The Project Gutenberg eBook of Sense and Sensibility, by Jane Austen

Published：2026-08-01 09:59:13 Source: best kids ukuleles for 9 year olds under 100 dollars Author: Critical Thinking

Sense and best robot kits for 14 year olds under 25 dollarsSensibility

by Jane Austen

(1811)

Contents

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 toengage the general good opinion of their surrounding acquaintance. The lateowner of this estate was a single man, who lived to a very advanced age, andwho for many years of his life, had a constant companion and housekeeper in hissister. But her death, which happened ten years before his own, produced agreat alteration in his home; for to supply her loss, he invited and receivedinto his house the family of his nephew Mr. Henry Dashwood, the legal inheritorof the Norland estate, and the person to whom he intended to bequeath it. Inthe society of his nephew and niece, and their children, the oldGentleman’s days were comfortably spent. His attachment to them allincreased. The constant attention of Mr. and Mrs. Henry Dashwood to his wishes,which proceeded not merely from interest, but from goodness of heart, gave himevery degree of solid comfort which his age could receive; and the cheerfulnessof 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 providedfor by the fortune of his mother, which had been large, and half of whichdevolved on him on his coming of age. By his own marriage, likewise, whichhappened soon afterwards, he added to his wealth. To him therefore thesuccession to the Norland estate was not so really important as to his sisters;for their fortune, independent of what might arise to them from theirfather’s inheriting that property, could be but small. Their mother hadnothing, and their father only seven thousand pounds in his own disposal; forthe remaining moiety of his first wife’s fortune was also secured to herchild, 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 soungrateful, as to leave his estate from his nephew;—but he left it to himon such terms as destroyed half the value of the bequest. Mr. Dashwood hadwished for it more for the sake of his wife and daughters than for himself orhis son;—but to his son, and his son’s son, a child of four yearsold, it was secured, in such a way, as to leave to himself no power ofproviding for those who were most dear to him, and who most needed a provisionby any charge on the estate, or by any sale of its valuable woods. The wholewas tied up for the benefit of this child, who, in occasional visits with hisfather 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 threeyears 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 ofall the attention which, for years, he had received from his niece and herdaughters. He meant not to be unkind, however, and, as a mark of his affectionfor the three girls, he left them a thousand pounds a-piece.

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

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

Mr. John Dashwood had not the strong feelings of the rest of the family; but hewas affected by a recommendation of such a nature at such a time, and hepromised to do every thing in his power to make them comfortable. His fatherwas rendered easy by such an assurance, and Mr. John Dashwood had then leisureto 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 andrather selfish is to be ill-disposed: but he was, in general, well respected;for he conducted himself with propriety in the discharge of his ordinaryduties. Had he married a more amiable woman, he might have been made still morerespectable 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. JohnDashwood was a strong caricature of himself;—more narrow-minded andselfish.

When he gave his promise to his father, he meditated within himself to increasethe fortunes of his sisters by the present of a thousand pounds a-piece. Hethen 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 ownmother’s fortune, warmed his heart, and made him feel capable ofgenerosity. “Yes, he would give them three thousand pounds: it would beliberal and handsome! It would be enough to make them completely easy. Threethousand pounds! he could spare so considerable a sum with littleinconvenience.” He thought of it all day long, and for many dayssuccessively, and he did not repent.

No sooner was his father’s funeral over, than Mrs. John Dashwood, withoutsending any notice of her intention to her mother-in-law, arrived with herchild and their attendants. No one could dispute her right to come; the housewas her husband’s from the moment of his father’s decease; but theindelicacy of her conduct was so much the greater, and to a woman in Mrs.Dashwood’s situation, with only common feelings, must have been highlyunpleasing;—but in hermind there was a sense of honor so keen, agenerosity so romantic, that any offence of the kind, by whomsoever given orreceived, was to her a source of immovable disgust. Mrs. John Dashwood hadnever been a favourite with any of her husband’s family; but she had hadno opportunity, till the present, of showing them with how little attention tothe comfort of other people she could act when occasion required it.

So acutely did Mrs. Dashwood feel this ungracious behaviour, and so earnestlydid 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 eldestgirl induced her first to reflect on the propriety of going, and her own tenderlove for all her three children determined her afterwards to stay, and fortheir sakes avoid a breach with their brother.

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER II.

Mrs. John Dashwood now installed herself mistress of Norland; and her motherand 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 withas much kindness as he could feel towards anybody beyond himself, his wife, andtheir child. He really pressed them, with some earnestness, to consider Norlandas their home; and, as no plan appeared so eligible to Mrs. Dashwood asremaining there till she could accommodate herself with a house in theneighbourhood, his invitation was accepted.

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

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

“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 hewas light-headed at the time. Had he been in his right senses, he could nothave thought of such a thing as begging you to give away half your fortune fromyour own child.”

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

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

“Why, to be sure,” said her husband, very gravely, “thatwould make great difference. The time may come when Harry will regret that solarge 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 werediminished one half.—Five hundred pounds would be a prodigious increaseto their fortunes!”

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

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

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

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

“To be sure it is; and, indeed, it strikes me that they can want noaddition at all. They will have ten thousand pounds divided amongst them. Ifthey marry, they will be sure of doing well, and if they do not, they may alllive very comfortably together on the interest of ten thousand pounds.”

“That is very true, and, therefore, I do not know whether, upon thewhole, it would not be more advisable to do something for their mother whileshe lives, rather than for them—something of the annuity kind Imean.—My sisters would feel the good effects of it as well as herself. Ahundred 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 withfifteen hundred pounds at once. But, then, if Mrs. Dashwood should live fifteenyears we shall be completely taken in.”

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

“Certainly not; but if you observe, people always live for ever whenthere is an annuity to be paid them; and she is very stout and healthy, andhardly forty. An annuity is a very serious business; it comes over and overevery year, and there is no getting rid of it. You are not aware of what youare doing. I have known a great deal of the trouble of annuities; for my motherwas clogged with the payment of three to old superannuated servants by myfather’s will, and it is amazing how disagreeable she found it. Twiceevery year these annuities were to be paid; and then there was the trouble ofgetting it to them; and then one of them was said to have died, and afterwardsit turned out to be no such thing. My mother was quite sick of it. Her incomewas not her own, she said, with such perpetual claims on it; and it was themore unkind in my father, because, otherwise, the money would have beenentirely at my mother’s disposal, without any restriction whatever. Ithas given me such an abhorrence of annuities, that I am sure I would not pinmyself 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’sfortune, as your mother justly says, is notone’s own. To be tieddown to the regular payment of such a sum, on every rent day, is by no meansdesirable: it takes away one’s independence.”

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

“I believe you are right, my love; it will be better that there should beno annuity in the case; whatever I may give them occasionally will be of fargreater assistance than a yearly allowance, because they would only enlargetheir style of living if they felt sure of a larger income, and would not besixpence the richer for it at the end of the year. It will certainly be muchthe best way. A present of fifty pounds, now and then, will prevent their everbeing distressed for money, and will, I think, be amply discharging my promiseto my father.”

“To be sure it will. Indeed, to say the truth, I am convinced withinmyself that your father had no idea of your giving them any money at all. Theassistance he thought of, I dare say, was only such as might be reasonablyexpected of you; for instance, such as looking out for a comfortable smallhouse for them, helping them to move their things, and sending them presents offish and game, and so forth, whenever they are in season. I’ll lay mylife that he meant nothing farther; indeed, it would be very strange andunreasonable if he did. Do but consider, my dear Mr. Dashwood, how excessivelycomfortable your mother-in-law and her daughters may live on the interest ofseven thousand pounds, besides the thousand pounds belonging to each of thegirls, which brings them in fifty pounds a year a-piece, and, of course, theywill pay their mother for their board out of it. Altogether, they will havefive hundred a-year amongst them, and what on earth can four women want formore than that?—They will live so cheap! Their housekeeping will benothing 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 conceivehow comfortable they will be! Five hundred a year! I am sure I cannot imaginehow they will spend half of it; and as to your giving them more, it is quiteabsurd to think of it. They will be much more able to give yousomething.”

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

“Certainly,” returned Mrs. John Dashwood. “But, however,onething must be considered. When your father and mother moved toNorland, though the furniture of Stanhill was sold, all the china, plate, andlinen was saved, and is now left to your mother. Her house will therefore bealmost 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 ownstock here.”

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

This argument was irresistible. It gave to his intentions whatever of decisionwas wanting before; and he finally resolved, that it would be absolutelyunnecessary, if not highly indecorous, to do more for the widow and children ofhis 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 disinclinationto move when the sight of every well known spot ceased to raise the violentemotion 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 itsaffliction by melancholy remembrances, she was impatient to be gone, andindefatigable in her inquiries for a suitable dwelling in the neighbourhood ofNorland; for to remove far from that beloved spot was impossible. But she couldhear of no situation that at once answered her notions of comfort and ease, andsuited the prudence of her eldest daughter, whose steadier judgment rejectedseveral houses as too large for their income, which her mother would haveapproved.

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

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

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

Some mothers might have encouraged the intimacy from motives of interest, forEdward Ferrars was the eldest son of a man who had died very rich; and somemight 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. Dashwoodwas alike uninfluenced by either consideration. It was enough for her that heappeared to be amiable, that he loved her daughter, and that Elinor returnedthe partiality. It was contrary to every doctrine of hers that difference offortune should keep any couple asunder who were attracted by resemblance ofdisposition; and that Elinor’s merit should not be acknowledged by everyone who knew her, was to her comprehension impossible.

Edward Ferrars was not recommended to their good opinion by any peculiar gracesof person or address. He was not handsome, and his manners required intimacy tomake them pleasing. He was too diffident to do justice to himself; but when hisnatural shyness was overcome, his behaviour gave every indication of an open,affectionate heart. His understanding was good, and his education had given itsolid improvement. But he was neither fitted by abilities nor disposition toanswer the wishes of his mother and sister, who longed to see himdistinguished—as—they hardly knew what. They wanted him to make afine figure in the world in some manner or other. His mother wished to interesthim in political concerns, to get him into parliament, or to see him connectedwith 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 Edwardhad no turn for great men or barouches. All his wishes centered in domesticcomfort and the quiet of private life. Fortunately he had a younger brother whowas more promising.

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

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

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

“Like him!” replied her mother with a smile. “I feel nosentiment 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 wereattaching, and soon banished his reserve. She speedily comprehended all hismerits; the persuasion of his regard for Elinor perhaps assisted herpenetration; but she really felt assured of his worth: and even that quietnessof manner, which militated against all her established ideas of what a youngman’s address ought to be, was no longer uninteresting when she knew hisheart to be warm and his temper affectionate.

No sooner did she perceive any symptom of love in his behaviour to Elinor, thanshe considered their serious attachment as certain, and looked forward to theirmarriage 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 shewillbe happy.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER IV.

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

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

Marianne was afraid of offending, and said no more on the subject; but the kindof approbation which Elinor described as excited in him by the drawings ofother 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 considerhim as deficient in general taste. Indeed, I think I may say that you cannot,for your behaviour to him is perfectly cordial, and if thatwere youropinion, I am sure you could never be civil to him.”

Marianne hardly knew what to say. She would not wound the feelings of hersister 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 thingequal to your sense of his merits. I have not had so many opportunities ofestimating 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 andsense. I think him every thing that is worthy and amiable.”

“I am sure,” replied Elinor, with a smile, “that his dearestfriends could not be dissatisfied with such commendation as that. I do notperceive 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 onecan, I think, be in doubt, who has seen him often enough to engage him inunreserved conversation. The excellence of his understanding and his principlescan be concealed only by that shyness which too often keeps him silent. Youknow enough of him to do justice to his solid worth. But of his minuterpropensities, as you call them you have from peculiar circumstances been keptmore ignorant than myself. He and I have been at times thrown a good dealtogether, while you have been wholly engrossed on the most affectionateprinciple by my mother. I have seen a great deal of him, have studied hissentiments and heard his opinion on subjects of literature and taste; and, uponthe whole, I venture to pronounce that his mind is well-informed, enjoyment ofbooks exceedingly great, his imagination lively, his observation just andcorrect, and his taste delicate and pure. His abilities in every respectimprove as much upon acquaintance as his manners and person. At first sight,his address is certainly not striking; and his person can hardly be calledhandsome, till the expression of his eyes, which are uncommonly good, and thegeneral sweetness of his countenance, is perceived. At present, I know him sowell, 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 youtell 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 beenbetrayed into, in speaking of him. She felt that Edward stood very high in heropinion. She believed the regard to be mutual; but she required greatercertainty of it to make Marianne’s conviction of their attachmentagreeable to her. She knew that what Marianne and her mother conjectured onemoment, they believed the next—that with them, to wish was to hope, andto hope was to expect. She tried to explain the real state of the case to hersister.

“I do not attempt to deny,” said she, “that I think veryhighly 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 roomthis moment.”

Elinor could not help laughing. “Excuse me,” said she; “andbe assured that I meant no offence to you, by speaking, in so quiet a way, ofmy own feelings. Believe them to be stronger than I have declared; believethem, in short, to be such as his merit, and the suspicion—the hope ofhis affection for me may warrant, without imprudence or folly. But farther thanthis you must notbelieve. I am by no means assured of his regard forme. There are moments when the extent of it seems doubtful; and till hissentiments are fully known, you cannot wonder at my wishing to avoid anyencouragement 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 thereare other points to be considered besides his inclination. He is very far frombeing independent. What his mother really is we cannot know; but, fromFanny’s occasional mention of her conduct and opinions, we have neverbeen disposed to think her amiable; and I am very much mistaken if Edward isnot himself aware that there would be many difficulties in his way, if he wereto wish to marry a woman who had not either a great fortune or highrank.”

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

“And you really are not engaged to him!” said she. “Yet itcertainly soon will happen. But two advantages will proceed from this delay.Ishall not lose you so soon, and Edward will have greater opportunityof improving that natural taste for your favourite pursuit which must be soindispensably necessary to your future felicity. Oh! if he should be so farstimulated by your genius as to learn to draw himself, how delightful it wouldbe!”

Elinor had given her real opinion to her sister. She could not consider herpartiality 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 denoteindifference, 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 notbe likely to produce that dejection of mind which frequently attended him. Amore reasonable cause might be found in the dependent situation which forbadethe indulgence of his affection. She knew that his mother neither behaved tohim so as to make his home comfortable at present, nor to give him anyassurance that he might form a home for himself, without strictly attending toher views for his aggrandizement. With such a knowledge as this, it wasimpossible for Elinor to feel easy on the subject. She was far from dependingon that result of his preference of her, which her mother and sister stillconsidered as certain. Nay, the longer they were together the more doubtfulseemed the nature of his regard; and sometimes, for a few painful minutes, shebelieved it to be no more than friendship.

But, whatever might really be its limits, it was enough, when perceived by hissister, to make her uneasy, and at the same time, (which was still morecommon,) to make her uncivil. She took the first opportunity of affronting hermother-in-law on the occasion, talking to her so expressively of herbrother’s great expectations, of Mrs. Ferrars’s resolution thatboth her sons should marry well, and of the danger attending any young womanwho attempted to draw him in;that Mrs. Dashwood could neither pretendto be unconscious, nor endeavor to be calm. She gave her an answer which markedher contempt, and instantly left the room, resolving that, whatever might bethe inconvenience or expense of so sudden a removal, her beloved Elinor shouldnot 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 smallhouse, on very easy terms, belonging to a relation of her own, a gentleman ofconsequence and property in Devonshire. The letter was from this gentlemanhimself, and written in the true spirit of friendly accommodation. Heunderstood that she was in need of a dwelling; and though the house he nowoffered her was merely a cottage, he assured her that everything should be doneto it which she might think necessary, if the situation pleased her. Heearnestly pressed her, after giving the particulars of the house and garden, tocome with her daughters to Barton Park, the place of his own residence, fromwhence she might judge, herself, whether Barton Cottage, for the houses were inthe same parish, could, by any alteration, be made comfortable to her. Heseemed really anxious to accommodate them and the whole of his letter waswritten in so friendly a style as could not fail of giving pleasure to hiscousin; more especially at a moment when she was suffering under the cold andunfeeling behaviour of her nearer connections. She needed no time fordeliberation or inquiry. Her resolution was formed as she read. The situationof Barton, in a county so far distant from Sussex as Devonshire, which, but afew hours before, would have been a sufficient objection to outweigh everypossible advantage belonging to the place, was now its first recommendation. Toquit the neighbourhood of Norland was no longer an evil; it was an object ofdesire; it was a blessing, in comparison of the misery of continuing herdaughter-in-law’s guest; and to remove for ever from that beloved placewould be less painful than to inhabit or visit it while such a woman was itsmistress. She instantly wrote Sir John Middleton her acknowledgment of hiskindness, and her acceptance of his proposal; and then hastened to show bothletters to her daughters, that she might be secure of their approbation beforeher answer were sent.

