxiously pre-arranging its
result, and a resolution of reviving the subject again, should Marianne
fail to do it, she turned into the parlour to fulfill her parting
injunction.




CHAPTER XLVII.


Mrs. Dashwood did not hear unmoved the vindication of her former
favourite. She rejoiced in his being cleared from some part of his
imputed guilt;—she was sorry for him;—she wished him happy. But the
feelings of the past could not be recalled.—Nothing could restore him
with a faith unbroken—a character unblemished, to Marianne. Nothing
could do away the knowledge of what the latter had suffered through his
means, nor remove the guilt of his conduct towards Eliza. Nothing could
replace him, therefore, in her former esteem, nor injure the interests
of Colonel Brandon.

Had Mrs. Dashwood, like her daughter, heard Willoughby’s story from
himself—had she witnessed his distress, and been under the influence of
his countenance and his manner, it is probable that her compassion
would have been greater. But it was neither in Elinor’s power, nor in
her wish, to rouse such feelings in another, by her retailed
explanation, as had at first been called forth in herself. Reflection
had given calmness to her judgment, and sobered her own opinion of
Willoughby’s deserts;—she wished, therefore, to declare only the simple
truth, and lay open such facts as were really due to his character,
without any embellishment of tenderness to lead the fancy astray.

In the evening, when they were all three together, Marianne began
voluntarily to speak of him again;—but that it was not without an
effort, the restless, unquiet thoughtfulness in which she had been for
some time previously sitting—her rising colour, as she spoke,—and her
unsteady voice, plainly showed.

“I wish to assure you both,” said she, “that I see every thing—as you
can desire me to do.”

Mrs. Dashwood would have interrupted her instantly with soothing
tenderness, had not Elinor, who really wished to hear her sister’s
unbiased opinion, by an eager sign, engaged her silence. Marianne
slowly continued,—

“It is a great relief to me—what Elinor told me this morning—I have now
heard exactly what I wished to hear.”—For some moments her voice was
lost; but recovering herself, she added, and with greater calmness than
before—“I am now perfectly satisfied, I wish for no change. I never
could have been happy with him, after knowing, as sooner or later I
must have known, all this.—I should have had no confidence, no esteem.
Nothing could have done it away to my feelings.”

“I know it—I know it,” cried her mother. “Happy with a man of libertine
practices!—With one who so injured the peace of the dearest of our
friends, and the best of men!—No—my Marianne has not a heart to be made
happy with such a man!—Her conscience, her sensitive conscience, would
have felt all that the conscience of her husband ought to have felt.”

Marianne sighed, and repeated, “I wish for no change.”

“You consider the matter,” said Elinor, “exactly as a good mind and a
sound understanding must consider it; and I dare say you perceive, as
well as myself, not only in this, but in many other circumstances,
reason enough to be convinced that your marriage must have involved you
in many certain troubles and disappointments, in which you would have
been poorly supported by an affection, on his side, much less certain.
Had you married, you must have been always poor. His expensiveness is
acknowledged even by himself, and his whole conduct declares that
self-denial is a word hardly understood by him. His demands and your
inexperience together, on a small, very small income, must have brought
on distresses which would not be the _less_ grievous to you, from
having been entirely unknown and unthought of before. _Your_ sense of
honour and honesty would have led you, I know, when aware of your
situation, to attempt all the economy that would appear to you
possible: and, perhaps, as long as your frugality retrenched only on
your own comfort, you might have been suffered to practice it, but
beyond that—and how little could the utmost of your single management
do to stop the ruin which had begun before your marriage? Beyond
_that_, had you endeavoured, however reasonably, to abridge _his_
enjoyments, is it not to be feared, that instead of prevailing on
feelings so selfish to consent to it, you would have lessened your own
influence on his heart, and made him regret the connection which had
involved him in such difficulties?”

Marianne’s lips quivered, and she repeated the word “Selfish?” in a
tone that implied—“do you really think him selfish?”

“The whole of his behaviour,” replied Elinor, “from the beginning to
the end of the affair, has been grounded on selfishness. It was
selfishness which first made him sport with your affections; which
afterwards, when his own were engaged, made him delay the confession of
it, and which finally carried him from Barton. His own enjoyment, or
his own ease, was, in every particular, his ruling principle.”

“It is very true. _My_ happiness never was his object.”

“At present,” continued Elinor, “he regrets what he has done. And why
does he regret it?—Because he finds it has not answered towards
himself. It has not made him happy. His circumstances are now
unembarrassed—he suffers from no evil of that kind; and he thinks only
that he has married a woman of a less amiable temper than yourself. But
does it follow that had he married you, he would have been happy?—The
inconveniences would have been different. He would then have suffered
under the pecuniary distresses which, because they are removed, he now
reckons as nothing. He would have had a wife of whose temper he could
make no complaint, but he would have been always necessitous—always
poor; and probably would soon have learned to rank the innumerable
comforts of a clear estate and good income as of far more importance,
even to domestic happiness, than the mere temper of a wife.”

“I have not a doubt of it,” said Marianne; “and I have nothing to
regret—nothing but my own folly.”

“Rather say your mother’s imprudence, my child,” said Mrs. Dashwood;
“_she_ must be answerable.”

Marianne would not let her proceed;—and Elinor, satisfied that each
felt their own error, wished to avoid any survey of the past that might
weaken her sister’s spirits; she, therefore, pursuing the first
subject, immediately continued,

“_One_ observation may, I think, be fairly drawn from the whole of the
story—that all Willoughby’s difficulties have arisen from the first
offence against virtue, in his behaviour to Eliza Williams. That crime
has been the origin of every lesser one, and of all his present
discontents.”

Marianne assented most feelingly to the remark; and her mother was led
by it to an enumeration of Colonel Brandon’s injuries and merits, warm
as friendship and design could unitedly dictate. Her daughter did not
look, however, as if much of it were heard by her.

Elinor, according to her expectation, saw on the two or three following
days, that Marianne did not continue to gain strength as she had done;
but while her resolution was unsubdued, and she still tried to appear
cheerful and easy, her sister could safely trust to the effect of time
upon her health.

Margaret returned, and the family were again all restored to each
other, again quietly settled at the cottage; and if not pursuing their
usual studies with quite so much vigour as when they first came to
Barton, at least planning a vigorous prosecution of them in future.

Elinor grew impatient for some tidings of Edward. She had heard nothing
of him since her leaving London, nothing new of his plans, nothing
certain even of his present abode. Some letters had passed between her
and her brother, in consequence of Marianne’s illness; and in the first
of John’s, there had been this sentence:—“We know nothing of our
unfortunate Edward, and can make no enquiries on so prohibited a
subject, but conclude him to be still at Oxford;” which was all the
intelligence of Edward afforded her by the correspondence, for his name
was not even mentioned in any of the succeeding letters. She was not
doomed, however, to be long in ignorance of his measures.

Their man-servant had been sent one morning to Exeter on business; and
when, as he waited at table, he had satisfied the inquiries of his
mistress as to the event of his errand, this was his voluntary
communication,—

“I suppose you know, ma’am, that Mr. Ferrars is married.”

Marianne gave a violent start, fixed her eyes upon Elinor, saw her
turning pale, and fell back in her chair in hysterics. Mrs. Dashwood,
whose eyes, as she answered the servant’s inquiry, had intuitively
taken the same direction, was shocked to perceive by Elinor’s
countenance how much she really suffered, and a moment afterwards,
alike distressed by Marianne’s situation, knew not on which child to
bestow her principal attention.

The servant, who saw only that Miss Marianne was taken ill, had sense
enough to call one of the maids, who, with Mrs. Dashwood’s assistance,
supported her into the other room. By that time, Marianne was rather
better, and her mother leaving her to the care of Margaret and the
maid, returned to Elinor, who, though still much disordered, had so far
recovered the use of her reason and voice as to be just beginning an
inquiry of Thomas, as to the source of his intelligence. Mrs. Dashwood
immediately took all that trouble on herself; and Elinor had the
benefit of the information without the exertion of seeking it.

“Who told you that Mr. Ferrars was married, Thomas?”

“I see Mr. Ferrars myself, ma’am, this morning in Exeter, and his lady
too, Miss Steele as was. They was stopping in a chaise at the door of
the New London Inn, as I went there with a message from Sally at the
Park to her brother, who is one of the post-boys. I happened to look up
as I went by the chaise, and so I see directly it was the youngest Miss
Steele; so I took off my hat, and she knew me and called to me, and
inquired after you, ma’am, and the young ladies, especially Miss
Marianne, and bid me I should give her compliments and Mr. Ferrars’s,
their best compliments and service, and how sorry they was they had not
time to come on and see you, but they was in a great hurry to go
forwards, for they was going further down for a little while, but
howsever, when they come back, they’d make sure to come and see you.”

“But did she tell you she was married, Thomas?”

“Yes, ma’am. She smiled, and said how she had changed her name since
she was in these parts. She was always a very affable and free-spoken
young lady, and very civil behaved. So, I made free to wish her joy.”

“Was Mr. Ferrars in the carriage with her?”

“Yes, ma’am, I just see him leaning back in it, but he did not look
up;—he never was a gentleman much for talking.”

Elinor’s heart could easily account for his not putting himself
forward; and Mrs. Dashwood probably found the same explanation.

“Was there no one else in the carriage?”

“No, ma’am, only they two.”

“Do you know where they came from?”

“They come straight from town, as Miss Lucy—Mrs. Ferrars told me.”

“And are they going farther westward?”

“Yes, ma’am—but not to bide long. They will soon be back again, and
then they’d be sure and call here.”

Mrs. Dashwood now looked at her daughter; but Elinor knew better than
to expect them. She recognised the whole of Lucy in the message, and
was very confident that Edward would never come near them. She observed
in a low voice, to her mother, that they were probably going down to
Mr. Pratt’s, near Plymouth.

Thomas’s intelligence seemed over. Elinor looked as if she wished to
hear more.

“Did you see them off, before you came away?”

“No, ma’am—the horses were just coming out, but I could not bide any
longer; I was afraid of being late.”

“Did Mrs. Ferrars look well?”

“Yes, ma’am, she said how she was very well; and to my mind she was
always a very handsome young lady—and she seemed vastly contented.”

Mrs. Dashwood could think of no other question, and Thomas and the
tablecloth, now alike needless, were soon afterwards dismissed.
Marianne had already sent to say, that she should eat nothing more.
Mrs. Dashwood’s and Elinor’s appetites were equally lost, and Margaret
might think herself very well off, that with so much uneasiness as both
her sisters had lately experienced, so much reason as they had often
had to be careless of their meals, she had never been obliged to go
without her dinner before.

When the dessert and the wine were arranged, and Mrs. Dashwood and
Elinor were left by themselves, they remained long together in a
similarity of thoughtfulness and silence. Mrs. Dashwood feared to
hazard any remark, and ventured not to offer consolation. She now found
that she had erred in relying on Elinor’s representation of herself;
and justly concluded that every thing had been expressly softened at
the time, to spare her from an increase of unhappiness, suffering as
she then had suffered for Marianne. She found that she had been misled
by the careful, the considerate attention of her daughter, to think the
attachment, which once she had so well understood, much slighter in
reality, than she had been wont to believe, or than it was now proved
to be. She feared that under this persuasion she had been unjust,
inattentive, nay, almost unkind, to her Elinor;—that Marianne’s
affliction, because more acknowledged, more immediately before her, had
too much engrossed her tenderness, and led her away to forget that in
Elinor she might have a daughter suffering almost as much, certainly
with less self-provocation, and greater fortitude.




CHAPTER XLVIII.


Elinor now found the difference between the expectation of an
unpleasant event, however certain the mind may be told to consider it,
and certainty itself. She now found, that in spite of herself, she had
always admitted a hope, while Edward remained single, that something
would occur to prevent his marrying Lucy; that some resolution of his
own, some mediation of friends, or some more eligible opportunity of
establishment for the lady, would arise to assist the happiness of all.
But he was now married; and she condemned her heart for the lurking
flattery, which so much heightened the pain of the intelligence.