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

CHAPTER V.

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

“It is but a cottage,” she continued, “but I hope to see manyof my friends in it. A room or two can easily be added; and if my friends findno difficulty in travelling so far to see me, I am sure I will find none inaccommodating them.”

She concluded with a very kind invitation to Mr. and Mrs. John Dashwood tovisit 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 onremaining at Norland no longer than was unavoidable, it had not produced thesmallest effect on her in that point to which it principally tended. Toseparate Edward and Elinor was as far from being her object as ever; and shewished 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 wasthat she had taken a house at such a distance from Norland as to prevent hisbeing of any service to her in removing her furniture. He really feltconscientiously vexed on the occasion; for the very exertion to which he hadlimited the performance of his promise to his father was by this arrangementrendered impracticable.—The furniture was all sent around by water. Itchiefly consisted of household linen, plate, china, and books, with a handsomepianoforte of Marianne’s. Mrs. John Dashwood saw the packages depart witha sigh: she could not help feeling it hard that as Mrs. Dashwood’s incomewould be so trifling in comparison with their own, she should have any handsomearticle of furniture.

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

The man and one of the maids were sent off immediately into Devonshire, toprepare the house for their mistress’s arrival; for as Lady Middleton wasentirely unknown to Mrs. Dashwood, she preferred going directly to the cottageto being a visitor at Barton Park; and she relied so undoubtingly on SirJohn’s description of the house, as to feel no curiosity to examine itherself till she entered it as her own. Her eagerness to be gone from Norlandwas preserved from diminution by the evident satisfaction of herdaughter-in-law in the prospect of her removal; a satisfaction which was butfeebly attempted to be concealed under a cold invitation to her to defer herdeparture. Now was the time when her son-in-law’s promise to his fathermight with particular propriety be fulfilled. Since he had neglected to do iton first coming to the estate, their quitting his house might be looked on asthe most suitable period for its accomplishment. But Mrs. Dashwood beganshortly to give over every hope of the kind, and to be convinced, from thegeneral drift of his discourse, that his assistance extended no farther thantheir maintenance for six months at Norland. He so frequently talked of theincreasing expenses of housekeeping, and of the perpetual demands upon hispurse, which a man of any consequence in the world was beyond calculationexposed to, that he seemed rather to stand in need of more money himself thanto have any design of giving money away.

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

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

CHAPTER VI.

The first part of their journey was performed in too melancholy a dispositionto be otherwise than tedious and unpleasant. But as they drew towards the endof it, their interest in the appearance of a country which they were to inhabitovercame their dejection, and a view of Barton Valley as they entered it gavethem cheerfulness. It was a pleasant fertile spot, well wooded, and rich inpasture. After winding along it for more than a mile, they reached their ownhouse. A small green court was the whole of its demesne in front; and a neatwicket gate admitted them into it.

As a house, Barton Cottage, though small, was comfortable and compact; but as acottage it was defective, for the building was regular, the roof was tiled, thewindow shutters were not painted green, nor were the walls covered withhoneysuckles. A narrow passage led directly through the house into the gardenbehind. On each side of the entrance was a sitting room, about sixteen feetsquare; and beyond them were the offices and the stairs. Four bed-rooms and twogarrets formed the rest of the house. It had not been built many years and wasin good repair. In comparison of Norland, it was poor and smallindeed!—but the tears which recollection called forth as they entered thehouse were soon dried away. They were cheered by the joy of the servants ontheir arrival, and each for the sake of the others resolved to appear happy. Itwas very early in September; the season was fine, and from first seeing theplace under the advantage of good weather, they received an impression in itsfavour which was of material service in recommending it to their lastingapprobation.

The situation of the house was good. High hills rose immediately behind, and atno great distance on each side; some of which were open downs, the otherscultivated 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 wasmore extensive; it commanded the whole of the valley, and reached into thecountry beyond. The hills which surrounded the cottage terminated the valley inthat direction; under another name, and in another course, it branched outagain between two of the steepest of them.

With the size and furniture of the house Mrs. Dashwood was upon the whole wellsatisfied; for though her former style of life rendered many additions to thelatter indispensable, yet to add and improve was a delight to her; and she hadat this time ready money enough to supply all that was wanted of greaterelegance to the apartments. “As for the house itself, to be sure,”said she, “it is too small for our family, but we will make ourselvestolerably comfortable for the present, as it is too late in the year forimprovements. Perhaps in the spring, if I have plenty of money, as I dare say Ishall, we may think about building. These parlors are both too small for suchparties of our friends as I hope to see often collected here; and I have somethoughts of throwing the passage into one of them with perhaps a part of theother, and so leave the remainder of that other for an entrance; this, with anew 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 difficultmatter to widen them. I shall see how much I am before-hand with the world inthe spring, and we will plan our improvements accordingly.”

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

In such employments as these they were interrupted soon after breakfast thenext day by the entrance of their landlord, who called to welcome them toBarton, and to offer them every accommodation from his own house and garden inwhich theirs might at present be deficient. Sir John Middleton was a goodlooking man about forty. He had formerly visited at Stanhill, but it was toolong for his young cousins to remember him. His countenance was thoroughlygood-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 bean object of real solicitude to him. He said much of his earnest desire oftheir living in the most sociable terms with his family, and pressed them socordially to dine at Barton Park every day till they were better settled athome, that, though his entreaties were carried to a point of perseverancebeyond civility, they could not give offence. His kindness was not confined towords; for within an hour after he left them, a large basket full of gardenstuff and fruit arrived from the park, which was followed before the end of theday by a present of game. He insisted, moreover, on conveying all their lettersto and from the post for them, and would not be denied the satisfaction ofsending them his newspaper every day.

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

They were, of course, very anxious to see a person on whom so much of theircomfort at Barton must depend; and the elegance of her appearance wasfavourable to their wishes. Lady Middleton was not more than six or seven andtwenty; her face was handsome, her figure tall and striking, and her addressgraceful. 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 hadnothing to say for herself beyond the most common-place inquiry or remark.

Conversation however was not wanted, for Sir John was very chatty, and LadyMiddleton had taken the wise precaution of bringing with her their eldestchild, a fine little boy about six years old, by which means there was onesubject always to be recurred to by the ladies in case of extremity, for theyhad to enquire his name and age, admire his beauty, and ask him questions whichhis mother answered for him, while he hung about her and held down his head, tothe great surprise of her ladyship, who wondered at his being so shy beforecompany, as he could make noise enough at home. On every formal visit a childought to be of the party, by way of provision for discourse. In the presentcase it took up ten minutes to determine whether the boy were most like hisfather or mother, and in what particular he resembled either, for of courseevery body differed, and every body was astonished at the opinion of theothers.

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

CHAPTER VII.

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

Lady Middleton piqued herself upon the elegance of her table, and of all herdomestic arrangements; and from this kind of vanity was her greatest enjoymentin any of their parties. But Sir John’s satisfaction in society was muchmore real; he delighted in collecting about him more young people than hishouse would hold, and the noisier they were the better was he pleased. He was ablessing to all the juvenile part of the neighbourhood, for in summer he wasfor ever forming parties to eat cold ham and chicken out of doors, and inwinter his private balls were numerous enough for any young lady who was notsuffering 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 nowprocured for his cottage at Barton. The Miss Dashwoods were young, pretty, andunaffected. It was enough to secure his good opinion; for to be unaffected wasall that a pretty girl could want to make her mind as captivating as herperson. The friendliness of his disposition made him happy in accommodatingthose, whose situation might be considered, in comparison with the past, asunfortunate. In showing kindness to his cousins therefore he had the realsatisfaction of a good heart; and in settling a family of females only in hiscottage, he had all the satisfaction of a sportsman; for a sportsman, though heesteems only those of his sex who are sportsmen likewise, is not often desirousof encouraging their taste by admitting them to a residence within his ownmanor.

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 attendedthem to the drawing room repeated to the young ladies the concern which thesame subject had drawn from him the day before, at being unable to get anysmart young men to meet them. They would see, he said, only one gentleman therebesides himself; a particular friend who was staying at the park, but who wasneither very young nor very gay. He hoped they would all excuse the smallnessof the party, and could assure them it should never happen so again. He hadbeen to several families that morning in hopes of procuring some addition totheir number, but it was moonlight and every body was full of engagements.Luckily Lady Middleton’s mother had arrived at Barton within the lasthour, and as she was a very cheerful agreeable woman, he hoped the young ladieswould not find it so very dull as they might imagine. The young ladies, as wellas their mother, were perfectly satisfied with having two entire strangers ofthe 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 manywitty things on the subject of lovers and husbands; hoped they had not lefttheir hearts behind them in Sussex, and pretended to see them blush whetherthey did or not. Marianne was vexed at it for her sister’s sake, andturned her eyes towards Elinor to see how she bore these attacks, with anearnestness which gave Elinor far more pain than could arise from suchcommon-place raillery as Mrs. Jennings’s.

Colonel Brandon, the friend of Sir John, seemed no more adapted by resemblanceof 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. Hisappearance however was not unpleasing, in spite of his being in the opinion ofMarianne and Margaret an absolute old bachelor, for he was on the wrong side offive and thirty; but though his face was not handsome, his countenance wassensible, and his address was particularly gentlemanlike.

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

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

Marianne’s performance was highly applauded. Sir John was loud in hisadmiration at the end of every song, and as loud in his conversation with theothers while every song lasted. Lady Middleton frequently called him to order,wondered how any one’s attention could be diverted from music for amoment, and asked Marianne to sing a particular song which Marianne had justfinished. Colonel Brandon alone, of all the party, heard her without being inraptures. He paid her only the compliment of attention; and she felt a respectfor him on the occasion, which the others had reasonably forfeited by theirshameless want of taste. His pleasure in music, though it amounted not to thatecstatic delight which alone could sympathize with her own, was estimable whencontrasted against the horrible insensibility of the others; and she wasreasonable enough to allow that a man of five and thirty might well haveoutlived all acuteness of feeling and every exquisite power of enjoyment. Shewas perfectly disposed to make every allowance for the colonel’s advancedstate 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 nowtherefore nothing to do but to marry all the rest of the world. In thepromotion of this object she was zealously active, as far as her abilityreached; and missed no opportunity of projecting weddings among all the youngpeople of her acquaintance. She was remarkably quick in the discovery ofattachments, and had enjoyed the advantage of raising the blushes and thevanity 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 Bartondecisively to pronounce that Colonel Brandon was very much in love withMarianne Dashwood. She rather suspected it to be so, on the very first eveningof their being together, from his listening so attentively while she sang tothem; and when the visit was returned by the Middletons’ dining at thecottage, 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, forhewas rich, and shewas handsome. Mrs. Jennings had been anxiousto see Colonel Brandon well married, ever since her connection with Sir Johnfirst brought him to her knowledge; and she was always anxious to get a goodhusband for every pretty girl.

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

Mrs. Dashwood, who could not think a man five years younger than herself, soexceedingly ancient as he appeared to the youthful fancy of her daughter,ventured to clear Mrs. Jennings from the probability of wishing to throwridicule 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 iscertainly younger than Mrs. Jennings, but he is old enough to be myfather; and if he were ever animated enough to be in love, must have longoutlived every sensation of the kind. It is too ridiculous! When is a man to besafe from such wit, if age and infirmity will not protect him?”

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

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

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

“Mama, you are not doing me justice. I know very well that ColonelBrandon is not old enough to make his friends yet apprehensive of losing him inthe course of nature. He may live twenty years longer. But thirty-five hasnothing to do with matrimony.”

“Perhaps,” said Elinor, “thirty-five and seventeen had betternot have any thing to do with matrimony together. But if there should by anychance happen to be a woman who is single at seven and twenty, I should notthink Colonel Brandon’s being thirty-five any objection to his marryingher.”

“A woman of seven and twenty,” said Marianne, after pausing amoment, “can never hope to feel or inspire affection again, and if herhome be uncomfortable, or her fortune small, I can suppose that she might bringherself to submit to the offices of a nurse, for the sake of the provision andsecurity of a wife. In his marrying such a woman therefore there would benothing unsuitable. It would be a compact of convenience, and the world wouldbe satisfied. In my eyes it would be no marriage at all, but that would benothing. To me it would seem only a commercial exchange, in which each wishedto be benefited at the expense of the other.”

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

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

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

Soon after this, upon Elinor’s leaving the room, “Mama,” saidMarianne, “I have an alarm on the subject of illness which I cannotconceal from you. I am sure Edward Ferrars is not well. We have now been herealmost a fortnight, and yet he does not come. Nothing but real indispositioncould occasion this extraordinary delay. What else can detain him atNorland?”

“Had you any idea of his coming so soon?” said Mrs. Dashwood.“Ihad none. On the contrary, if I have felt any anxiety at all onthe subject, it has been in recollecting that he sometimes showed a want ofpleasure and readiness in accepting my invitation, when I talked of his comingto 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 yesterdayof getting a new grate for the spare bedchamber, she observed that there was noimmediate hurry for it, as it was not likely that the room would be wanted forsome time.”

“How strange this is! what can be the meaning of it! But the whole oftheir behaviour to each other has been unaccountable! How cold, how composedwere their last adieus! How languid their conversation the last evening oftheir being together! In Edward’s farewell there was no distinctionbetween Elinor and me: it was the good wishes of an affectionate brother toboth. Twice did I leave them purposely together in the course of the lastmorning, and each time did he most unaccountably follow me out of the room. AndElinor, in quitting Norland and Edward, cried not as I did. Even now herself-command is invariable. When is she dejected or melancholy? When does shetry 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 nowbecome familiar, and the ordinary pursuits which had given to Norland half itscharms were engaged in again with far greater enjoyment than Norland had beenable to afford, since the loss of their father. Sir John Middleton, who calledon them every day for the first fortnight, and who was not in the habit ofseeing much occupation at home, could not conceal his amazement on finding themalways employed.

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

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

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

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

Margaret agreed, and they pursued their way against the wind, resisting it withlaughing delight for about twenty minutes longer, when suddenly the cloudsunited over their heads, and a driving rain set full in their face. Chagrinedand surprised, they were obliged, though unwillingly, to turn back, for noshelter was nearer than their own house. One consolation however remained forthem, to which the exigence of the moment gave more than usualpropriety,—it was that of running with all possible speed down the steepside of the hill which led immediately to their garden gate.

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

A gentleman carrying a gun, with two pointers playing round him, was passing upthe hill and within a few yards of Marianne, when her accident happened. He putdown 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 declinedwhat her situation rendered necessary, took her up in his arms without fartherdelay, and carried her down the hill. Then passing through the garden, the gateof 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 seatedher in a chair in the parlour.

Elinor and her mother rose up in amazement at their entrance, and while theeyes of both were fixed on him with an evident wonder and a secret admirationwhich equally sprung from his appearance, he apologized for his intrusion byrelating its cause, in a manner so frank and so graceful that his person, whichwas uncommonly handsome, received additional charms from his voice andexpression. Had he been even old, ugly, and vulgar, the gratitude and kindnessof 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 theaction which came home to her feelings.

She thanked him again and again; and, with a sweetness of address which alwaysattended her, invited him to be seated. But this he declined, as he was dirtyand 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 whencehe hoped she would allow him the honour of calling tomorrow to enquire afterMiss Dashwood. The honour was readily granted, and he then departed, to makehimself still more interesting, in the midst of a heavy rain.

His manly beauty and more than common gracefulness were instantly the theme ofgeneral admiration, and the laugh which his gallantry raised against Mariannereceived particular spirit from his exterior attractions. Marianne herself hadseen less of his person than the rest, for the confusion which crimsoned overher face, on his lifting her up, had robbed her of the power of regarding himafter their entering the house. But she had seen enough of him to join in allthe admiration of the others, and with an energy which always adorned herpraise. His person and air were equal to what her fancy had ever drawn for thehero of a favourite story; and in his carrying her into the house with solittle previous formality, there was a rapidity of thought which particularlyrecommended the action to her. Every circumstance belonging to him wasinteresting. 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 mostbecoming. Her imagination was busy, her reflections were pleasant, and the painof a sprained ankle was disregarded.

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

“Willoughby!” cried Sir John; “what, is hein thecountry? That is good news however; I will ride over tomorrow, and ask him todinner 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 decentshot, and there is not a bolder rider in England.”

“And is thatall 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 toall that. But he is a pleasant, good humoured fellow, and has got thenicest little black bitch of a pointer I ever saw. Was she out with himtoday?”

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 hismind.