That he should be married soon, before (as she imagined) he could be in
orders, and consequently before he could be in possession of the
living, surprised her a little at first. But she soon saw how likely it
was that Lucy, in her self-provident care, in her haste to secure him,
should overlook every thing but the risk of delay. They were married,
married in town, and now hastening down to her uncle’s. What had Edward
felt on being within four miles from Barton, on seeing her mother’s
servant, on hearing Lucy’s message!

They would soon, she supposed, be settled at Delaford.—Delaford,—that
place in which so much conspired to give her an interest; which she
wished to be acquainted with, and yet desired to avoid. She saw them in
an instant in their parsonage-house; saw in Lucy, the active,
contriving manager, uniting at once a desire of smart appearance with
the utmost frugality, and ashamed to be suspected of half her
economical practices;—pursuing her own interest in every thought,
courting the favour of Colonel Brandon, of Mrs. Jennings, and of every
wealthy friend. In Edward—she knew not what she saw, nor what she
wished to see;—happy or unhappy,—nothing pleased her; she turned away
her head from every sketch of him.

Elinor flattered herself that some one of their connections in London
would write to them to announce the event, and give farther
particulars,—but day after day passed off, and brought no letter, no
tidings. Though uncertain that any one were to blame, she found fault
with every absent friend. They were all thoughtless or indolent.

“When do you write to Colonel Brandon, ma’am?” was an inquiry which
sprung from the impatience of her mind to have something going on.

“I wrote to him, my love, last week, and rather expect to see, than to
hear from him again. I earnestly pressed his coming to us, and should
not be surprised to see him walk in today or tomorrow, or any day.”

This was gaining something, something to look forward to. Colonel
Brandon _must_ have some information to give.

Scarcely had she so determined it, when the figure of a man on
horseback drew her eyes to the window. He 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 _not_ Colonel Brandon;
neither his air, nor his height. Were it possible, she must say it must
be Edward. She looked again. He had just dismounted: she could not be
mistaken,—it _was_ Edward. She moved away and sat down. “He comes from
Mr. Pratt’s purposely to see us. I _will_ be calm; I _will_ be mistress
of myself.”

In a moment she perceived that the others were likewise aware of the
mistake. She saw her mother and Marianne change colour; saw them look
at herself, and whisper a few sentences to each other. She would have
given the world to be able to speak—and to make them understand that
she hoped no coolness, no slight, would appear in their behaviour to
him;—but she had no utterance, and was obliged to leave all to their
own discretion.

Not a syllable passed aloud. They all waited in silence for the
appearance of their visitor. His footsteps were heard along the gravel
path; in a moment he was in the passage, and in another he was before
them.

His countenance, as he entered the room, was not too happy, even for
Elinor. His complexion was white with agitation, and he looked as if
fearful of his reception, and conscious that he merited no kind one.
Mrs. Dashwood, however, conforming, as she trusted, to the wishes of
that daughter, by whom she then meant in the warmth of her heart to be
guided in every thing, met him with a look of forced complacency, gave
him her hand, and wished him joy.

He coloured, and stammered out an unintelligible reply. Elinor’s lips
had moved with her mother’s, and, when the moment of action was over,
she wished that she had shaken hands with him too. But it was then too
late, and with a countenance meaning to be open, she sat down again and
talked of the weather.

Marianne had retreated as much as possible out of sight, to conceal her
distress; and Margaret, understanding some part, but not the whole of
the case, thought it incumbent on her to be dignified, and therefore
took a seat as far from him as she could, and maintained a strict
silence.

When Elinor had ceased to rejoice in the dryness of the season, a very
awful pause took place. It was put an end to by Mrs. Dashwood, who felt
obliged to hope that he had left Mrs. Ferrars very well. In a hurried
manner, he replied in the affirmative.

Another pause.

Elinor resolving to exert herself, though fearing the sound of her own
voice, now said,

“Is Mrs. Ferrars at Longstaple?”

“At Longstaple!” he replied, with an air of surprise. “No, my mother is
in town.”

“I meant,” said Elinor, taking up some work from the table, “to enquire
for Mrs. _Edward_ Ferrars.”

She dared not look up;—but her mother and Marianne both turned their
eyes on him. He coloured, seemed perplexed, looked doubtingly, and,
after some hesitation, said,—

“Perhaps you mean—my brother—you mean Mrs.—Mrs. _Robert_ Ferrars.”

“Mrs. Robert Ferrars!” was repeated by Marianne and her mother in an
accent of the utmost amazement; and though Elinor could not speak, even
_her_ eyes were fixed on him with the same impatient wonder. He rose
from his seat, and walked to the window, apparently from not knowing
what to do; took up a pair of scissors that lay there, and while
spoiling both them and their sheath by cutting the latter to pieces as
he spoke, said, in a hurried voice,—

“Perhaps you do not know: you may not have heard that my brother is
lately married to—to the youngest—to Miss Lucy Steele.”

His words were echoed with unspeakable astonishment by all but Elinor,
who sat with her head leaning over her work, in a state of such
agitation as made her hardly know where she was.

“Yes,” said he, “they were married last week, and are now at Dawlish.”

Elinor could sit it no longer. She almost ran out of the room, and as
soon as the door was closed, burst into tears of joy, which at first
she thought would never cease. Edward, who had till then looked any
where, rather than at her, saw her hurry away, and perhaps saw—or even
heard, her emotion; for immediately afterwards he fell into a reverie,
which no remarks, no inquiries, no affectionate address of Mrs.
Dashwood could penetrate, and at last, without saying a word, quitted
the room, and walked out towards the village—leaving the others in the
greatest astonishment and perplexity on a change in his situation, so
wonderful and so sudden;—a perplexity which they had no means of
lessening but by their own conjectures.




CHAPTER XLIX.


Unaccountable, however, as the circumstances of his release might
appear to the whole family, it was certain that Edward was free; and to
what purpose that freedom would be employed was easily pre-determined
by all;—for after experiencing the blessings of _one_ imprudent
engagement, contracted without his mother’s consent, as he had already
done for more than four years, nothing less could be expected of him in
the failure of _that_, than the immediate contraction of another.

His errand at Barton, in fact, was a simple one. It was only to ask
Elinor to marry him;—and considering that he was not altogether
inexperienced in such a question, it might be strange that he should
feel so uncomfortable in the present case as he really did, so much in
need of encouragement and fresh air.

How soon he had walked himself into the proper resolution, however, how
soon an opportunity of exercising it occurred, in what manner he
expressed himself, and how he was received, need not be particularly
told. This only need be said;—that when they all sat down to table at
four o’clock, about three hours after his arrival, he had secured his
lady, engaged her mother’s consent, and was not only in the rapturous
profession of the lover, but, in the reality of reason and truth, one
of the happiest of men. His situation indeed was more than commonly
joyful. He had more than the ordinary triumph of accepted love to swell
his heart, and raise his spirits. He was released without any reproach
to himself, from an entanglement which had long formed his misery, from
a woman whom he had long ceased to love;—and elevated at once to that
security with another, which he must have thought of almost with
despair, as soon as he had learnt to consider it with desire. He was
brought, not from doubt or suspense, but from misery to happiness;—and
the change was openly spoken in such a genuine, flowing, grateful
cheerfulness, as his friends had never witnessed in him before.

His heart was now open to Elinor, all its weaknesses, all its errors
confessed, and his first boyish attachment to Lucy treated with all the
philosophic dignity of twenty-four.

“It was a foolish, idle inclination on my side,” said he, “the
consequence of ignorance of the world, and want of employment. Had my
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—at least I thought so
_then;_ and I had seen so little of other women, that I could make no
comparisons, and see no defects. Considering everything, therefore, I
hope, foolish as our engagement was, foolish as it has since in every
way been proved, it was not at the time an unnatural or an inexcusable
piece of folly.”

The change which a few hours had wrought in the minds and the happiness
of the Dashwoods, was such—so great—as promised them all, the
satisfaction of a sleepless night. Mrs. Dashwood, too happy to be
comfortable, knew not how to love Edward, nor praise Elinor enough, how
to be enough thankful for his release without wounding his delicacy,
nor how at once to give them leisure for unrestrained conversation
together, and yet enjoy, as she wished, the sight and society of both.

Marianne could speak _her_ happiness only by tears. Comparisons would
occur—regrets would arise; and her joy, though sincere as her love for
her sister, was of a kind to give her neither spirits nor language.

But Elinor—how are _her_ feelings to be described? From the moment of
learning that Lucy was married to another, that Edward was free, to the
moment of his justifying the hopes which had so instantly followed, she
was every thing by turns but tranquil. But when the second moment had
passed, when she found every doubt, every solicitude removed, compared
her situation with what so lately it had been,—saw him honourably
released from his former engagement,—saw him instantly profiting by the
release, to address herself and declare an affection as tender, as
constant as she had ever supposed it to be,—she was oppressed, she was
overcome by her own felicity; and happily disposed as is the human mind
to be easily familiarized with any change for the better, it required
several hours to give sedateness to her spirits, or any degree of
tranquillity to her heart.

Edward was now fixed at the cottage at least for a week;—for whatever
other claims might be made on him, it was impossible that less than a
week should be given up to the enjoyment of Elinor’s company, or
suffice to say half that was to be said of the past, the present, and
the future;—for though a very few hours spent in the hard labor of
incessant talking will despatch more subjects than can really be in
common between any two rational creatures, yet with lovers it is
different. Between _them_ no subject is finished, no communication is
even made, till it has been made at least twenty times over.

Lucy’s marriage, the unceasing and reasonable wonder among them all,
formed of course one of the earliest discussions of the lovers;—and
Elinor’s particular knowledge of each party made it appear to her in
every view, as one of the most extraordinary and unaccountable
circumstances she had ever heard. How they could be thrown together,
and by what attraction Robert could be drawn on to marry a girl, of
whose beauty she had herself heard him speak without any admiration,—a
girl too already engaged to his brother, and on whose account that
brother had been thrown off by his family—it was beyond her
comprehension to make out. To her own heart it was a delightful affair,
to her imagination it was even a ridiculous one, but to her reason, her
judgment, it was completely a puzzle.

Edward could only attempt an explanation by supposing, that, perhaps,
at first accidentally meeting, the vanity of the one had been so worked
on by the flattery of the other, as to lead by degrees to all the rest.
Elinor remembered what Robert had told her in Harley Street, of his
opinion of what his own mediation in his brother’s affairs might have
done, if applied to in time. She repeated it to Edward.

“_That_ was exactly like Robert,” was his immediate observation. “And
_that_,” he presently added, “might perhaps be in _his_ head when the
acquaintance between them first began. And Lucy perhaps at first might
think only of procuring his good offices in my favour. Other designs
might afterward arise.”

How long it had been carrying on between them, however, he was equally
at a loss with herself to make out; for at Oxford, where he had
remained for choice ever since his quitting London, he had had no means
of hearing of her but from herself, and her letters to the very last
were neither less frequent, nor less affectionate than usual. Not the
smallest suspicion, therefore, had ever occurred to prepare him for
what followed;—and when at last it burst on him in a letter from Lucy
herself, he had been for some time, he believed, half stupified between
the wonder, the horror, and the joy of such a deliverance. He put the
letter into Elinor’s hands.

“DEAR SIR,
    “Being very sure I have long lost your affections, I have thought
    myself at liberty to bestow my own on another, and have no doubt of
    being as happy with him as I once used to think I might be with
    you; but I scorn to accept a hand while the heart was another’s.
    Sincerely wish you happy in your choice, and it shall not be my
    fault if we are not always good friends, as our near relationship
    now makes proper. I can safely say I owe you no ill-will, and am
    sure you will be too generous to do us any ill offices. Your
    brother has gained my affections entirely, and as we could not live
    without one another, we are just returned from the altar, and are
    now on our way to Dawlish for a few weeks, which place your dear
    brother has great curiosity to see, but thought I would first
    trouble you with these few lines, and shall always remain,


“Your sincere well-wisher, friend, and sister,
“LUCY FERRARS.