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

On this point Sir John could give more certain intelligence; and he told themthat Mr. Willoughby had no property of his own in the country; that he residedthere only while he was visiting the old lady at Allenham Court, to whom he wasrelated, and whose possessions he was to inherit; adding, “Yes, yes, heis very well worth catching I can tell you, Miss Dashwood; he has a prettylittle estate of his own in Somersetshire besides; and if I were you, I wouldnot 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 bejealous, 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 ofmydaughters towards what you call catching him. It is not anemployment to which they have been brought up. Men are very safe with us, letthem be ever so rich. I am glad to find, however, from what you say, that he isa respectable young man, and one whose acquaintance will not beineligible.”

“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 thepark, he danced from eight o’clock till four, without once sittingdown.”

“Did he indeed?” cried Marianne with sparkling eyes, “andwith 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 behis pursuits, his eagerness in them should know no moderation, and leave him nosense of fatigue.”

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

“That is an expression, Sir John,” said Marianne, warmly,“which I particularly dislike. I abhor every common-place phrase by whichwit is intended; and ‘setting one’s cap at a man,’ or‘making a conquest,’ are the most odious of all. Their tendency isgross 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 ifhe did, and then replied,

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

CHAPTER X.

Marianne’s preserver, as Margaret, with more elegance than precision,styled Willoughby, called at the cottage early the next morning to make hispersonal enquiries. He was received by Mrs. Dashwood with more than politeness;with a kindness which Sir John’s account of him and her own gratitudeprompted; and every thing that passed during the visit tended to assure him ofthe sense, elegance, mutual affection, and domestic comfort of the family towhom accident had now introduced him. Of their personal charms he had notrequired a second interview to be convinced.

Miss Dashwood had a delicate complexion, regular features, and a remarkablypretty figure. Marianne was still handsomer. Her form, though not so correct asher sister’s, in having the advantage of height, was more striking; andher face was so lovely, that when in the common cant of praise, she was calleda beautiful girl, truth was less violently outraged than usually happens. Herskin was very brown, but, from its transparency, her complexion was uncommonlybrilliant; her features were all good; her smile was sweet and attractive; andin her eyes, which were very dark, there was a life, a spirit, an eagerness,which could hardly be seen without delight. From Willoughby their expressionwas at first held back, by the embarrassment which the remembrance of hisassistance created. But when this passed away, when her spirits becamecollected, when she saw that to the perfect good-breeding of the gentleman, heunited frankness and vivacity, and above all, when she heard him declare, thatof music and dancing he was passionately fond, she gave him such a look ofapprobation as secured the largest share of his discourse to herself for therest 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 neithershyness nor reserve in their discussion. They speedily discovered that theirenjoyment of dancing and music was mutual, and that it arose from a generalconformity of judgment in all that related to either. Encouraged by this to afurther examination of his opinions, she proceeded to question him on thesubject of books; her favourite authors were brought forward and dwelt uponwith so rapturous a delight, that any young man of five and twenty must havebeen insensible indeed, not to become an immediate convert to the excellence ofsuch works, however disregarded before. Their taste was strikingly alike. Thesame books, the same passages were idolized by each—or if any differenceappeared, any objection arose, it lasted no longer than till the force of herarguments and the brightness of her eyes could be displayed. He acquiesced inall her decisions, caught all her enthusiasm; and long before his visitconcluded, they conversed with the familiarity of a long-establishedacquaintance.

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

“Elinor,” cried Marianne, “is this fair? is this just? are myideas so scanty? But I see what you mean. I have been too much at my ease, toohappy, too frank. I have erred against every common-place notion of decorum; Ihave 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, andhad I spoken only once in ten minutes, this reproach would have beenspared.”

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

Willoughby, on his side, gave every proof of his pleasure in theiracquaintance, which an evident wish of improving it could offer. He came tothem every day. To enquire after Marianne was at first his excuse; but theencouragement of his reception, to which every day gave greater kindness, madesuch an excuse unnecessary before it had ceased to be possible, byMarianne’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 ofgood abilities, quick imagination, lively spirits, and open, affectionatemanners. He was exactly formed to engage Marianne’s heart, for with allthis, he joined not only a captivating person, but a natural ardour of mindwhich was now roused and increased by the example of her own, and whichrecommended him to her affection beyond every thing else.

His society became gradually her most exquisite enjoyment. They read, theytalked, they sang together; his musical talents were considerable; and he readwith 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 stronglyresembled and peculiarly delighted her sister, of saying too much what hethought on every occasion, without attention to persons or circumstances. Inhastily forming and giving his opinion of other people, in sacrificing generalpoliteness to the enjoyment of undivided attention where his heart was engaged,and in slighting too easily the forms of worldly propriety, he displayed a wantof caution which Elinor could not approve, in spite of all that he and Mariannecould say in its support.

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

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

Colonel Brandon’s partiality for Marianne, which had so early beendiscovered by his friends, now first became perceptible to Elinor, when itceased to be noticed by them. Their attention and wit were drawn off to hismore fortunate rival; and the raillery which the other had incurred before anypartiality arose, was removed when his feelings began really to call for theridicule so justly annexed to sensibility. Elinor was obliged, thoughunwillingly, to believe that the sentiments which Mrs. Jennings had assignedhim for her own satisfaction, were now actually excited by her sister; and thathowever a general resemblance of disposition between the parties might forwardthe affection of Mr. Willoughby, an equally striking opposition of characterwas no hindrance to the regard of Colonel Brandon. She saw it with concern; forwhat could a silent man of five and thirty hope, when opposed to a very livelyone of five and twenty? and as she could not even wish him successful, sheheartily wished him indifferent. She liked him—in spite of his gravityand reserve, she beheld in him an object of interest. His manners, thoughserious, were mild; and his reserve appeared rather the result of someoppression of spirits than of any natural gloominess of temper. Sir John haddropped hints of past injuries and disappointments, which justified her beliefof his being an unfortunate man, and she regarded him with respect andcompassion.

Perhaps she pitied and esteemed him the more because he was slighted byWilloughby and Marianne, who, prejudiced against him for being neither livelynor young, seemed resolved to undervalue his merits.

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

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

“Do not boast of it, however,” said Elinor, “for it isinjustice 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 areproach in itself. Who would submit to the indignity of being approved by sucha woman as Lady Middleton and Mrs. Jennings, that could command theindifference of any body else?”

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

“In defence of your protégéyou can even be saucy.”

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

“That is to say,” cried Marianne contemptuously, “he has toldyou, that in the East Indies the climate is hot, and the mosquitoes aretroublesome.”

“He wouldhave told me so, I doubt not, had I made any suchinquiries, but they happened to be points on which I had been previouslyinformed.”

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

“I may venture to say that hisobservations have stretched muchfurther than yourcandour. But why should you dislike him?”

“I do not dislike him. I consider him, on the contrary, as a veryrespectable man, who has every body’s good word, and nobody’snotice; who has more money than he can spend, more time than he knows how toemploy, 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 noardour, and his voice no expression.”

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

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

CHAPTER XI.

Little had Mrs. Dashwood or her daughters imagined when they first came intoDevonshire, that so many engagements would arise to occupy their time asshortly presented themselves, or that they should have such frequentinvitations and such constant visitors as to leave them little leisure forserious employment. Yet such was the case. When Marianne was recovered, theschemes of amusement at home and abroad, which Sir John had been previouslyforming, were put into execution. The private balls at the park then began; andparties on the water were made and accomplished as often as a showery Octoberwould allow. In every meeting of the kind Willoughby was included; and the easeand familiarity which naturally attended these parties were exactly calculatedto give increasing intimacy to his acquaintance with the Dashwoods, to affordhim opportunity of witnessing the excellencies of Marianne, of marking hisanimated admiration of her, and of receiving, in her behaviour to himself, themost pointed assurance of her affection.

Elinor could not be surprised at their attachment. She only wished that it wereless openly shown; and once or twice did venture to suggest the propriety ofsome self-command to Marianne. But Marianne abhorred all concealment where noreal disgrace could attend unreserve; and to aim at the restraint of sentimentswhich were not in themselves illaudable, appeared to her not merely anunnecessary effort, but a disgraceful subjection of reason to common-place andmistaken notions. Willoughby thought the same; and their behaviour at alltimes, was an illustration of their opinions.

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

Mrs. Dashwood entered into all their feelings with a warmth which left her noinclination for checking this excessive display of them. To her it was but thenatural consequence of a strong affection in a young and ardent mind.

This was the season of happiness to Marianne. Her heart was devoted toWilloughby, and the fond attachment to Norland, which she brought with her fromSussex, 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 nocompanion that could make amends for what she had left behind, nor that couldteach her to think of Norland with less regret than ever. Neither LadyMiddleton nor Mrs. Jennings could supply to her the conversation she missed;although the latter was an everlasting talker, and from the first had regardedher with a kindness which ensured her a large share of her discourse. She hadalready repeated her own history to Elinor three or four times; and hadElinor’s memory been equal to her means of improvement, she might haveknown very early in their acquaintance all the particulars of Mr.Jennings’s last illness, and what he said to his wife a few minutesbefore he died. Lady Middleton was more agreeable than her mother only in beingmore silent. Elinor needed little observation to perceive that her reserve wasa mere calmness of manner with which sense had nothing to do. Towards herhusband and mother she was the same as to them; and intimacy was thereforeneither to be looked for nor desired. She had nothing to say one day that shehad not said the day before. Her insipidity was invariable, for even herspirits were always the same; and though she did not oppose the partiesarranged by her husband, provided every thing were conducted in style and hertwo eldest children attended her, she never appeared to receive more enjoymentfrom them than she might have experienced in sitting at home;—and solittle did her presence add to the pleasure of the others, by any share intheir conversation, that they were sometimes only reminded of her being amongstthem by her solicitude about her troublesome boys.

In Colonel Brandon alone, of all her new acquaintance, did Elinor find a personwho could in any degree claim the respect of abilities, excite the interest offriendship, or give pleasure as a companion. Willoughby was out of thequestion. 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 lessagreeable 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 theindifference of her sister.

Elinor’s compassion for him increased, as she had reason to suspect thatthe misery of disappointed love had already been known to him. This suspicionwas given by some words which accidentally dropped from him one evening at thepark, when they were sitting down together by mutual consent, while the otherswere dancing. His eyes were fixed on Marianne, and, after a silence of someminutes, he said, with a faint smile, “Your sister, I understand, doesnot 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 thecharacter of her own father, who had himself two wives, I know not. A few yearshowever will settle her opinions on the reasonable basis of common sense andobservation; and then they may be more easy to define and to justify than theynow are, by any body but herself.”

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

“I cannot agree with you there,” said Elinor. “There areinconveniences attending such feelings as Marianne’s, which all thecharms of enthusiasm and ignorance of the world cannot atone for. Her systemshave all the unfortunate tendency of setting propriety at nought; and a betteracquaintance with the world is what I look forward to as her greatest possibleadvantage.”

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XII.

As Elinor and Marianne were walking together the next morning the lattercommunicated a piece of news to her sister, which in spite of all that she knewbefore of Marianne’s imprudence and want of thought, surprised her by itsextravagant testimony of both. Marianne told her, with the greatest delight,that Willoughby had given her a horse, one that he had bred himself on hisestate in Somersetshire, and which was exactly calculated to carry a woman.Without considering that it was not in her mother’s plan to keep anyhorse, that if she were to alter her resolution in favour of this gift, shemust 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 withouthesitation, and told her sister of it in raptures.

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

Most unwilling was she to awaken from such a dream of felicity to comprehendall the unhappy truths which attended the affair; and for some time she refusedto 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 forhim;he might always get one at the park; as to a stable, the merestshed would be sufficient. Elinor then ventured to doubt the propriety of herreceiving such a present from a man so little, or at least so lately known toher. This was too much.

“You are mistaken, Elinor,” said she warmly, “in supposing Iknow very little of Willoughby. I have not known him long indeed, but I am muchbetter 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 determineintimacy;—it is disposition alone. Seven years would be insufficient tomake some people acquainted with each other, and seven days are more thanenough for others. I should hold myself guilty of greater impropriety inaccepting a horse from my brother, than from Willoughby. Of John I know verylittle, though we have lived together for years; but of Willoughby my judgmenthas long been formed.”

Elinor thought it wisest to touch that point no more. She knew hersister’s temper. Opposition on so tender a subject would only attach herthe 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 onherself, if (as would probably be the case) she consented to this increase ofestablishment, Marianne was shortly subdued; and she promised not to tempt hermother to such imprudent kindness by mentioning the offer, and to tellWilloughby when she saw him next, that it must be declined.

She was faithful to her word; and when Willoughby called at the cottage, thesame day, Elinor heard her express her disappointment to him in a low voice, onbeing obliged to forego the acceptance of his present. The reasons for thisalteration were at the same time related, and they were such as to make furtherentreaty on his side impossible. His concern however was very apparent; andafter expressing it with earnestness, he added, in the same lowvoice,—“But, Marianne, the horse is still yours, though you cannotuse it now. I shall keep it only till you can claim it. When you leave Bartonto form your own establishment in a more lasting home, Queen Mab shall receiveyou.”

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

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

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

“You have said so,” replied Elinor, “almost every day sincethey first met on High-church Down; and they had not known each other a week, Ibelieve, 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 marriedvery soon, for he has got a lock of her hair.”

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

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

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

Margaret’s sagacity was not always displayed in a way so satisfactory toher sister. When Mrs. Jennings attacked her one evening at the park, to givethe name of the young man who was Elinor’s particular favourite, whichhad been long a matter of great curiosity to her, Margaret answered by lookingat 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 theeffort was painful. She was convinced that Margaret had fixed on a person whosename 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 thecause, by turning very red and saying in an angry manner to Margaret,

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

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

This increased the mirth of the company, and Margaret was eagerly pressed tosay 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 Iknow where he is too.”

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

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

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

“Well, then, he is lately dead, Marianne, for I am sure there was such aman 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 toproceed less from any attention to her, than from her ladyship’s greatdislike of all such inelegant subjects of raillery as delighted her husband andmother. The idea however started by her, was immediately pursued by ColonelBrandon, who was on every occasion mindful of the feelings of others; and muchwas said on the subject of rain by both of them. Willoughby opened thepiano-forte, and asked Marianne to sit down to it; and thus amidst the variousendeavours of different people to quit the topic, it fell to the ground. Butnot 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 veryfine place about twelve miles from Barton, belonging to a brother-in-law ofColonel Brandon, without whose interest it could not be seen, as theproprietor, who was then abroad, had left strict orders on that head. Thegrounds were declared to be highly beautiful, and Sir John, who wasparticularly 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 thelast ten years. They contained a noble piece of water; a sail on which was toform a great part of the morning’s amusement; cold provisions were to betaken, open carriages only to be employed, and every thing conducted in theusual style of a complete party of pleasure.

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

CHAPTER XIII.

Their intended excursion to Whitwell turned out very different from what Elinorhad expected. She was prepared to be wet through, fatigued, and frightened; butthe 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 wereto breakfast. The morning was rather favourable, though it had rained allnight, as the clouds were then dispersing across the sky, and the sunfrequently appeared. They were all in high spirits and good humour, eager to behappy, and determined to submit to the greatest inconveniences and hardshipsrather than be otherwise.

While they were at breakfast the letters were brought in. Among the rest therewas one for Colonel Brandon;—he took it, looked at the direction, changedcolour, 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. “Itmust be something extraordinary that could make Colonel Brandon leave mybreakfast table so suddenly.”

In about five minutes he returned.

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

“None at all, ma’am, I thank you.”

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

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

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

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

“Perhaps it is to tell you that your cousin Fanny is married?” saidMrs. 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 iswell.”

“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 LadyMiddleton, “that I should receive this letter today, for it is onbusiness which requires my immediate attendance in town.”

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

“My own loss is great,” he continued, “in being obliged toleave so agreeable a party; but I am the more concerned, as I fear my presenceis 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,” saidMarianne, eagerly, “will it not be sufficient?”

He shook his head.

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

“I wish it could be so easily settled. But it is not in my power to delaymy 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 youwere to defer your journey till our return.”

“I cannot afford to lose onehour.”

Elinor then heard Willoughby say, in a low voice to Marianne, “There aresome people who cannot bear a party of pleasure. Brandon is one of them. He wasafraid of catching cold I dare say, and invented this trick for getting out ofit. 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 ofold,” said Sir John, “when once you are determined on anything.But, however, I hope you will think better of it. Consider, here are the twoMiss Careys come over from Newton, the three Miss Dashwoods walked up from thecottage, and Mr. Willoughby got up two hours before his usual time, on purposeto go to Whitwell.”

Colonel Brandon again repeated his sorrow at being the cause of disappointingthe 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, “assoon as you can conveniently leave town; and we must put off the party toWhitwell till you return.”

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

“Oh! he must and shall come back,” cried Sir John. “If he isnot here by the end of the week, I shall go after him.”