“I have burnt all your letters, and will return your picture the first
opportunity. Please to destroy my scrawls—but the ring with my hair you
are very welcome to keep.”

Elinor read and returned it without any comment.

“I will not ask your opinion of it as a composition,” said Edward.—“For
worlds would not I have had a letter of hers seen by _you_ in former
days.—In a sister it is bad enough, but in a wife!—how I have blushed
over the pages of her writing!—and I believe I may say that since the
first half year of our foolish—business—this is the only letter I ever
received from her, of which the substance made me any amends for the
defect of the style.”

“However it may have come about,” said Elinor, after a pause,—“they are
certainly married. And your mother has brought on herself a most
appropriate punishment. The independence she settled on Robert, through
resentment against you, has put it in his power to make his own choice;
and she has actually been bribing one son with a thousand a-year, to do
the very deed which she disinherited the other for intending to do. She
will hardly be less hurt, I suppose, by Robert’s marrying Lucy, than
she would have been by your marrying her.”

“She will be more hurt by it, for Robert always was her favourite.—She
will be more hurt by it, and on the same principle will forgive him
much sooner.”

In what state the affair stood at present between them, Edward knew
not, for no communication with any of his family had yet been attempted
by him. He had quitted Oxford within four and twenty hours after Lucy’s
letter arrived, and with only one object before him, the nearest road
to Barton, had had no leisure to form any scheme of conduct, with which
that road did not hold the most intimate connection. He could do
nothing till he were assured of his fate with Miss Dashwood; and by his
rapidity in seeking _that_ fate, it is to be supposed, in spite of the
jealousy with which he had once thought of Colonel Brandon, in spite of
the modesty with which he rated his own deserts, and the politeness
with which he talked of his doubts, he did not, upon the whole, expect
a very cruel reception. It was his business, however, to say that he
_did_, and he said it very prettily. What he might say on the subject a
twelvemonth after, must be referred to the imagination of husbands and
wives.

That Lucy had certainly meant to deceive, to go off with a flourish of
malice against him in her message by Thomas, was perfectly clear to
Elinor; and Edward himself, now thoroughly enlightened on her
character, had no scruple in believing her capable of the utmost
meanness of wanton ill-nature. Though his eyes had been long opened,
even before his acquaintance with Elinor began, to her ignorance and a
want of liberality in some of her opinions—they had been equally
imputed, by him, to her want of education; and till her last letter
reached him, he had always believed her to be a well-disposed,
good-hearted girl, and thoroughly attached to himself. Nothing but such
a persuasion could have prevented his putting an end to an engagement,
which, long before the discovery of it laid him open to his mother’s
anger, had been a continual source of disquiet and regret to him.

“I thought it my duty,” said he, “independent of my feelings, to give
her the option of continuing the engagement or not, when I was
renounced by my mother, and stood to all appearance without a friend in
the world to assist me. In such a situation as that, where there seemed
nothing to tempt the avarice or the vanity of any living creature, how
could I suppose, when she so earnestly, so warmly insisted on sharing
my fate, whatever it might be, that any thing but the most
disinterested affection was her inducement? And even now, I cannot
comprehend on what motive she acted, or what fancied advantage it could
be to her, to be fettered to a man for whom she had not the smallest
regard, and who had only two thousand pounds in the world. She could
not foresee that Colonel Brandon would give me a living.”

“No; but she might suppose that something would occur in your favour;
that your own family might in time relent. And at any rate, she lost
nothing by continuing the engagement, for she has proved that it
fettered neither her inclination nor her actions. The connection was
certainly a respectable one, and probably gained her consideration
among her friends; and, if nothing more advantageous occurred, it would
be better for her to marry _you_ than be single.”

Edward was, of course, immediately convinced that nothing could have
been more natural than Lucy’s conduct, nor more self-evident than the
motive of it.

Elinor scolded him, harshly as ladies always scold the imprudence which
compliments themselves, for having spent so much time with them at
Norland, when he must have felt his own inconstancy.

“Your behaviour was certainly very wrong,” said she; “because—to say
nothing of my own conviction, our relations were all led away by it to
fancy and expect _what_, as you were _then_ situated, could never be.”

He could only plead an ignorance of his own heart, and a mistaken
confidence in the force of his engagement.

“I was simple enough to think, that because my _faith_ was plighted to
another, there could be no danger in my being with you; and that the
consciousness of my engagement was to keep my heart as safe and sacred
as my honour. I felt that I admired you, but I told myself it was only
friendship; and till I began to make comparisons between yourself and
Lucy, I did not know how far I was got. After that, I suppose, I _was_
wrong in remaining so much in Sussex, and the arguments with which I
reconciled myself to the expediency of it, were no better than
these:—The danger is my own; I am doing no injury to anybody but
myself.”

Elinor smiled, and shook her head.

Edward heard with pleasure of Colonel Brandon’s being expected at the
Cottage, as he really wished not only to be better acquainted with him,
but to have an opportunity of convincing him that he no longer resented
his giving him the living of Delaford—“Which, at present,” said he,
“after thanks so ungraciously delivered as mine were on the occasion,
he must think I have never forgiven him for offering.”

_Now_ he felt astonished himself that he had never yet been to the
place. But so little interest had he taken in the matter, that he owed
all his knowledge of the house, garden, and glebe, extent of the
parish, condition of the land, and rate of the tithes, to Elinor
herself, who had heard so much of it from Colonel Brandon, and heard it
with so much attention, as to be entirely mistress of the subject.

One question after this only remained undecided, between them, one
difficulty only was to be overcome. They were brought together by
mutual affection, with the warmest approbation of their real friends;
their intimate knowledge of each other seemed to make their happiness
certain—and they only wanted something to live upon. Edward had two
thousand pounds, and Elinor one, which, with Delaford living, was all
that they could call their own; for it was impossible that Mrs.
Dashwood should advance anything; and they were neither of them quite
enough in love to think that three hundred and fifty pounds a-year
would supply them with the comforts of life.