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

“I do not want to pry into other men’s concerns. I suppose it issomething 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 hadbetter 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 thiswinter, Miss Dashwood?”

“I am afraid, none at all.”

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

To Marianne, he merely bowed and said nothing.

“Come Colonel,” said Mrs. Jennings, “before you go, do let usknow 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, nowburst forth universally; and they all agreed again and again how provoking itwas to be so disappointed.

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

“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 haveheard of her before. She is a relation of the Colonel’s, my dear; a verynear relation. We will not say how near, for fear of shocking the youngladies.” 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 willleave her all his fortune.”

When Sir John returned, he joined most heartily in the general regret on sounfortunate an event; concluding however by observing, that as they were allgot together, they must do something by way of being happy; and after someconsultation it was agreed, that although happiness could only be enjoyed atWhitwell, they might procure a tolerable composure of mind by driving about thecountry. The carriages were then ordered; Willoughby’s was first, andMarianne never looked happier than when she got into it. He drove through thepark very fast, and they were soon out of sight; and nothing more of them wasseen till their return, which did not happen till after the return of all therest. They both seemed delighted with their drive; but said only in generalterms 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 bodyshould 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 SirJohn observed with great contentment. Willoughby took his usual place betweenthe 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 foundyou 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 inmy curricle?”

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

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

Elinor could hardly believe this to be true, as it seemed very unlikely thatWilloughby 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; andgreat 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 didnot 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 withno other companion than Mr. Willoughby.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

She blushed at this hint; but it was even visibly gratifying to her; and aftera ten minutes’ interval of earnest thought, she came to her sister again,and said with great good humour, “Perhaps, Elinor, it wasratherill-judged in me to go to Allenham; but Mr. Willoughby wanted particularly toshow me the place; and it is a charming house, I assure you.—There is oneremarkably pretty sitting room up stairs; of a nice comfortable size forconstant use, and with modern furniture it would be delightful. It is a cornerroom, and has windows on two sides. On one side you look across thebowling-green, behind the house, to a beautiful hanging wood, and on the otheryou have a view of the church and village, and, beyond them, of those fine boldhills that we have so often admired. I did not see it to advantage, for nothingcould be more forlorn than the furniture,—but if it were newly fittedup—a couple of hundred pounds, Willoughby says, would make it one of thepleasantest summer-rooms in England.”

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

CHAPTER XIV.

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

“Something very melancholy must be the matter, I am sure,” saidshe. “I could see it in his face. Poor man! I am afraid his circumstancesmay be bad. The estate at Delaford was never reckoned more than two thousand ayear, and his brother left everything sadly involved. I do think he must havebeen sent for about money matters, for what else can it be? I wonder whether itis so. I would give anything to know the truth of it. Perhaps it is about MissWilliams and, by the bye, I dare say it is, because he looked so conscious whenI 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 isabout Miss Williams. It is not so very likely he should be distressed in hiscircumstances now, for he is a very prudent man, and to be sure musthave cleared the estate by this time. I wonder what it can be! May be hissister is worse at Avignon, and has sent for him over. His setting off in sucha hurry seems very like it. Well, I wish him out of all his trouble with all myheart, and a good wife into the bargain.”

So wondered, so talked Mrs. Jennings. Her opinion varying with every freshconjecture, and all seeming equally probable as they arose. Elinor, though shefelt really interested in the welfare of Colonel Brandon, could not bestow allthe wonder on his going so suddenly away, which Mrs. Jennings was desirous ofher feeling; for besides that the circumstance did not in her opinion justifysuch lasting amazement or variety of speculation, her wonder was otherwisedisposed of. It was engrossed by the extraordinary silence of her sister andWilloughby on the subject, which they must know to be peculiarly interesting tothem all. As this silence continued, every day made it appear more strange andmore incompatible with the disposition of both. Why they should not openlyacknowledge to her mother and herself, what their constant behaviour to eachother declared to have taken place, Elinor could not imagine.

She could easily conceive that marriage might not be immediately in theirpower; for though Willoughby was independent, there was no reason to believehim rich. His estate had been rated by Sir John at about six or seven hundred ayear; 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 kindof secrecy maintained by them relative to their engagement, which in factconcealed nothing at all, she could not account; and it was so whollycontradictory to their general opinions and practice, that a doubt sometimesentered her mind of their being really engaged, and this doubt was enough toprevent her making any inquiry of Marianne.

Nothing could be more expressive of attachment to them all, thanWilloughby’s behaviour. To Marianne it had all the distinguishingtenderness which a lover’s heart could give, and to the rest of thefamily it was the affectionate attention of a son and a brother. The cottageseemed to be considered and loved by him as his home; many more of his hourswere spent there than at Allenham; and if no general engagement collected themat the park, the exercise which called him out in the morning was almostcertain of ending there, where the rest of the day was spent by himself at theside 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 theobjects around him; and on Mrs. Dashwood’s happening to mention herdesign of improving the cottage in the spring, he warmly opposed everyalteration of a place which affection had established as perfect with him.

“What!” he exclaimed—“Improve this dear cottage! No.ThatI 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 kindwill be done; for my mother will never have money enough to attempt it.”

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

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

“I am,” said he. “To me it is faultless. Nay, more, Iconsider it as the only form of building in which happiness is attainable, andwere I rich enough I would instantly pull Combe down, and build it up again inthe 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 everything belonging to it;—in no one convenience or inconvenience about it,should the least variation be perceptible. Then, and then only, under such aroof, I might perhaps be as happy at Combe as I have been at Barton.”

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

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

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

“How often did I wish,” added he, “when I was at Allenhamthis time twelvemonth, that Barton cottage were inhabited! I never passedwithin view of it without admiring its situation, and grieving that no oneshould live in it. How little did I then think that the very first news Ishould hear from Mrs. Smith, when I next came into the country, would be thatBarton cottage was taken: and I felt an immediate satisfaction and interest inthe event, which nothing but a kind of prescience of what happiness I shouldexperience 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 ofits simplicity by imaginary improvement! and this dear parlour in which ouracquaintance first began, and in which so many happy hours have been sincespent 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 hithertocontained within itself more real accommodation and comfort than any otherapartment of the handsomest dimensions in the world could possiblyafford.”

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

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

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

“Shall we see you tomorrow to dinner?” said Mrs. Dashwood, when hewas leaving them. “I do not ask you to come in the morning, for we mustwalk 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 twoof her daughters went with her; but Marianne excused herself from being of theparty, under some trifling pretext of employment; and her mother, who concludedthat a promise had been made by Willoughby the night before of calling on herwhile they were absent, was perfectly satisfied with her remaining at home.

On their return from the park they found Willoughby’s curricle andservant in waiting at the cottage, and Mrs. Dashwood was convinced that herconjecture had been just. So far it was all as she had foreseen; but onentering the house she beheld what no foresight had taught her to expect. Theywere no sooner in the passage than Marianne came hastily out of the parlourapparently in violent affliction, with her handkerchief at her eyes; andwithout noticing them ran up stairs. Surprised and alarmed they proceededdirectly 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 turnedround on their coming in, and his countenance showed that he strongly partookof the emotion which over-powered Marianne.

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

“I hope not,” he replied, trying to look cheerful; and with aforced smile presently added, “It is I who may rather expect to beill—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 thismorning exercised the privilege of riches upon a poor dependent cousin, bysending me on business to London. I have just received my dispatches, and takenmy farewell of Allenham; and by way of exhilaration I am now come to take myfarewell of you.”

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

“Almost this moment.”

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

He coloured as he replied, “You are very kind, but I have no idea ofreturning into Devonshire immediately. My visits to Mrs. Smith are neverrepeated within the twelvemonth.”

“And is Mrs. Smith your only friend? Is Allenham the only house in theneighbourhood to which you will be welcome? For shame, Willoughby, can you waitfor 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. Fora few moments every one was silent. Mrs. Dashwood first spoke.

“I have only to add, my dear Willoughby, that at Barton cottage you willalways be welcome; for I will not press you to return here immediately, becauseyou only can judge how far thatmight be pleasing to Mrs. Smith; and onthis head I shall be no more disposed to question your judgment than to doubtyour inclination.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It is all very strange. So suddenly to be gone! It seems but the work ofa 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 toreturn!—Something more than what he owned to us must have happened. Hedid not speak, he did not behave like himself. Youmust have seen thedifference as well as I. What can it be? Can they have quarrelled? Why elseshould he have shown such unwillingness to accept your invitationhere?”

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

“Can you, indeed!”

“Yes. I have explained it to myself in the most satisfactoryway;—but you, Elinor, who love to doubt where you can—it will notsatisfy you, I know; but you shall not talk meout of my trust init. I am persuaded that Mrs. Smith suspects his regard for Marianne,disapproves of it, (perhaps because she has other views for him,) and on thataccount is eager to get him away;—and that the business which she sendshim off to transact is invented as an excuse to dismiss him. This is what Ibelieve to have happened. He is, moreover, aware that she doesdisapprove the connection, he dares not therefore at present confess to her hisengagement with Marianne, and he feels himself obliged, from his dependentsituation, to give into her schemes, and absent himself from Devonshire for awhile. You will tell me, I know, that this may or may nothave happened;but I will listen to no cavil, unless you can point out any other method ofunderstanding the affair as satisfactory at this. And now, Elinor, what haveyou 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 evilupon credit than good. You had rather look out for misery for Marianne, andguilt for poor Willoughby, than an apology for the latter. You are resolved tothink him blameable, because he took leave of us with less affection than hisusual behaviour has shown. And is no allowance to be made for inadvertence, orfor spirits depressed by recent disappointment? Are no probabilities to beaccepted, merely because they are not certainties? Is nothing due to the manwhom we have all such reason to love, and no reason in the world to think illof? To the possibility of motives unanswerable in themselves, thoughunavoidably secret for a while? And, after all, what is it you suspect himof?”

“I can hardly tell myself. But suspicion of something unpleasant is theinevitable consequence of such an alteration as we just witnessed in him. Thereis great truth, however, in what you have now urged of the allowances whichought to be made for him, and it is my wish to be candid in my judgment ofevery body. Willoughby may undoubtedly have very sufficient reasons for hisconduct, and I will hope that he has. But it would have been more likeWilloughby to acknowledge them at once. Secrecy may be advisable; but still Icannot help wondering at its being practiced by him.”

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

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

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

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

“I am perfectly satisfied of both.”

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

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

“I confess,” replied Elinor, “that every circumstance exceptoneis in favour of their engagement; but that oneis the totalsilence of both on the subject, and with me it almost outweighs everyother.”

“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 theterms on which they are together. Has he been acting a part in his behaviour toyour 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 suchindifference, such carelessness of the future, as you attribute to him.”

“You must remember, my dear mother, that I have never considered thismatter as certain. I have had my doubts, I confess; but they are fainter thanthey 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, youwould suppose they were going to be married. Ungracious girl! But Irequire 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. Youcannot doubt your sister’s wishes. It must be Willoughby therefore whomyou suspect. But why? Is he not a man of honour and feeling? Has there been anyinconsistency on his side to create alarm? can he be deceitful?”

“I hope not, I believe not,” cried Elinor. “I loveWilloughby, sincerely love him; and suspicion of his integrity cannot be morepainful to yourself than to me. It has been involuntary, and I will notencourage it. I was startled, I confess, by the alteration in his manners thismorning;—he did not speak like himself, and did not return your kindnesswith any cordiality. But all this may be explained by such a situation of hisaffairs as you have supposed. He had just parted from my sister, had seen herleave him in the greatest affliction; and if he felt obliged, from a fear ofoffending Mrs. Smith, to resist the temptation of returning here soon, and yetaware that by declining your invitation, by saying that he was going away forsome time, he should seem to act an ungenerous, a suspicious part by ourfamily, he might well be embarrassed and disturbed. In such a case, a plain andopen avowal of his difficulties would have been more to his honour I think, aswell as more consistent with his general character;—but I will not raiseobjections against any one’s conduct on so illiberal a foundation, as adifference in judgment from myself, or a deviation from what I may think rightand consistent.”

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XVI.

Marianne would have thought herself very inexcusable had she been able to sleepat all the first night after parting from Willoughby. She would have beenashamed to look her family in the face the next morning, had she not risen fromher bed in more need of repose than when she lay down in it. But the feelingswhich 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 upwith a headache, was unable to talk, and unwilling to take any nourishment;giving pain every moment to her mother and sisters, and forbidding all attemptat consolation from either. Her sensibility was potent enough!

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

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

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

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

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

Elinor could not deny the truth of this, and she tried to find in it a motivesufficient 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 ofinstantly removing all mystery, that she could not help suggesting it to hermother.

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

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

Elinor thought this generosity overstrained, considering her sister’syouth, 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 beforeMarianne by any of her family; Sir John and Mrs. Jennings, indeed, were not sonice; their witticisms added pain to many a painful hour;—but oneevening, Mrs. Dashwood, accidentally taking up a volume of Shakespeare,exclaimed,

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

“Months!” cried Marianne, with strong surprise. “No—normany weeks.”

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

One morning, about a week after his leaving the country, Marianne was prevailedon to join her sisters in their usual walk, instead of wandering away byherself. Hitherto she had carefully avoided every companion in her rambles. Ifher sisters intended to walk on the downs, she directly stole away towards thelanes; 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 securedby the exertions of Elinor, who greatly disapproved such continual seclusion.They walked along the road through the valley, and chiefly in silence, forMarianne’s mindcould not be controlled, and Elinor, satisfiedwith gaining one point, would not then attempt more. Beyond the entrance of thevalley, where the country, though still rich, was less wild and more open, along 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 thecottage, from a spot which they had never happened to reach in any of theirwalks before.

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

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

“Indeed, Marianne, I think you are mistaken. It is not Willoughby. Theperson 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 fromparticularity, as she felt almost certain of its not being Willoughby,quickened her pace and kept up with her. They were soon within thirty yards ofthe gentleman. Marianne looked again; her heart sunk within her; and abruptlyturning round, she was hurrying back, when the voices of both her sisters wereraised 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 seeand welcome Edward Ferrars.

He was the only person in the world who could at that moment be forgiven fornot being Willoughby; the only one who could have gained a smile from her; butshe dispersed her tears to smile on him, and in her sister’shappiness forgot for a time her own disappointment.

He dismounted, and giving his horse to his servant, walked back with them toBarton, 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 Elinorherself. To Marianne, indeed, the meeting between Edward and her sister was buta continuation of that unaccountable coldness which she had often observed atNorland 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 anoccasion. He was confused, seemed scarcely sensible of pleasure in seeing them,looked neither rapturous nor gay, said little but what was forced from him byquestions, and distinguished Elinor by no mark of affection. Marianne saw andlistened with increasing surprise. She began almost to feel a dislike ofEdward; and it ended, as every feeling must end with her, by carrying back herthoughts to Willoughby, whose manners formed a contrast sufficiently strikingto those of his brother elect.

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

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

He looked rather distressed as he added, that he had been staying with somefriends 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 italways does at this time of the year. The woods and walks thickly covered withdead leaves.”

“Oh,” cried Marianne, “with what transporting sensation haveI formerly seen them fall! How have I delighted, as I walked, to see themdriven 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 seenonly as a nuisance, swept hastily off, and driven as much as possible from thesight.”

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

“No; my feelings are not often shared, not often understood. Butsometimesthey are.”—As she said this, she sunk into areverie for a few moments;—but rousing herself again, “Now,Edward,” said she, calling his attention to the prospect, “here isBarton 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 woodsand plantations. You may see the end of the house. And there, beneath thatfarthest hill, which rises with such grandeur, is our cottage.”

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

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

“Because,” replied he, smiling, “among the rest of theobjects 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 pleasantpeople?”

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XVII.

Mrs. Dashwood was surprised only for a moment at seeing him; for his coming toBarton was, in her opinion, of all things the most natural. Her joy andexpression of regard long outlived her wonder. He received the kindest welcomefrom her; and shyness, coldness, reserve could not stand against such areception. They had begun to fail him before he entered the house, and theywere quite overcome by the captivating manners of Mrs. Dashwood. Indeed a mancould not very well be in love with either of her daughters, without extendingthe passion to her; and Elinor had the satisfaction of seeing him soon becomemore like himself. His affections seemed to reanimate towards them all, and hisinterest 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 totable 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; “areyou still to be a great orator in spite of yourself?”

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

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

“I shall not attempt it. I have no wish to be distinguished; and haveevery reason to hope I never shall. Thank Heaven! I cannot be forced intogenius 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 wellas every body else to be perfectly happy; but, like every body else it must bein my own way. Greatness will not make me so.”

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

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

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

“Perhaps,” said Elinor, smiling, “we may come to the samepoint. Yourcompetence and mywealth are very much alike, I daresay; and without them, as the world goes now, we shall both agree that everykind of external comfort must be wanting. Your ideas are only more noble thanmine. Come, what is your competence?”