Edward was not entirely without hopes of some favourable change in his
mother towards him; and on _that_ he rested for the residue of their
income. But Elinor had no such dependence; for since Edward would still
be unable to marry Miss Morton, and his chusing herself had been spoken
of in Mrs. Ferrars’s flattering language as only a lesser evil than his
chusing Lucy Steele, she feared that Robert’s offence would serve no
other purpose than to enrich Fanny.

About four days after Edward’s arrival Colonel Brandon appeared, to
complete Mrs. Dashwood’s satisfaction, and to give her the dignity of
having, for the first time since her living at Barton, more company
with her than her house would hold. Edward was allowed to retain the
privilege of first comer, and Colonel Brandon therefore walked every
night to his old quarters at the Park; from whence he usually returned
in the morning, early enough to interrupt the lovers’ first tête-à-tête
before breakfast.

A three weeks’ residence at Delaford, where, in his evening hours at
least, he had little to do but to calculate the disproportion between
thirty-six and seventeen, brought him to Barton in a temper of mind
which needed all the improvement in Marianne’s looks, all the kindness
of her welcome, and all the encouragement of her mother’s language, to
make it cheerful. Among such friends, however, and such flattery, he
did revive. No rumour of Lucy’s marriage had yet reached him:—he knew
nothing of what had passed; and the first hours of his visit were
consequently spent in hearing and in wondering. Every thing was
explained to him by Mrs. Dashwood, and he found fresh reason to rejoice
in what he had done for Mr. Ferrars, since eventually it promoted the
interest of Elinor.

It would be needless to say, that the gentlemen advanced in the good
opinion of each other, as they advanced in each other’s acquaintance,
for it could not be otherwise. Their resemblance in good principles and
good sense, in disposition and manner of thinking, would probably have
been sufficient to unite them in friendship, without any other
attraction; but their being in love with two sisters, and two sisters
fond of each other, made that mutual regard inevitable and immediate,
which might otherwise have waited the effect of time and judgment.

The letters from town, which a few days before would have made every
nerve in Elinor’s body thrill with transport, now arrived to be read
with less emotion than mirth. Mrs. Jennings wrote to tell the wonderful
tale, to vent her honest indignation against the jilting girl, and pour
forth her compassion towards poor Mr. Edward, who, she was sure, had
quite doted upon the worthless hussy, and was now, by all accounts,
almost broken-hearted, at Oxford. “I do think,” she continued, “nothing
was ever carried on so sly; for it was but two days before Lucy called
and sat a couple of hours with me. Not a soul suspected anything of the
matter, not even Nancy, who, poor soul! came crying to me the day
after, in a great fright for fear of Mrs. Ferrars, as well as not
knowing how to get to Plymouth; for Lucy it seems borrowed all her
money before she went off to be married, on purpose we suppose to make
a show with, and poor Nancy had not seven shillings in the world; so I
was very glad to give her five guineas to take her down to Exeter,
where she thinks of staying three or four weeks with Mrs. Burgess, in
hopes, as I tell her, to fall in with the Doctor again. And I must say
that Lucy’s crossness not to take them along with them in the chaise is
worse than all. Poor Mr. Edward! I cannot get him out of my head, but
you must send for him to Barton, and Miss Marianne must try to comfort
him.”

Mr. Dashwood’s strains were more solemn. Mrs. Ferrars was the most
unfortunate of women—poor Fanny had suffered agonies of sensibility—and
he considered the existence of each, under such a blow, with grateful
wonder. Robert’s offence was unpardonable, but Lucy’s was infinitely
worse. Neither of them were ever again to be mentioned to Mrs. Ferrars;
and even, if she might hereafter be induced to forgive her son, his
wife should never be acknowledged as her daughter, nor be permitted to
appear in her presence. The secrecy with which everything had been
carried on between them, was rationally treated as enormously
heightening the crime, because, had any suspicion of it occurred to the
others, proper measures would have been taken to prevent the marriage;
and he called on Elinor to join with him in regretting that Lucy’s
engagement with Edward had not rather been fulfilled, than that she
should thus be the means of spreading misery farther in the family. He
thus continued:—

“Mrs. Ferrars has never yet mentioned Edward’s name, which does not
surprise us; but, to our great astonishment, not a line has been
received from him on the occasion. Perhaps, however, he is kept silent
by his fear of offending, and I shall, therefore, give him a hint, by a
line to Oxford, that his sister and I both think a letter of proper
submission from him, addressed perhaps to Fanny, and by her shown to
her mother, might not be taken amiss; for we all know the tenderness of
Mrs. Ferrars’s heart, and that she wishes for nothing so much as to be
on good terms with her children.”

This paragraph was of some importance to the prospects and conduct of
Edward. It determined him to attempt a reconciliation, though not
exactly in the manner pointed out by their brother and sister.

“A letter of proper submission!” repeated he; “would they have me beg
my mother’s pardon for Robert’s ingratitude to _her_, and breach of
honour to _me?_ I can make no submission. I am grown neither humble nor
penitent by what has passed. I am grown very happy; but that would not
interest. I know of no submission that _is_ proper for me to make.”

“You may certainly ask to be forgiven,” said Elinor, “because you have
offended;—and I should think you might _now_ venture so far as to
profess some concern for having ever formed the engagement which drew
on you your mother’s anger.”

He agreed that he might.

“And when she has forgiven you, perhaps a little humility may be
convenient while acknowledging a second engagement, almost as imprudent
in _her_ eyes as the first.”

He had nothing to urge against it, but still resisted the idea of a
letter of proper submission; and therefore, to make it easier to him,
as he declared a much greater willingness to make mean concessions by
word of mouth than on paper, it was resolved that, instead of writing
to Fanny, he should go to London, and personally intreat her good
offices in his favour. “And if they really _do_ interest themselves,”
said Marianne, in her new character of candour, “in bringing about a
reconciliation, I shall think that even John and Fanny are not entirely
without merit.”