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

Elinor laughed. “twothousand a year! oneis my wealth! Iguessed how it would end.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh that they would!” cried Marianne, her eyes sparkling withanimation, 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 wonderwhat 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 generalcommission for every new print of merit to be sent you—and as forMarianne, I know her greatness of soul, there would not be music enough inLondon to content her. And books!—Thomson, Cowper, Scott—she wouldbuy them all over and over again: she would buy up every copy, I believe, toprevent their falling into unworthy hands; and she would have every book thattells her how to admire an old twisted tree. Should not you, Marianne? Forgiveme, if I am very saucy. But I was willing to show you that I had not forgot ourold disputes.”

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

“And the bulk of your fortune would be laid out in annuities on theauthors 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 wrotethe ablest defence of your favourite maxim, that no one can ever be in lovemore than once in their life—your opinion on that point is unchanged, Ipresume?”

“Undoubtedly. At my time of life opinions are tolerably fixed. It is notlikely 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, “youneed not reproachme. You are not very gay yourself.”

“Why should you think so!” replied he, with a sigh. “Butgaiety never was a part of mycharacter.”

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

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

“I have frequently detected myself in such kind of mistakes,” saidElinor, “in a total misapprehension of character in some point or other:fancying people so much more gay or grave, or ingenious or stupid than theyreally 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 bywhat other people say of them, without giving oneself time to deliberate andjudge.”

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

“No, Marianne, never. My doctrine has never aimed at the subjection ofthe understanding. All I have ever attempted to influence has been thebehaviour. You must not confound my meaning. I am guilty, I confess, of havingoften 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 theirjudgment in serious matters?”

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

“Quite the contrary,” replied Elinor, looking expressively atMarianne.

“My judgment,” he returned, “is all on your side of thequestion; but I am afraid my practice is much more on your sister’s. Inever 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 thoughtthat I must have been intended by nature to be fond of low company, I am solittle at my ease among strangers of gentility!”

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

“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 orother. If I could persuade myself that my manners were perfectly easy andgraceful, I should not be shy.”

“But you would still be reserved,” said Marianne, “and thatis 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 yousuppose?”

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 understandwhat she means? Do not you know she calls every one reserved who does not talkas fast, and admire what she admires as rapturously as herself?”

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

CHAPTER XVIII.

Elinor saw, with great uneasiness the low spirits of her friend. His visitafforded her but a very partial satisfaction, while his own enjoyment in itappeared so imperfect. It was evident that he was unhappy; she wished it wereequally evident that he still distinguished her by the same affection whichonce she had felt no doubt of inspiring; but hitherto the continuance of hispreference seemed very uncertain; and the reservedness of his manner towardsher contradicted one moment what a more animated look had intimated thepreceding one.

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

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

Edward returned to them with fresh admiration of the surrounding country; inhis walk to the village, he had seen many parts of the valley to advantage; andthe village itself, in a much higher situation than the cottage, afforded ageneral view of the whole, which had exceedingly pleased him. This was asubject which ensured Marianne’s attention, and she was beginning todescribe her own admiration of these scenes, and to question him more minutelyon the objects that had particularly struck him, when Edward interrupted her bysaying, “You must not enquire too far, Marianne—remember I have noknowledge in the picturesque, and I shall offend you by my ignorance and wantof taste if we come to particulars. I shall call hills steep, which ought to bebold; surfaces strange and uncouth, which ought to be irregular and rugged; anddistant objects out of sight, which ought only to be indistinct through thesoft medium of a hazy atmosphere. You must be satisfied with such admiration asI 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 andsnug—with rich meadows and several neat farm houses scattered here andthere. It exactly answers my idea of a fine country, because it unites beautywith utility—and I dare say it is a picturesque one too, because youadmire it; I can easily believe it to be full of rocks and promontories, greymoss and brush wood, but these are all lost on me. I know nothing of thepicturesque.”

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

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

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

“I am convinced,” said Edward, “that you really feel all thedelight in a fine prospect which you profess to feel. But, in return, yoursister 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, blastedtrees. I admire them much more if they are tall, straight, and flourishing. Ido not like ruined, tattered cottages. I am not fond of nettles or thistles, orheath blossoms. I have more pleasure in a snug farm-house than awatch-tower—and a troop of tidy, happy villagers please me better thanthe finest banditti in the world.”

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

The subject was continued no farther; and Marianne remained thoughtfullysilent, till a new object suddenly engaged her attention. She was sitting byEdward, and in taking his tea from Mrs. Dashwood, his hand passed so directlybefore her, as to make a ring, with a plait of hair in the centre, veryconspicuous on one of his fingers.

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

Marianne spoke inconsiderately what she really felt—but when she saw howmuch she had pained Edward, her own vexation at her want of thought could notbe surpassed by his. He coloured very deeply, and giving a momentary glance atElinor, replied, “Yes; it is my sister’s hair. The setting alwayscasts a different shade on it, you know.”

Elinor had met his eye, and looked conscious likewise. That the hair was herown, she instantaneously felt as well satisfied as Marianne; the onlydifference in their conclusions was, that what Marianne considered as a freegift from her sister, Elinor was conscious must have been procured by sometheft or contrivance unknown to herself. She was not in a humour, however, toregard it as an affront, and affecting to take no notice of what passed, byinstantly talking of something else, she internally resolved henceforward tocatch every opportunity of eyeing the hair and of satisfying herself, beyondall doubt, that it was exactly the shade of her own.

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

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 asurvey of the guest. With the assistance of his mother-in-law, Sir John was notlong in discovering that the name of Ferrars began with an F. and this prepareda future mine of raillery against the devoted Elinor, which nothing but thenewness of their acquaintance with Edward could have prevented from beingimmediately sprung. But, as it was, she only learned, from some verysignificant looks, how far their penetration, founded on Margaret’sinstructions, extended.

Sir John never came to the Dashwoods without either inviting them to dine atthe park the next day, or to drink tea with them that evening. On the presentoccasion, for the better entertainment of their visitor, towards whoseamusement he felt himself bound to contribute, he wished to engage them forboth.

“You mustdrink tea with us to night,” said he, “forwe 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 adance,” said she. “And that will tempt you, MissMarianne.”

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

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

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

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

She gave him a brief reply. Marianne’s countenance was morecommunicative. Edward saw enough to comprehend, not only the meaning of others,but such of Marianne’s expressions as had puzzled him before; and whentheir visitors left them, he went immediately round her, and said, in awhisper, “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 thequiet 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 sureyou will like him.”

“I do not doubt it,” replied he, rather astonished at herearnestness and warmth; for had he not imagined it to be a joke for the good ofher acquaintance in general, founded only on a something or a nothing betweenMr. 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, heseemed resolved to be gone when his enjoyment among his friends was at theheight. His spirits, during the last two or three days, though still veryunequal, were greatly improved—he grew more and more partial to the houseand environs—never spoke of going away without a sigh—declared histime to be wholly disengaged—even doubted to what place he should go whenhe left them—but still, go he must. Never had any week passed soquickly—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 thelie 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 beyondany thing, and his greatest happiness was in being with them. Yet, he mustleave them at the end of a week, in spite of their wishes and his own, andwithout any restraint on his time.

Elinor placed all that was astonishing in this way of acting to hismother’s account; and it was happy for her that he had a mother whosecharacter was so imperfectly known to her, as to be the general excuse forevery thing strange on the part of her son. Disappointed, however, and vexed asshe was, and sometimes displeased with his uncertain behaviour to herself, shewas very well disposed on the whole to regard his actions with all the candidallowances and generous qualifications, which had been rather more painfullyextorted from her, for Willoughby’s service, by her mother. His want ofspirits, of openness, and of consistency, were most usually attributed to hiswant of independence, and his better knowledge of Mrs. Ferrars’sdisposition and designs. The shortness of his visit, the steadiness of hispurpose in leaving them, originated in the same fettered inclination, the sameinevitable necessity of temporizing with his mother. The old well-establishedgrievance of duty against will, parent against child, was the cause of all. Shewould have been glad to know when these difficulties were to cease, thisopposition was to yield,—when Mrs. Ferrars would be reformed, and her sonbe at liberty to be happy. But from such vain wishes she was forced to turn forcomfort to the renewal of her confidence in Edward’s affection, to theremembrance of every mark of regard in look or word which fell from him whileat Barton, and above all to that flattering proof of it which he constantlywore round his finger.

“I think, Edward,” said Mrs. Dashwood, as they were at breakfastthe last morning, “you would be a happier man if you had any professionto engage your time and give an interest to your plans and actions. Someinconvenience to your friends, indeed, might result from it—you would notbe able to give them so much of your time. But (with a smile) you would bematerially benefited in one particular at least—you would know where togo when you left them.”

“I do assure you,” he replied, “that I have long thought onthis point, as you think now. It has been, and is, and probably will always bea 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 mewhat I am, an idle, helpless being. We never could agree in our choice of aprofession. I always preferred the church, as I still do. But that was notsmart enough for my family. They recommended the army. That was a great dealtoo smart for me. The law was allowed to be genteel enough; many young men, whohad 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 thelaw, even in this less abstruse study of it, which my family approved. As forthe navy, it had fashion on its side, but I was too old when the subject wasfirst started to enter it—and, at length, as there was no necessity formy having any profession at all, as I might be as dashing and expensive withouta red coat on my back as with one, idleness was pronounced on the whole to bemost advantageous and honourable, and a young man of eighteen is not in generalso earnestly bent on being busy as to resist the solicitations of his friendsto do nothing. I was therefore entered at Oxford and have been properly idleever since.”

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

“They will be brought up,” said he, in a serious accent, “tobe as unlike myself as is possible. In feeling, in action, in condition, inevery 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 yourselfmust be happy. But remember that the pain of parting from friends will be feltby every body at times, whatever be their education or state. Know your ownhappiness. You want nothing but patience—or give it a more fascinatingname, call it hope. Your mother will secure to you, in time, that independenceyou are so anxious for; it is her duty, and it will, it must ere long becomeher happiness to prevent your whole youth from being wasted in discontent. Howmuch may not a few months do?”

“I think,” replied Edward, “that I may defy many months toproduce 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 tookplace, and left an uncomfortable impression on Elinor’s feelingsespecially, which required some trouble and time to subdue. But as it was herdetermination to subdue it, and to prevent herself from appearing to suffermore than what all her family suffered on his going away, she did not adopt themethod so judiciously employed by Marianne, on a similar occasion, to augmentand fix her sorrow, by seeking silence, solitude and idleness. Their means wereas 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, busilyemployed herself the whole day, neither sought nor avoided the mention of hisname, appeared to interest herself almost as much as ever in the generalconcerns of the family, and if, by this conduct, she did not lessen her owngrief, it was at least prevented from unnecessary increase, and her mother andsisters were spared much solicitude on her account.

Such behaviour as this, so exactly the reverse of her own, appeared no moremeritorious to Marianne, than her own had seemed faulty to her. The business ofself-command she settled very easily;—with strong affections it wasimpossible, with calm ones it could have no merit. That her sister’saffections werecalm, she dared not deny, though she blushed toacknowledge 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 mortifyingconviction.

Without shutting herself up from her family, or leaving the house in determinedsolitude 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 ofEdward’s behaviour, in every possible variety which the different stateof her spirits at different times could produce,—with tenderness, pity,approbation, censure, and doubt. There were moments in abundance, when, if notby the absence of her mother and sisters, at least by the nature of theiremployments, conversation was forbidden among them, and every effect ofsolitude was produced. Her mind was inevitably at liberty; her thoughts couldnot be chained elsewhere; and the past and the future, on a subject sointeresting, must be before her, must force her attention, and engross hermemory, her reflection, and her fancy.

From a reverie of this kind, as she sat at her drawing-table, she was rousedone 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 entranceof the green court in front of the house, drew her eyes to the window, and shesaw a large party walking up to the door. Amongst them were Sir John and LadyMiddleton 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 asSir John perceived her, he left the rest of the party to the ceremony ofknocking at the door, and stepping across the turf, obliged her to open thecasement to speak to him, though the space was so short between the door andthe window, as to make it hardly possible to speak at one without being heardat the other.

“Well,” said he, “we have brought you some strangers. How doyou 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 thatliberty, she begged to be excused.

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

“She is walking, I believe.”

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

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

Mrs. Palmer was several years younger than Lady Middleton, and totally unlikeher in every respect. She was short and plump, had a very pretty face, and thefinest expression of good humour in it that could possibly be. Her manners wereby no means so elegant as her sister’s, but they were much moreprepossessing. 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 gravelooking young man of five or six and twenty, with an air of more fashion andsense than his wife, but of less willingness to please or be pleased. Heentered the room with a look of self-consequence, slightly bowed to the ladies,without speaking a word, and, after briefly surveying them and theirapartments, took up a newspaper from the table, and continued to read it aslong as he staid.

Mrs. Palmer, on the contrary, who was strongly endowed by nature with a turnfor being uniformly civil and happy, was hardly seated before her admiration ofthe 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 itsuch a sweet place, ma’am! (turning to Mrs. Dashwood) but you have madeit so charming! Only look, sister, how delightful every thing is! How I shouldlike such a house for myself! Should not you, Mr. Palmer?”

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

“Mr. Palmer does not hear me,” said she, laughing; “he neverdoes sometimes. It is so ridiculous!”

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

Mrs. Jennings, in the meantime, talked on as loud as she could, and continuedher account of their surprise, the evening before, on seeing their friends,without ceasing till every thing was told. Mrs. Palmer laughed heartily at therecollection of their astonishment, and every body agreed, two or three timesover, 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 shemeant to be heard by no one else, though they were seated on different sides ofthe room; “but, however, I can’t help wishing they had nottravelled quite so fast, nor made such a long journey of it, for they came allround by London upon account of some business, for you know (noddingsignificantly and pointing to her daughter) it was wrong in her situation. Iwanted 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 thereforeexerted 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, youshall see a monstrous pretty girl.”

He immediately went into the passage, opened the front door, and ushered her inhimself. Mrs. Jennings asked her, as soon as she appeared, if she had not beento Allenham; and Mrs. Palmer laughed so heartily at the question, as to showshe understood it. Mr. Palmer looked up on her entering the room, stared at hersome minutes, and then returned to his newspaper. Mrs. Palmer’s eye wasnow caught by the drawings which hung round the room. She got up to examinethem.

“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 forever.” And then sitting down again, she very soon forgot that there wereany such things in the room.

When Lady Middleton rose to go away, Mr. Palmer rose also, laid down thenewspaper, 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, thatit was very low pitched, and that the ceiling was crooked. He then made hisbow, 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 atthe cottage, absolutely refused on her own account; her daughters might do asthey pleased. But they had no curiosity to see how Mr. and Mrs. Palmer atetheir dinner, and no expectation of pleasure from them in any other way. Theyattempted, therefore, likewise, to excuse themselves; the weather wasuncertain, and not likely to be good. But Sir John would not besatisfied—the carriage should be sent for them and they must come. LadyMiddleton too, though she did not press their mother, pressed them. Mrs.Jennings and Mrs. Palmer joined their entreaties, all seemed equally anxious toavoid 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 hardterms, if we are to dine at the park whenever any one is staying either withthem, 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 thema few weeks ago. The alteration is not in them, if their parties are growntedious 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 onedoor, Mrs. Palmer came running in at the other, looking as good humoured andmerry as before. She took them all most affectionately by the hand, andexpressed great delight in seeing them again.

“I am so glad to see you!” said she, seating herself between Elinorand 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, forthe Westons come to us next week you know. It was quite a sudden thing ourcoming at all, and I knew nothing of it till the carriage was coming to thedoor, and then Mr. Palmer asked me if I would go with him to Barton. He is sodroll! 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 shallbe quite disappointed if you do not. I could get the nicest house in the worldfor you, next door to ours, in Hanover-square. You must come, indeed. I am sureI 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 thenentered the room—“you must help me to persuade the Miss Dashwoodsto go to town this winter.”

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

“How horrid all this is!” said he. “Such weather makes everything and every body disgusting. Dullness is as much produced within doors aswithout, by rain. It makes one detest all one’s acquaintance. What thedevil does Sir John mean by not having a billiard room in his house? How fewpeople 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 notbeen 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; “forwe know all about it, I assure you; and I admire your taste very much, for Ithink he is extremely handsome. We do not live a great way from him in thecountry, 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; butthey 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 herinterest in what was said.

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

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

“My dear,” said he to his lady, “it is very provoking that weshould 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, thatit could not be done? They dined with us last.”