After a visit on Colonel Brandon’s side of only three or four days, the
two gentlemen quitted Barton together. They were to go immediately to
Delaford, that Edward might have some personal knowledge of his future
home, and assist his patron and friend in deciding on what improvements
were needed to it; and from thence, after staying there a couple of
nights, he was to proceed on his journey to town.




CHAPTER L.


After a proper resistance on the part of Mrs. Ferrars, just so violent
and so steady as to preserve her from that reproach which she always
seemed fearful of incurring, the reproach of being too amiable, Edward
was admitted to her presence, and pronounced to be again her son.

Her family had of late been exceedingly fluctuating. For many years of
her life she had had two sons; but the crime and annihilation of Edward
a few weeks ago, had robbed her of one; the similar annihilation of
Robert had left her for a fortnight without any; and now, by the
resuscitation of Edward, she had one again.

In spite of his being allowed once more to live, however, he did not
feel the continuance of his existence secure, till he had revealed his
present engagement; for the publication of that circumstance, he
feared, might give a sudden turn to his constitution, and carry him off
as rapidly as before. With apprehensive caution therefore it was
revealed, and he was listened to with unexpected calmness. Mrs. Ferrars
at first reasonably endeavoured to dissuade him from marrying Miss
Dashwood, by every argument in her power;—told him, that in Miss Morton
he would have a woman of higher rank and larger fortune;—and enforced
the assertion, by observing that Miss Morton was the daughter of a
nobleman with thirty thousand pounds, while Miss Dashwood was only the
daughter of a private gentleman with no more than _three;_ but when she
found that, though perfectly admitting the truth of her representation,
he was by no means inclined to be guided by it, she judged it wisest,
from the experience of the past, to submit—and therefore, after such an
ungracious delay as she owed to her own dignity, and as served to
prevent every suspicion of good-will, she issued her decree of consent
to the marriage of Edward and Elinor.

What she would engage to do towards augmenting their income was next to
be considered; and here it plainly appeared, that though Edward was now
her only son, he was by no means her eldest; for while Robert was
inevitably endowed with a thousand pounds a-year, not the smallest
objection was made against Edward’s taking orders for the sake of two
hundred and fifty at the utmost; nor was anything promised either for
the present or in future, beyond the ten thousand pounds, which had
been given with Fanny.

It was as much, however, as was desired, and more than was expected, by
Edward and Elinor; and Mrs. Ferrars herself, by her shuffling excuses,
seemed the only person surprised at her not giving more.

With an income quite sufficient to their wants thus secured to them,
they had nothing to wait for after Edward was in possession of the
living, but the readiness of the house, to which Colonel Brandon, with
an eager desire for the accommodation of Elinor, was making
considerable improvements; and after waiting some time for their
completion, after experiencing, as usual, a thousand disappointments
and delays from the unaccountable dilatoriness of the workmen, Elinor,
as usual, broke through the first positive resolution of not marrying
till every thing was ready, and the ceremony took place in Barton
church early in the autumn.

The first month after their marriage was spent with their friend at the
Mansion-house; from whence they could superintend the progress of the
Parsonage, and direct every thing as they liked on the spot;—could
chuse papers, project shrubberies, and invent a sweep. Mrs. Jennings’s
prophecies, though rather jumbled together, were chiefly fulfilled; for
she was able to visit Edward and his wife in their Parsonage by
Michaelmas, and she found in Elinor and her husband, as she really
believed, one of the happiest couples in the world. They had in fact
nothing to wish for, but the marriage of Colonel Brandon and Marianne,
and rather better pasturage for their cows.

They were visited on their first settling by almost all their relations
and friends. Mrs. Ferrars came to inspect the happiness which she was
almost ashamed of having authorised; and even the Dashwoods were at the
expense of a journey from Sussex to do them honour.

“I will not say that I am disappointed, my dear sister,” said John, as
they were walking together one morning before the gates of Delaford
House, “_that_ would be saying too much, for certainly you have been
one of the most fortunate young women in the world, as it is. But, I
confess, it would give me great pleasure to call Colonel Brandon
brother. His property here, his place, his house, every thing is in
such respectable and excellent condition! And his woods,—I have not
seen such timber any where in Dorsetshire, as there is now standing in
Delaford Hanger! And though, perhaps, Marianne may not seem exactly the
person to attract him, yet I think it would altogether be advisable for
you to have them now frequently staying with you, for as Colonel
Brandon seems a great deal at home, nobody can tell what may happen;
for, when people are much thrown together, and see little of anybody
else,—and it will always be in your power to set her off to advantage,
and so forth. In short, you may as well give her a chance: you
understand me.”

But though Mrs. Ferrars _did_ come to see them, and always treated them
with the make-believe of decent affection, they were never insulted by
her real favour and preference. _That_ was due to the folly of Robert,
and the cunning of his wife; and it was earned by them before many
months had passed away. The selfish sagacity of the latter, which had
at first drawn Robert into the scrape, was the principal instrument of
his deliverance from it; for her respectful humility, assiduous
attentions, and endless flatteries, as soon as the smallest opening was
given for their exercise, reconciled Mrs. Ferrars to his choice, and
re-established him completely in her favour.

The whole of Lucy’s behaviour in the affair, and the prosperity which
crowned it, therefore, may be held forth as a most encouraging instance
of what an earnest, an unceasing attention to self-interest, however
its progress may be apparently obstructed, will do in securing every
advantage of fortune, with no other sacrifice than that of time and
conscience. When Robert first sought her acquaintance, and privately
visited her in Bartlett’s Buildings, it was only with the view imputed
to him by his brother. He merely meant to persuade her to give up the
engagement; and as there could be nothing to overcome but the affection
of both, he naturally expected that one or two interviews would settle
the matter. In that point, however, and that only, he erred; for though
Lucy soon gave him hopes that his eloquence would convince her in
_time_, another visit, another conversation, was always wanted to
produce this conviction. Some doubts always lingered in her mind when
they parted, which could only be removed by another half hour’s
discourse with himself. His attendance was by this means secured, and
the rest followed in course. Instead of talking of Edward, they came
gradually to talk only of Robert,—a subject on which he had always more
to say than on any other, and in which she soon betrayed an interest
even equal to his own; and in short, it became speedily evident to
both, that he had entirely supplanted his brother. He was proud of his
conquest, proud of tricking Edward, and very proud of marrying
privately without his mother’s consent. What immediately followed is
known. They passed some months in great happiness at Dawlish; for she
had many relations and old acquaintances to cut—and he drew several
plans for magnificent cottages;—and from thence returning to town,
procured the forgiveness of Mrs. Ferrars, by the simple expedient of
asking it, which, at Lucy’s instigation, was adopted. The forgiveness,
at first, indeed, as was reasonable, comprehended only Robert; and
Lucy, who had owed his mother no duty and therefore could have
transgressed none, still remained some weeks longer unpardoned. But
perseverance in humility of conduct and messages, in self-condemnation
for Robert’s offence, and gratitude for the unkindness she was treated
with, procured her in time the haughty notice which overcame her by its
graciousness, and led soon afterwards, by rapid degrees, to the highest
state of affection and influence. Lucy became as necessary to Mrs.
Ferrars, as either Robert or Fanny; and while Edward was never
cordially forgiven for having once intended to marry her, and Elinor,
though superior to her in fortune and birth, was spoken of as an
intruder, _she_ was in every thing considered, and always openly
acknowledged, to be a favourite child. They settled in town, received
very liberal assistance from Mrs. Ferrars, were on the best terms
imaginable with the Dashwoods; and setting aside the jealousies and
ill-will continually subsisting between Fanny and Lucy, in which their
husbands of course took a part, as well as the frequent domestic
disagreements between Robert and Lucy themselves, nothing could exceed
the harmony in which they all lived together.

What Edward had done to forfeit the right of eldest son, might have
puzzled many people to find out; and what Robert had done to succeed to
it, might have puzzled them still more. It was an arrangement, however,
justified in its effects, if not in its cause; for nothing ever
appeared in Robert’s style of living or of talking to give a suspicion
of his regretting the extent of his income, as either leaving his
brother too little, or bringing himself too much;—and if Edward might
be judged from the ready discharge of his duties in every particular,
from an increasing attachment to his wife and his home, and from the
regular cheerfulness of his spirits, he might be supposed no less
contented with his lot, no less free from every wish of an exchange.

Elinor’s marriage divided her as little from her family as could well
be contrived, without rendering the cottage at Barton entirely useless,
for her mother and sisters spent much more than half their time with
her. Mrs. Dashwood was acting on motives of policy as well as pleasure
in the frequency of her visits at Delaford; for her wish of bringing
Marianne and Colonel Brandon together was hardly less earnest, though
rather more liberal than what John had expressed. It was now her
darling object. Precious as was the company of her daughter to her, she
desired nothing so much as to give up its constant enjoyment to her
valued friend; and to see Marianne settled at the mansion-house was
equally the wish of Edward and Elinor. They each felt his sorrows, and
their own obligations, and Marianne, by general consent, was to be the
reward of all.

With such a confederacy against her—with a knowledge so intimate of his
goodness—with a conviction of his fond attachment to herself, which at
last, though long after it was observable to everybody else—burst on
her—what could she do?

Marianne Dashwood was born to an extraordinary fate. She was born to
discover the falsehood of her own opinions, and to counteract, by her
conduct, her most favourite maxims. She was born to overcome an
affection formed so late in life as at seventeen, and with no sentiment
superior to strong esteem and lively friendship, voluntarily to give
her hand to another!—and _that_ other, a man who had suffered no less
than herself under the event of a former attachment, whom, two years
before, she had considered too old to be married,—and who still sought
the constitutional safeguard of a flannel waistcoat!

But so it was. Instead of falling a sacrifice to an irresistible
passion, as once she had fondly flattered herself with
expecting,—instead of remaining even for ever with her mother, and
finding her only pleasures in retirement and study, as afterwards in
her more calm and sober judgment she had determined on,—she found
herself at nineteen, submitting to new attachments, entering on new
duties, placed in a new home, a wife, the mistress of a family, and the
patroness of a village.

Colonel Brandon was now as happy, as all those who best loved him,
believed he deserved to be;—in Marianne he was consoled for every past
affliction;—her regard and her society restored his mind to animation,
and his spirits to cheerfulness; and that Marianne found her own
happiness in forming his, was equally the persuasion and delight of
each observing friend. Marianne could never love by halves; and her
whole heart became, in time, as much devoted to her husband, as it had
once been to Willoughby.

Willoughby could not hear of her marriage without a pang; and his
punishment was soon afterwards complete in the voluntary forgiveness of
Mrs. Smith, who, by stating his marriage with a woman of character, as
the source of her clemency, gave him reason for believing that had he
behaved with honour towards Marianne, he might at once have been happy
and rich. That his repentance of misconduct, which thus brought its own
punishment, was sincere, need not be doubted;—nor that he long thought
of Colonel Brandon with envy, and of Marianne with regret. But that he
was for ever inconsolable, that he fled from society, or contracted an
habitual gloom of temper, or died of a broken heart, must not be
depended on—for he did neither. He lived to exert, and frequently to
enjoy himself. His wife was not always out of humour, nor his home
always uncomfortable; and in his breed of horses and dogs, and in
sporting of every kind, he found no inconsiderable degree of domestic
felicity.

For Marianne, however, in spite of his incivility in surviving her
loss, he always retained that decided regard which interested him in
every thing that befell her, and made her his secret standard of
perfection in woman; and many a rising beauty would be slighted by him
in after-days as bearing no comparison with Mrs. Brandon.

Mrs. Dashwood was prudent enough to remain at the cottage, without
attempting a removal to Delaford; and fortunately for Sir John and Mrs.
Jennings, when Marianne was taken from them, Margaret had reached an
age highly suitable for dancing, and not very ineligible for being
supposed to have a lover.

Between Barton and Delaford, there was that constant communication
which strong family affection would naturally dictate; and among the
merits and the happiness of Elinor and Marianne, let it not be ranked
as the least considerable, that though sisters, and living almost
within sight of each other, they could live without disagreement
between themselves, or producing coolness between their husbands.

THE END