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

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

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

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

“Ay, you may abuse me as you please,” said the good-natured oldlady, “you have taken Charlotte off my hands, and cannot give her backagain. 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 mustlive together. It was impossible for any one to be more thoroughlygood-natured, or more determined to be happy than Mrs. Palmer. The studiedindifference, insolence, and discontent of her husband gave her no pain; andwhen 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 forbeing so genuinely and unaffectedly ill-natured or ill-bred as he wished toappear. His temper might perhaps be a little soured by finding, like manyothers of his sex, that through some unaccountable bias in favour of beauty, hewas the husband of a very silly woman—but she knew that this kind ofblunder was too common for any sensible man to be lastingly hurt by it.It was rather a wish of distinction, she believed, which produced hiscontemptuous treatment of every body, and his general abuse of every thingbefore him. It was the desire of appearing superior to other people. The motivewas too common to be wondered at; but the means, however they might succeed byestablishing his superiority in ill-breeding, were not likely to attach any oneto 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 comeand spend some time at Cleveland this Christmas? Now, pray do,—and comewhile the Westons are with us. You cannot think how happy I shall be! It willbe quite delightful!—My love,” applying to her husband,“don’t you long to have the Miss Dashwoods come toCleveland?”

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

“There now,”—said his lady, “you see Mr. Palmer expectsyou; 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 allthings. The Westons will be with us, and it will be quite delightful. Youcannot 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; andso many people came to dine with us that I never saw before, it is quitecharming! But, poor fellow! it is very fatiguing to him! for he is forced tomake every body like him.”

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

“How charming it will be,” said Charlotte, “when he is inParliament!—won’t it? How I shall laugh! It will be so ridiculousto see all his letters directed to him with an M.P.—But do you know, hesays, 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—“hesays 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 comesout with something so droll—all about any thing in the world.”

She surprised Elinor very much as they returned into the drawing-room, byasking 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 cometo Cleveland.—I can’t imagine why you should object to it.”

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

“Oh dear, yes; I know him extremely well,” replied Mrs.Palmer;—“Not that I ever spoke to him, indeed; but I have seen himfor ever in town. Somehow or other I never happened to be staying at Bartonwhile he was at Allenham. Mama saw him here once before;—but I was withmy uncle at Weymouth. However, I dare say we should have seen a great deal ofhim in Somersetshire, if it had not happened very unluckily that we shouldnever 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 knowwhy you inquire about him, very well; your sister is to marry him. I ammonstrous glad of it, for then I shall have her for a neighbour youknow.”

“Upon my word,” replied Elinor, “you know much more of thematter 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 bodytalks 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 inBond-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 youmust be mistaken. To give such intelligence to a person who could not beinterested in it, even if it were true, is not what I should expect ColonelBrandon to do.”

“But I do assure you it was so, for all that, and I will tell you how ithappened. When we met him, he turned back and walked with us; and so we begantalking 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, andmama sends me word they are very pretty, and that one of them is going to bemarried to Mr. Willoughby of Combe Magna. Is it true, pray? for of course youmust 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, Ideclare! 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 sayfine things of you.”

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

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

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

“Oh! yes, extremely well; that is, I do not believe many people areacquainted with him, because Combe Magna is so far off; but they all think himextremely agreeable I assure you. Nobody is more liked than Mr. Willoughbywherever he goes, and so you may tell your sister. She is a monstrous luckygirl to get him, upon my honour; not but that he is much more lucky in gettingher, because she is so very handsome and agreeable, that nothing can be goodenough for her. However, I don’t think her hardly at all handsomer thanyou, 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,” continuedCharlotte.—“And now I hope we shall always be great friends. Youcan’t think how much I longed to see you! It is so delightful that youshould live at the cottage! Nothing can be like it, to be sure! And I am soglad your sister is going to be well married! I hope you will be a great dealat 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 particularfriend 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 andLady Middleton wished it very much. But mama did not think the match goodenough for me, otherwise Sir John would have mentioned it to the Colonel, andwe should have been married immediately.”

“Did not Colonel Brandon know of Sir John’s proposal to your motherbefore 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 haveliked it of all things. He had not seen me then above twice, for it was beforeI left school. However, I am much happier as I am. Mr. Palmer is the kind ofman I like.”

CHAPTER XXI.

The Palmers returned to Cleveland the next day, and the two families at Bartonwere again left to entertain each other. But this did not last long; Elinor hadhardly got their last visitors out of her head, had hardly done wondering atCharlotte’s being so happy without a cause, at Mr. Palmer’s actingso simply, with good abilities, and at the strange unsuitableness which oftenexisted between husband and wife, before Sir John’s and Mrs.Jennings’s active zeal in the cause of society, procured her some othernew 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, andthis was enough for Sir John to invite them directly to the park, as soon astheir present engagements at Exeter were over. Their engagements at Exeterinstantly gave way before such an invitation, and Lady Middleton was throwninto no little alarm on the return of Sir John, by hearing that she was verysoon to receive a visit from two girls whom she had never seen in her life, andof whose elegance,—whose tolerable gentility even, she could have noproof; for the assurances of her husband and mother on that subject went fornothing at all. Their being her relations too made it so much the worse; andMrs. Jennings’s attempts at consolation were therefore unfortunatelyfounded, when she advised her daughter not to care about their being sofashionable; because they were all cousins and must put up with one another. Asit was impossible, however, now to prevent their coming, Lady Middletonresigned herself to the idea of it, with all the philosophy of a well-bredwoman, contenting herself with merely giving her husband a gentle reprimand onthe subject five or six times every day.

The young ladies arrived: their appearance was by no means ungenteel orunfashionable. Their dress was very smart, their manners very civil, they weredelighted with the house, and in raptures with the furniture, and they happenedto be so doatingly fond of children that Lady Middleton’s good opinionwas engaged in their favour before they had been an hour at the Park. Shedeclared them to be very agreeable girls indeed, which for her ladyship wasenthusiastic admiration. Sir John’s confidence in his own judgment rosewith this animated praise, and he set off directly for the cottage to tell theMiss Dashwoods of the Miss Steeles’ arrival, and to assure them of theirbeing 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 inthe world were to be met with in every part of England, under every possiblevariation of form, face, temper and understanding. Sir John wanted the wholefamily 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 tohimself.

“Do come now,” said he—“pray come—you mustcome—I declare you shall come—You can’t think how you willlike them. Lucy is monstrous pretty, and so good humoured and agreeable! Thechildren 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 thatyou are the most beautiful creatures in the world; and I have told them it isall very true, and a great deal more. You will be delighted with them I amsure. 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. Youare my cousins, and they are my wife’s, soyou must be related.”

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

When their promised visit to the Park and consequent introduction to theseyoung ladies took place, they found in the appearance of the eldest, who wasnearly 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, theyacknowledged considerable beauty; her features were pretty, and she had a sharpquick eye, and a smartness of air, which though it did not give actual eleganceor grace, gave distinction to her person. Their manners were particularlycivil, and Elinor soon allowed them credit for some kind of sense, when she sawwith what constant and judicious attention they were making themselvesagreeable to Lady Middleton. With her children they were in continual raptures,extolling their beauty, courting their notice, and humouring their whims; andsuch of their time as could be spared from the importunate demands which thispoliteness made on it, was spent in admiration of whatever her ladyship wasdoing, if she happened to be doing any thing, or in taking patterns of someelegant new dress, in which her appearance the day before had thrown them intounceasing delight. Fortunately for those who pay their court through suchfoibles, a fond mother, though, in pursuit of praise for her children, the mostrapacious of human beings, is likewise the most credulous; her demands areexorbitant; but she will swallow any thing; and the excessive affection andendurance of the Miss Steeles towards her offspring were viewed therefore byLady Middleton without the smallest surprise or distrust. She saw with maternalcomplacency all the impertinent encroachments and mischievous tricks to whichher cousins submitted. She saw their sashes untied, their hair pulled abouttheir ears, their work-bags searched, and their knives and scissors stolenaway, and felt no doubt of its being a reciprocal enjoyment. It suggested noother 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 MissSteeles’s pocket handkerchief, and throwing it out ofwindow—“He is full of monkey tricks.”

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

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

But unfortunately in bestowing these embraces, a pin in her ladyship’shead dress slightly scratching the child’s neck, produced from thispattern of gentleness such violent screams, as could hardly be outdone by anycreature professedly noisy. The mother’s consternation was excessive; butit could not surpass the alarm of the Miss Steeles, and every thing was done byall three, in so critical an emergency, which affection could suggest as likelyto assuage the agonies of the little sufferer. She was seated in hermother’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 mouthstuffed with sugar plums by the other. With such a reward for her tears, thechild was too wise to cease crying. She still screamed and sobbed lustily,kicked her two brothers for offering to touch her, and all their unitedsoothings were ineffectual till Lady Middleton luckily remembering that in ascene of similar distress last week, some apricot marmalade had beensuccessfully applied for a bruised temple, the same remedy was eagerly proposedfor this unfortunate scratch, and a slight intermission of screams in the younglady on hearing it, gave them reason to hope that it would not be rejected. Shewas carried out of the room therefore in her mother’s arms, in quest ofthis medicine, and as the two boys chose to follow, though earnestly entreatedby their mother to stay behind, the four young ladies were left in a quietnesswhich the room had not known for many hours.

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

“Yet I hardly know how,” cried Marianne, “unless it had beenunder totally different circumstances. But this is the usual way of heighteningalarm, 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 oftelling lies when politeness required it, always fell. She did her best whenthus 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 charmingman he is!”

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

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

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

“I have a notion,” said Lucy, “you think the littleMiddletons 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 childrenfull 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, whoseemed very much disposed for conversation, and who now said rather abruptly,“And how do you like Devonshire, Miss Dashwood? I suppose you were verysorry to leave Sussex.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nay, my dear, I’m sure I don’t pretend to say that therean’t. I’m sure there’s a vast many smart beaux in Exeter; butyou know, how could I tell what smart beaux there might be about Norland; and Iwas only afraid the Miss Dashwoods might find it dull at Barton, if they hadnot so many as they used to have. But perhaps you young ladies may not careabout the beaux, and had as lief be without them as with them. For my part, Ithink 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. Roseat 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 beseen. I suppose your brother was quite a beau, Miss Dashwood, before hemarried, as he was so rich?”

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

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

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

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

Not so the Miss Steeles. They came from Exeter, well provided with admirationfor the use of Sir John Middleton, his family, and all his relations, and noniggardly proportion was now dealt out to his fair cousins, whom they declaredto be the most beautiful, elegant, accomplished, and agreeable girls they hadever beheld, and with whom they were particularly anxious to be betteracquainted. And to be better acquainted therefore, Elinor soon found was theirinevitable 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 mustbe submitted to, which consists of sitting an hour or two together in the sameroom almost every day. Sir John could do no more; but he did not know that anymore was required: to be together was, in his opinion, to be intimate, andwhile his continual schemes for their meeting were effectual, he had not adoubt 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 hiscousins’ situations in the most delicate particulars; and Elinor had notseen them more than twice, before the eldest of them wished her joy on hersister’s having been so lucky as to make a conquest of a very smart beausince she came to Barton.

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

Elinor could not suppose that Sir John would be more nice in proclaiming hissuspicions 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 andmore conjectural; and since Edward’s visit, they had never dined togetherwithout his drinking to her best affections with so much significancy and somany nods and winks, as to excite general attention. The letter F—hadbeen likewise invariably brought forward, and found productive of suchcountless jokes, that its character as the wittiest letter in the alphabet hadbeen long established with Elinor.

The Miss Steeles, as she expected, had now all the benefit of these jokes, andin the eldest of them they raised a curiosity to know the name of the gentlemanalluded to, which, though often impertinently expressed, was perfectly of apiece with her general inquisitiveness into the concerns of their family. ButSir John did not sport long with the curiosity which he delighted to raise, forhe had at least as much pleasure in telling the name, as Miss Steele had inhearing 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 happyman, is he? What! your sister-in-law’s brother, Miss Dashwood? a veryagreeable young man to be sure; I know him very well.”

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

Elinor heard all this with attention and surprise. “And who was thisuncle? Where did he live? How came they acquainted?” She wished very muchto 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, shethought Mrs. Jennings deficient either in curiosity after petty information, orin a disposition to communicate it. The manner in which Miss Steele had spokenof Edward, increased her curiosity; for it struck her as being ratherill-natured, and suggested the suspicion of that lady’s knowing, orfancying herself to know something to his disadvantage.—But her curiositywas unavailing, for no farther notice was taken of Mr. Ferrars’s name byMiss 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, wasat this time particularly ill-disposed, from the state of her spirits, to bepleased with the Miss Steeles, or to encourage their advances; and to theinvariable coldness of her behaviour towards them, which checked everyendeavour at intimacy on their side, Elinor principally attributed thatpreference of herself which soon became evident in the manners of both, butespecially of Lucy, who missed no opportunity of engaging her in conversation,or of striving to improve their acquaintance by an easy and frank communicationof her sentiments.

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

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

Elinor didthink the question a very odd one, and her countenanceexpressed it, as she answered that she had never seen Mrs. Ferrars.

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

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

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

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 somehesitation,

“I cannot bear to have you think me impertinently curious. I am sure Iwould rather do any thing in the world than be thought so by a person whosegood opinion is so well worth having as yours. And I am sure I should not havethe smallest fear of trusting you;indeed, I should be very glad of youradvice 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 toknow 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 Inever understood that you were at all connected with that family, and thereforeI am a little surprised, I confess, at so serious an inquiry into hercharacter.”

“I dare say you are, and I am sure I do not at all wonder at it. But if Idared tell you all, you would not be so much surprised. Mrs. Ferrars iscertainly nothing to me at present—but the time maycome—howsoon it will come must depend upon herself—when we may be very intimatelyconnected.”

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

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

“No,” replied Lucy, “not to Mr. RobertFerrars—Inever saw him in my life; but,” fixing her eyes upon Elinor, “tohis eldest brother.”

What felt Elinor at that moment? Astonishment, that would have been as painfulas 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 orobject of such a declaration; and though her complexion varied, she stood firmin incredulity, and felt in no danger of an hysterical fit, or a swoon.

“You may well be surprised,” continued Lucy; “for to be sureyou could have had no idea of it before; for I dare say he never dropped thesmallest hint of it to you or any of your family; because it was always meantto be a great secret, and I am sure has been faithfully kept so by me to thishour. Not a soul of all my relations know of it but Anne, and I never shouldhave mentioned it to you, if I had not felt the greatest dependence in theworld upon your secrecy; and I really thought my behaviour in asking so manyquestions 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 trustedyou, 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 ownsisters.”—She paused.

Elinor for a few moments remained silent. Her astonishment at what she heardwas at first too great for words; but at length forcing herself to speak, andto speak cautiously, she said, with calmness of manner, which tolerably wellconcealed her surprise and solicitude—“May I ask if your engagementis 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 acquaintedtill the other day.”

“Our acquaintance, however, is of many years date. He was under myuncle’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 stayingwith my uncle, and it was there our engagement was formed, though not till ayear after he had quitted as a pupil; but he was almost always with usafterwards. I was very unwilling to enter into it, as you may imagine, withoutthe knowledge and approbation of his mother; but I was too young, and loved himtoo well, to be so prudent as I ought to have been. Though you do not know himso well as me, Miss Dashwood, you must have seen enough of him to be sensiblehe is very capable of making a woman sincerely attached to him.”

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

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

“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 hasbeen to keep the matter secret. You knew nothing of me, or my family, and,therefore, there could be no occasionfor ever mentioning my name toyou; and, as he was always particularly afraid of his sister’s suspectingany thing, thatwas reason enough for his not mentioning it.”

She was silent.—Elinor’s security sunk; but her self-command didnot 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 herpocket, she added, “To prevent the possibility of mistake, be so good asto look at this face. It does not do him justice, to be sure, but yet I thinkyou cannot be deceived as to the person it was drew for.—I have had itabove 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 ofdetecting falsehood might suffer to linger in her mind, she could have none ofits being Edward’s face. She returned it almost instantly, acknowledgingthe likeness.

“I have never been able,” continued Lucy, “to give him mypicture in return, which I am very much vexed at, for he has been always soanxious to get it! But I am determined to set for it the very firstopportunity.”

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

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

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

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

“I was afraid you would think I was taking a great liberty withyou,” said she, “in telling you all this. I have not known you longto be sure, personally at least, but I have known you and all your family bydescription a great while; and as soon as I saw you, I felt almost as if youwas an old acquaintance. Besides in the present case, I really thought someexplanation was due to you after my making such particular inquiries aboutEdward’s mother; and I am so unfortunate, that I have not a creaturewhose advice I can ask. Anne is the only person that knows of it, and she hasno judgment at all; indeed, she does me a great deal more harm than good, for Iam in constant fear of her betraying me. She does not know how to hold hertongue, as you must perceive, and I am sure I was in the greatest fright in theworld 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 inmy mind from it altogether. I only wonder that I am alive after what I havesuffered for Edward’s sake these last four years. Every thing in suchsuspense and uncertainty; and seeing him so seldom—we can hardly meetabove 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 thinkwhether it would not be better for us both to break off the matterentirely.” As she said this, she looked directly at her companion.“But then at other times I have not resolution enough for it. I cannotbear the thoughts of making him so miserable, as I know the very mention ofsuch a thing would do. And on my own account too—so dear as he is tome—I don’t think I could be equal to it. What would you advise meto do in such a case, Miss Dashwood? What would you do yourself?”

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

“To be sure,” continued Lucy, after a few minutes silence on bothsides, “his mother must provide for him sometime or other; but poorEdward is so cast down by it! Did you not think him dreadful low-spirited whenhe was at Barton? He was so miserable when he left us at Longstaple, to go toyou, 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 camedirectly from town?”

“No,” replied Elinor, most feelingly sensible of every freshcircumstance 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 nothingfarther of those friends, at his total silence with respect even to theirnames.

“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 thematter; but it made him so melancholy, not being able to stay more than afortnight with us, and seeing me so much affected. Poor fellow! I am afraid itis just the same with him now; for he writes in wretched spirits. I heard fromhim just before I left Exeter;” taking a letter from her pocket andcarelessly showing the direction to Elinor. “You know his hand, I daresay,—a charming one it is; but that is not written so well as usual. Hewas tired, I dare say, for he had just filled the sheet to me as full aspossible.”

Elinor saw that it washis hand, and she could doubt no longer. Thispicture, she had allowed herself to believe, might have been accidentallyobtained; it might not have been Edward’s gift; but a correspondencebetween them by letter, could subsist only under a positive engagement, couldbe authorised by nothing else; for a few moments, she was almostovercome—her heart sunk within her, and she could hardly stand; butexertion was indispensably necessary; and she struggled so resolutely againstthe oppression of her feelings, that her success was speedy, and for the timecomplete.

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

“I did,” said Elinor, with a composure of voice, under which wasconcealed 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 conversationcould be continued no farther. After sitting with them a few minutes, the MissSteeles returned to the Park, and Elinor was then at liberty to think and bewretched.

END OF THE FIRST VOLUME

CHAPTER XXIII.

However small Elinor’s general dependence on Lucy’s veracity mightbe, it was impossible for her on serious reflection to suspect it in thepresent case, where no temptation could be answerable to the folly of inventinga 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 onevery side by such probabilities and proofs, and contradicted by nothing buther own wishes. Their opportunity of acquaintance in the house of Mr. Pratt wasa foundation for the rest, at once indisputable and alarming; andEdward’s visit near Plymouth, his melancholy state of mind, hisdissatisfaction at his own prospects, his uncertain behaviour towards herself,the intimate knowledge of the Miss Steeles as to Norland and their familyconnections, which had often surprised her, the picture, the letter, the ring,formed altogether such a body of evidence, as overcame every fear of condemninghim unfairly, and established as a fact, which no partiality could set aside,his ill-treatment of herself.—Her resentment of such behaviour, herindignation at having been its dupe, for a short time made her feel only forherself; but other ideas, other considerations, soon arose. Had Edward beenintentionally deceiving her? Had he feigned a regard for her which he did notfeel? Was his engagement to Lucy an engagement of the heart? No; whatever itmight once have been, she could not believe it such at present. His affectionwas 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 illusionof her own vanity. He certainly loved her. What a softener of the heart wasthis persuasion! How much could it not tempt her to forgive! He had beenblamable, highly blamable, in remaining at Norland after he first felt herinfluence over him to be more than it ought to be. In that, he could not bedefended; but if he had injured her, how much more had he injured himself; ifher case were pitiable, his was hopeless. His imprudence had made her miserablefor a while; but it seemed to have deprived himself of all chance of ever beingotherwise. She might in time regain tranquillity; but he, what had he tolook 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, hisdelicacy, and well-informed mind, be satisfied with a wife likeher—illiterate, artful, and selfish?

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

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

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

The necessity of concealing from her mother and Marianne, what had beenentrusted in confidence to herself, though it obliged her to unceasingexertion, was no aggravation of Elinor’s distress. On the contrary it wasa relief to her, to be spared the communication of what would give suchaffliction to them, and to be saved likewise from hearing that condemnation ofEdward, which would probably flow from the excess of their partial affectionfor herself, and which was more than she felt equal to support.

From their counsel, or their conversation, she knew she could receive noassistance, their tenderness and sorrow must add to her distress, while herself-command would neither receive encouragement from their example nor fromtheir praise. She was stronger alone, and her own good sense so well supportedher, that her firmness was as unshaken, her appearance of cheerfulness asinvariable, as with regrets so poignant and so fresh, it was possible for themto 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 thanone. She wanted to hear many particulars of their engagement repeated again,she wanted more clearly to understand what Lucy really felt for Edward, whetherthere were any sincerity in her declaration of tender regard for him, and sheparticularly wanted to convince Lucy, by her readiness to enter on the matteragain, and her calmness in conversing on it, that she was no otherwiseinterested in it than as a friend, which she very much feared her involuntaryagitation, in their morning discourse, must have left at least doubtful. ThatLucy was disposed to be jealous of her appeared very probable: it was plainthat Edward had always spoken highly in her praise, not merely fromLucy’s assertion, but from her venturing to trust her on so short apersonal acquaintance, with a secret so confessedly and evidently important.And even Sir John’s joking intelligence must have had some weight. Butindeed, while Elinor remained so well assured within herself of being reallybeloved by Edward, it required no other consideration of probabilities to makeit natural that Lucy should be jealous; and that she was so, her veryconfidence was a proof. What other reason for the disclosure of the affaircould there be, but that Elinor might be informed by it of Lucy’ssuperior claims on Edward, and be taught to avoid him in future? She had littledifficulty in understanding thus much of her rival’s intentions, andwhile she was firmly resolved to act by her as every principle of honour andhonesty directed, to combat her own affection for Edward and to see him aslittle as possible; she could not deny herself the comfort of endeavouring toconvince Lucy that her heart was unwounded. And as she could now have nothingmore painful to hear on the subject than had already been told, she did notmistrust her own ability of going through a repetition of particulars withcomposure.

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 thatoccurred; for the weather was not often fine enough to allow of their joiningin 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 ofconversation. Such a thought would never enter either Sir John or LadyMiddleton’s head; and therefore very little leisure was ever given for ageneral chat, and none at all for particular discourse. They met for the sakeof 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 anychance of engaging Lucy in private, when Sir John called at the cottage onemorning, to beg, in the name of charity, that they would all dine with LadyMiddleton that day, as he was obliged to attend the club at Exeter, and shewould 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 aparty as this was likely to be, more at liberty among themselves under thetranquil and well-bred direction of Lady Middleton than when her husband unitedthem together in one noisy purpose, immediately accepted the invitation;Margaret, with her mother’s permission, was equally compliant, andMarianne, though always unwilling to join any of their parties, was persuadedby her mother, who could not bear to have her seclude herself from any chanceof amusement, to go likewise.

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

“I am glad,” said Lady Middleton to Lucy, “you are not goingto finish poor little Annamaria’s basket this evening; for I am sure itmust hurt your eyes to work filigree by candlelight. And we will make the dearlittle love some amends for her disappointment to-morrow, and then I hope shewill 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 toknow whether you can make your party without me, or I should have been at myfiligree 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 basketafter supper.”

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

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

Lady Middleton proposed a rubber of Casino to the others. No one made anyobjection but Marianne, who with her usual inattention to the forms of generalcivility, exclaimed, “Your Ladyship will have the goodness to excuseme—you know I detest cards. I shall go to the piano-forte; I havenot touched it since it was tuned.” And without farther ceremony, sheturned away and walked to the instrument.

Lady Middleton looked as if she thanked heaven that shehad never madeso 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 tonedpiano-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; andthere is so much still to be done to the basket, that it must be impossible Ithink for her labour singly, to finish it this evening. I should like the workexceedingly, if she would allow me a share in it.”

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

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

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

Elinor joyfully profited by the first of these proposals, and thus by a littleof that address which Marianne could never condescend to practise, gained herown end, and pleased Lady Middleton at the same time. Lucy made room for herwith ready attention, and the two fair rivals were thus seated side by side atthe same table, and, with the utmost harmony, engaged in forwarding the samework. The pianoforte at which Marianne, wrapped up in her own music and her ownthoughts, had by this time forgotten that any body was in the room besidesherself, was luckily so near them that Miss Dashwood now judged she mightsafely, 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, ifI felt no desire for its continuance, or no farther curiosity on its subject. Iwill not apologize therefore for bringing it forward again.”

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

“Offended me! How could you suppose so? Believe me,” and Elinorspoke it with the truest sincerity, “nothing could be farther from myintention 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 fullof meaning, “there seemed to me to be a coldness and displeasure in yourmanner that made me quite uncomfortable. I felt sure that you was angry withme; and have been quarrelling with myself ever since, for having took such aliberty as to trouble you with my affairs. But I am very glad to find it wasonly my own fancy, and that you really do not blame me. If you knew what aconsolation it was to me to relieve my heart speaking to you of what I amalways thinking of every moment of my life, your compassion would make youoverlook every thing else I am sure.”

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

“He has only two thousand pounds of his own; it would be madness to marryupon that, though for my own part, I could give up every prospect of morewithout a sigh. I have been always used to a very small income, and couldstruggle with any poverty for him; but I love him too well to be the selfishmeans of robbing him, perhaps, of all that his mother might give him if hemarried to please her. We must wait, it may be for many years. With almostevery other man in the world, it would be an alarming prospect; butEdward’s affection and constancy nothing can deprive me of I know.”

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

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

“Edward’s love for me,” said Lucy, “has been prettywell put to the test, by our long, very long absence since we were firstengaged, and it has stood the trial so well, that I should be unpardonable todoubt it now. I can safely say that he has never gave me one moment’salarm 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 fromour different situations in life, from his being so much more in the world thanme, and our continual separation, I was enough inclined for suspicion, to havefound out the truth in an instant, if there had been the slightest alterationin his behaviour to me when we met, or any lowness of spirits that I could notaccount for, or if he had talked more of one lady than another, or seemed inany respect less happy at Longstaple than he used to be. I do not mean to saythat I am particularly observant or quick-sighted in general, but in such acase I am sure I could not be deceived.”

“All this,” thought Elinor, “is very pretty; but it canimpose 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 amelancholy and shocking extremity?—Is her son determined to submit tothis, and to all the tediousness of the many years of suspense in which it mayinvolve you, rather than run the risk of her displeasure for a while by owningthe 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 uponhearing it, would very likely secure every thing to Robert, and the idea ofthat, for Edward’s sake, frightens away all my inclination for hastymeasures.”

“And for your own sake too, or you are carrying your disinterestednessbeyond 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 hisbrother—silly and a great coxcomb.”

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

“No sister,” cried Lucy, “you are mistaken there, ourfavourite beaux are notgreat coxcombs.”

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

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

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

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

“I should always be happy,” replied Elinor, “to show any markof my esteem and friendship for Mr. Ferrars; but do you not perceive that myinterest on such an occasion would be perfectly unnecessary? He is brother toMrs. John Dashwood—thatmust be recommendation enough to herhusband.”

“But Mrs. John Dashwood would not much approve of Edward’s goinginto 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 deepsigh,

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

“No,” answered Elinor, with a smile, which concealed very agitatedfeelings, “on such a subject I certainly will not. You know very wellthat my opinion would have no weight with you, unless it were on the side ofyour wishes.”

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

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

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

Elinor thought it wisest to make no answer to this, lest they might provokeeach other to an unsuitable increase of ease and unreserve; and was even partlydetermined never to mention the subject again. Another pause therefore of manyminutes’ duration, succeeded this speech, and Lucy was still the first toend it.

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

“Certainly not.”

“I am sorry for that,” returned the other, while her eyesbrightened at the information, “it would have gave me such pleasure tomeet you there! But I dare say you will go for all that. To be sure, yourbrother 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. Anneand me are to go the latter end of January to some relations who have beenwanting us to visit them these several years! But I only go for the sake ofseeing Edward. He will be there in February, otherwise London would have nocharms 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, towhich both of them submitted without any reluctance, for nothing had been saidon 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 thatEdward 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, whichsincere affection on herside would have given, for self-interest alonecould induce a woman to keep a man to an engagement, of which she seemed sothoroughly aware that he was weary.

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

The visit of the Miss Steeles at Barton Park was lengthened far beyond what thefirst invitation implied. Their favour increased; they could not be spared; SirJohn would not hear of their going; and in spite of their numerous and longarranged engagements in Exeter, in spite of the absolute necessity of returningto 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 inthe due celebration of that festival which requires a more than ordinary shareof 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 yearat the houses of her children and friends, she was not without a settledhabitation of her own. Since the death of her husband, who had traded withsuccess in a less elegant part of the town, she had resided every winter in ahouse in one of the streets near Portman Square. Towards this home, she beganon the approach of January to turn her thoughts, and thither she one dayabruptly, and very unexpectedly by them, asked the elder Misses Dashwood toaccompany her. Elinor, without observing the varying complexion of her sister,and the animated look which spoke no indifference to the plan, immediately gavea grateful but absolute denial for both, in which she believed herself to bespeaking their united inclinations. The reason alleged was their determinedresolution of not leaving their mother at that time of the year. Mrs. Jenningsreceived the refusal with some surprise, and repeated her invitationimmediately.

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

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

“Nay,” cried Mrs. Jennings, “I am sure I shall be monstrousglad 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 forthem to be together; because, if they got tired of me, they might talk to oneanother, and laugh at my odd ways behind my back. But one or the other, if notboth of them, I must have. Lord bless me! how do you think I can live poking bymyself, 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 Dashwoodwill 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 itwould give me such happiness, yes, almost the greatest happiness I am capableof, to be able to accept it. But my mother, my dearest, kindest mother,—Ifeel the justice of what Elinor has urged, and if she were to be made lesshappy, less comfortable by our absence—Oh! no, nothing should tempt me toleave her. It should not, must not be a struggle.”

Mrs. Jennings repeated her assurance that Mrs. Dashwood could spare themperfectly well; and Elinor, who now understood her sister, and saw to whatindifference to almost every thing else she was carried by her eagerness to bewith Willoughby again, made no farther direct opposition to the plan, andmerely referred it to her mother’s decision, from whom however shescarcely 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 shehad particular reasons to avoid. Whatever Marianne was desirous of, her motherwould be eager to promote—she could not expect to influence the latter tocautiousness of conduct in an affair respecting which she had never been ableto inspire her with distrust; and she dared not explain the motive of her owndisinclination for going to London. That Marianne, fastidious as she was,thoroughly acquainted with Mrs. Jennings’ manners, and invariablydisgusted by them, should overlook every inconvenience of that kind, shoulddisregard whatever must be most wounding to her irritable feelings, in herpursuit of one object, was such a proof, so strong, so full, of the importanceof that object to her, as Elinor, in spite of all that had passed, was notprepared to witness.

On being informed of the invitation, Mrs. Dashwood, persuaded that such anexcursion would be productive of much amusement to both her daughters, andperceiving through all her affectionate attention to herself, how much theheart of Marianne was in it, would not hear of their declining the offer uponheraccount; insisted on their both accepting it directly; and thenbegan to foresee, with her usual cheerfulness, a variety of advantages thatwould accrue to them all, from this separation.

“I am delighted with the plan,” she cried, “it is exactlywhat I could wish. Margaret and I shall be as much benefited by it asyourselves. When you and the Middletons are gone, we shall go on so quietly andhappily together with our books and our music! You will find Margaret soimproved when you come back again! I have a little plan of alteration for yourbedrooms too, which may now be performed without any inconvenience to any one.It is very right that you shouldgo to town; I would have every youngwoman of your condition in life acquainted with the manners and amusements ofLondon. You will be under the care of a motherly good sort of woman, of whosekindness to you I can have no doubt. And in all probability you will see yourbrother, and whatever may be his faults, or the faults of his wife, when Iconsider whose son he is, I cannot bear to have you so wholly estranged fromeach other.”

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

Marianne’s countenance sunk.

“And what,” said Mrs. Dashwood, “is my dear prudent Elinorgoing to suggest? What formidable obstacle is she now to bring forward? Do notlet me hear a word about the expense of it.”

“My objection is this; though I think very well of Mrs. Jennings’sheart, she is not a woman whose society can afford us pleasure, or whoseprotection 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 unpleasantnessof that kind with very little effort.”

Elinor could not help smiling at this display of indifference towards themanners of a person, to whom she had often had difficulty in persuadingMarianne to behave with tolerable politeness; and resolved within herself, thatif her sister persisted in going, she would go likewise, as she did not thinkit proper that Marianne should be left to the sole guidance of her ownjudgment, or that Mrs. Jennings should be abandoned to the mercy of Mariannefor all the comfort of her domestic hours. To this determination she was themore easily reconciled, by recollecting that Edward Ferrars, by Lucy’saccount, was not to be in town before February; and that their visit, withoutany unreasonable abridgement, might be previously finished.

“I will have you bothgo,” said Mrs. Dashwood; “theseobjections are nonsensical. You will have much pleasure in being in London, andespecially in being together; and if Elinor would ever condescend to anticipateenjoyment, she would foresee it there from a variety of sources; she would,perhaps, expect some from improving her acquaintance with hersister-in-law’s family.”

Elinor had often wished for an opportunity of attempting to weaken hermother’s dependence on the attachment of Edward and herself, that theshock 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 bysaying, as calmly as she could, “I like Edward Ferrars very much, andshall always be glad to see him; but as to the rest of the family, it is amatter of perfect indifference to me, whether I am ever known to them ornot.”

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

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

Elinor submitted to the arrangement which counteracted her wishes with lessreluctance than she had expected to feel. With regard to herself, it was now amatter of unconcern whether she went to town or not, and when she saw hermother so thoroughly pleased with the plan, and her sister exhilarated by it inlook, voice, and manner, restored to all her usual animation, and elevated tomore than her usual gaiety, she could not be dissatisfied with the cause, andwould hardly allow herself to distrust the consequence.

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

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

CHAPTER XXVI.

Elinor could not find herself in the carriage with Mrs. Jennings, and beginninga journey to London under her protection, and as her guest, without wonderingat her own situation, so short had their acquaintance with that lady been, sowholly unsuited were they in age and disposition, and so many had been herobjections against such a measure only a few days before! But these objectionshad all, with that happy ardour of youth which Marianne and her mother equallyshared, been overcome or overlooked; and Elinor, in spite of every occasionaldoubt of Willoughby’s constancy, could not witness the rapture ofdelightful expectation which filled the whole soul and beamed in the eyes ofMarianne, without feeling how blank was her own prospect, how cheerless her ownstate of mind in the comparison, and how gladly she would engage in thesolicitude of Marianne’s situation to have the same animating object inview, the same possibility of hope. A short, a very short time however must nowdecide what Willoughby’s intentions were; in all probability he wasalready in town. Marianne’s eagerness to be gone declared her dependenceon finding him there; and Elinor was resolved not only upon gaining every newlight as to his character which her own observation or the intelligence ofothers could give her, but likewise upon watching his behaviour to her sisterwith 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 beunfavourable, 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—shemust then learn to avoid every selfish comparison, and banish every regretwhich might lessen her satisfaction in the happiness of Marianne.

They were three days on their journey, and Marianne’s behaviour as theytravelled was a happy specimen of what future complaisance andcompanionableness to Mrs. Jennings might be expected to be. She sat in silencealmost all the way, wrapt in her own meditations, and scarcely ever voluntarilyspeaking, except when any object of picturesque beauty within their view drewfrom her an exclamation of delight exclusively addressed to her sister. Toatone for this conduct therefore, Elinor took immediate possession of the postof civility which she had assigned herself, behaved with the greatest attentionto Mrs. Jennings, talked with her, laughed with her, and listened to herwhenever she could; and Mrs. Jennings on her side treated them both with allpossible kindness, was solicitous on every occasion for their ease andenjoyment, and only disturbed that she could not make them choose their owndinners 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 thethird day, glad to be released, after such a journey, from the confinement of acarriage, and ready to enjoy all the luxury of a good fire.

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

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

“I am notgoing 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 theconclusion which as instantly followed was, that, however mysteriously theymight wish to conduct the affair, they must be engaged. This conviction, thoughnot entirely satisfactory, gave her pleasure, and she continued her letter withgreater alacrity. Marianne’s was finished in a very few minutes; inlength it could be no more than a note; it was then folded up, sealed, anddirected with eager rapidity. Elinor thought she could distinguish a large W inthe 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 tothe two-penny post. This decided the matter at once.

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

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

It was too great a shock to be borne with calmness, and she immediately leftthe room. Elinor was disappointed too; but at the same time her regard forColonel Brandon ensured his welcome with her; and she felt particularly hurtthat a man so partial to her sister should perceive that she experiencednothing but grief and disappointment in seeing him. She instantly saw that itwas not unnoticed by him, that he even observed Marianne as she quitted theroom, with such astonishment and concern, as hardly left him the recollectionof 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 decentlyattribute 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 atseeing them in London, making the usual inquiries about their journey, and thefriends they had left behind.

In this calm kind of way, with very little interest on either side, theycontinued to talk, both of them out of spirits, and the thoughts of bothengaged elsewhere. Elinor wished very much to ask whether Willoughby were thenin 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 Londonever since she had seen him last. “Yes,” he replied, with someembarrassment, “almost ever since; I have been once or twice at Delafordfor 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 herremembrance all the circumstances of his quitting that place, with theuneasiness and suspicions they had caused to Mrs. Jennings, and she was fearfulthat her question had implied much more curiosity on the subject than she hadever felt.

Mrs. Jennings soon came in. “Oh! Colonel,” said she, with her usualnoisy cheerfulness, “I am monstrous glad to see you—sorry I couldnot come before—beg your pardon, but I have been forced to look about mea little, and settle my matters; for it is a long while since I have been athome, and you know one has always a world of little odd things to do after onehas 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, howcame you to conjure out that I should be in town today?”

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

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

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

“Ay, to be sure, I thought as much. Well, Colonel, I have brought twoyoung ladies with me, you see—that is, you see but one of them now, butthere is another somewhere. Your friend, Miss Marianne, too—which youwill not be sorry to hear. I do not know what you and Mr. Willoughby will dobetween you about her. Ay, it is a fine thing to be young and handsome. Well! Iwas 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 cando more. Ah! poor man! he has been dead these eight years and better. ButColonel, where have you been to since we parted? And how does your business goon? Come, come, let’s have no secrets among friends.”

He replied with his accustomary mildness to all her inquiries, but withoutsatisfying her in any. Elinor now began to make the tea, and Marianne wasobliged to appear again.

After her entrance, Colonel Brandon became more thoughtful and silent than hehad been before, and Mrs. Jennings could not prevail on him to stay long. Noother visitor appeared that evening, and the ladies were unanimous in agreeingto go early to bed.

Marianne rose the next morning with recovered spirits and happy looks. Thedisappointment of the evening before seemed forgotten in the expectation ofwhat was to happen that day. They had not long finished their breakfast beforeMrs. Palmer’s barouche stopped at the door, and in a few minutes she camelaughing into the room: so delighted to see them all, that it was hard to saywhether she received most pleasure from meeting her mother or the MissDashwoods again. So surprised at their coming to town, though it was what shehad rather expected all along; so angry at their accepting her mother’sinvitation after having declined her own, though at the same time she wouldnever have forgiven them if they had not come!

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

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

Wherever they went, she was evidently always on the watch. In Bond Streetespecially, where much of their business lay, her eyes were in constantinquiry; and in whatever shop the party were engaged, her mind was equallyabstracted from every thing actually before them, from all that interested andoccupied the others. Restless and dissatisfied every where, her sister couldnever obtain her opinion of any article of purchase, however it might equallyconcern them both: she received no pleasure from anything; was only impatientto be at home again, and could with difficulty govern her vexation at thetediousness of Mrs. Palmer, whose eye was caught by every thing pretty,expensive, or new; who was wild to buy all, could determine on none, anddawdled away her time in rapture and indecision.

It was late in the morning before they returned home; and no sooner had theyentered the house than Marianne flew eagerly up stairs, and when Elinorfollowed, 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 sheto the footman who then entered with the parcels. She was answered in thenegative. “Are you quite sure of it?” she replied. “Are youcertain 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 sheturned away to the window.

“How odd, indeed!” repeated Elinor within herself, regarding hersister with uneasiness. “If she had not known him to be in town she wouldnot have written to him, as she did; she would have written to Combe Magna; andif he is in town, how odd that he should neither come nor write! Oh! my dearmother, you must be wrong in permitting an engagement between a daughter soyoung, a man so little known, to be carried on in so doubtful, so mysterious amanner! Ilong to inquire; and how will myinterference beborne.”

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

Mrs. Palmer and two elderly ladies of Mrs. Jennings’s intimateacquaintance, whom she had met and invited in the morning, dined with them. Theformer left them soon after tea to fulfill her evening engagements; and Elinorwas obliged to assist in making a whist table for the others. Marianne was ofno use on these occasions, as she would never learn the game; but though hertime was therefore at her own disposal, the evening was by no means moreproductive of pleasure to her than to Elinor, for it was spent in all theanxiety of expectation and the pain of disappointment. She sometimesendeavoured for a few minutes to read; but the book was soon thrown aside, andshe returned to the more interesting employment of walking backwards andforwards 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, whenthey met at breakfast the following morning, “Sir John will not likeleaving Barton next week; ’tis a sad thing for sportsmen to lose aday’s pleasure. Poor souls! I always pity them when they do; they seem totake it so much to heart.”

“That is true,” cried Marianne, in a cheerful voice, and walking tothe window as she spoke, to examine the day. “I had not thought ofthat. 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 themindeed,” she continued, asshe sat down to the breakfast table with a happy countenance. “How muchthey must enjoy it! But” (with a little return of anxiety) “itcannot be expected to last long. At this time of the year, and after such aseries of rain, we shall certainly have very little more of it. Frosts willsoon set in, and in all probability with severity. In another day or twoperhaps; this extreme mildness can hardly last longer—nay, perhaps it mayfreeze tonight!”

“At any rate,” said Elinor, wishing to prevent Mrs. Jennings fromseeing her sister’s thoughts as clearly as she did, “I dare say weshall 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 ownway.”

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

But if she did, the letter was written and sent away with a privacywhich eluded all her watchfulness to ascertain the fact. Whatever the truth ofit 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 uncomfortableherself. And Marianne was in spirits; happy in the mildness of the weather, andstill 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 Mariannewas all the time busy in observing the direction of the wind, watching thevariations of the sky and imagining an alteration in the air.

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

Elinor was alternately diverted and pained; but Marianne persevered, and sawevery night in the brightness of the fire, and every morning in the appearanceof 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 herbehaviour to themselves, which was invariably kind. Every thing in herhousehold arrangements was conducted on the most liberal plan, and excepting afew old city friends, whom, to Lady Middleton’s regret, she had neverdropped, she visited no one to whom an introduction could at all discompose thefeelings of her young companions. Pleased to find herself more comfortablysituated in that particular than she had expected, Elinor was very willing tocompound 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 toamuse her.

Colonel Brandon, who had a general invitation to the house, was with themalmost every day; he came to look at Marianne and talk to Elinor, who oftenderived more satisfaction from conversing with him than from any other dailyoccurrence, but who saw at the same time with much concern his continued regardfor her sister. She feared it was a strengthening regard. It grieved her to seethe earnestness with which he often watched Marianne, and his spirits werecertainly worse than when at Barton.

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

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

This event, while it raised the spirits of Elinor, restored to those of hersister all, and more than all, their former agitation. From this moment hermind was never quiet; the expectation of seeing him every hour of the day, madeher 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 Streetduring their absence; but a moment’s glance at her sister when theyreturned was enough to inform her, that Willoughby had paid no second visitthere. 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 belonger 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 confidencein no one!”

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

“Nor I,” answered Marianne with energy, “our situations thenare alike. We have neither of us any thing to tell; you, because you do notcommunicate, and I, because I conceal nothing.”

Elinor, distressed by this charge of reserve in herself, which she was not atliberty to do away, knew not how, under such circumstances, to press forgreater 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 thenight before, and requesting the company of her mother and cousins thefollowing evening. Business on Sir John’s part, and a violent cold on herown, prevented their calling in Berkeley Street. The invitation was accepted;but when the hour of appointment drew near, necessary as it was in commoncivility 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 hadseen nothing of Willoughby; and therefore was not more indisposed for amusementabroad, than unwilling to run the risk of his calling again in her absence.

Elinor found, when the evening was over, that disposition is not materiallyaltered by a change of abode, for although scarcely settled in town, Sir Johnhad contrived to collect around him, nearly twenty young people, and to amusethem with a ball. This was an affair, however, of which Lady Middleton did notapprove. In the country, an unpremeditated dance was very allowable; but inLondon, where the reputation of elegance was more important and less easilyattained, it was risking too much for the gratification of a few girls, to haveit 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 seenbefore since their arrival in town, as he was careful to avoid the appearanceof any attention to his mother-in-law, and therefore never came near her, theyreceived 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 fromthe other side of the room. Marianne gave one glance round the apartment as sheentered: it was enough—hewas not there—and she sat down,equally ill-disposed to receive or communicate pleasure. After they had beenassembled about an hour, Mr. Palmer sauntered towards the Miss Dashwoods toexpress his surprise on seeing them in town, though Colonel Brandon had beenfirst informed of their arrival at his house, and he had himself said somethingvery 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 thatevening, and never so much fatigued by the exercise. She complained of it asthey returned to Berkeley Street.

“Aye, aye,” said Mrs. Jennings, “we know the reason of allthat very well; if a certain person who shall be nameless, had been there, youwould not have been a bit tired: and to say the truth it was not very pretty ofhim 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 himsomewhere in the street this morning.” Marianne said no more, but lookedexceedingly hurt. Impatient in this situation to be doing something that mightlead to her sister’s relief, Elinor resolved to write the next morning toher mother, and hoped by awakening her fears for the health of Marianne, toprocure those inquiries which had been so long delayed; and she was still moreeagerly bent on this measure by perceiving after breakfast on the morrow, thatMarianne was again writing to Willoughby, for she could not suppose it to be toany other person.

About the middle of the day, Mrs. Jennings went out by herself on business, andElinor began her letter directly, while Marianne, too restless for employment,too anxious for conversation, walked from one window to the other, or sat downby the fire in melancholy meditation. Elinor was very earnest in herapplication to her mother, relating all that had passed, her suspicions ofWilloughby’s inconstancy, urging her by every plea of duty and affectionto 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 ColonelBrandon was announced. Marianne, who had seen him from the window, and whohated company of any kind, left the room before he entered it. He looked morethan usually grave, and though expressing satisfaction at finding Miss Dashwoodalone, as if he had somewhat in particular to tell her, sat for some timewithout saying a word. Elinor, persuaded that he had some communication to makein which her sister was concerned, impatiently expected its opening. It was notthe first time of her feeling the same kind of conviction; for, more than oncebefore, beginning with the observation of “your sister looks unwellto-day,” or “your sister seems out of spirits,” he hadappeared on the point, either of disclosing, or of inquiring, somethingparticular about her. After a pause of several minutes, their silence wasbroken, by his asking her in a voice of some agitation, when he was tocongratulate her on the acquisition of a brother? Elinor was not prepared forsuch a question, and having no answer ready, was obliged to adopt the simpleand common expedient, of asking what he meant? He tried to smile as he replied,“your sister’s engagement to Mr. Willoughby is very generallyknown.”

“It cannot be generally known,” returned Elinor, “for her ownfamily do not know it.”

He looked surprised and said, “I beg your pardon, I am afraid my inquiryhas been impertinent; but I had not supposed any secrecy intended, as theyopenly 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 youare most intimate, Mrs. Jennings, Mrs. Palmer, and the Middletons. But still Imight not have believed it, for where the mind is perhaps rather unwilling tobe convinced, it will always find something to support its doubts, if I hadnot, 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 finallysettled? Is it impossible to—? But I have no right, and I could have nochance of succeeding. Excuse me, Miss Dashwood. I believe I have been wrong insaying so much, but I hardly know what to do, and on your prudence I have thestrongest dependence. Tell me that it is all absolutely resolved on, that anyattempt, that in short concealment, if concealment be possible, is all thatremains.”

These words, which conveyed to Elinor a direct avowal of his love for hersister, 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 theanswer it would be most proper to give. The real state of things betweenWilloughby and her sister was so little known to herself, that in endeavouringto explain it, she might be as liable to say too much as too little. Yet as shewas convinced that Marianne’s affection for Willoughby, could leave nohope of Colonel Brandon’s success, whatever the event of that affectionmight be, and at the same time wished to shield her conduct from censure, shethought it most prudent and kind, after some consideration, to say more thanshe really knew or believed. She acknowledged, therefore, that though she hadnever been informed by themselves of the terms on which they stood with eachother, of their mutual affection she had no doubt, and of their correspondenceshe was not astonished to hear.

He listened to her with silent attention, and on her ceasing to speak, rosedirectly from his seat, and after saying in a voice of emotion, “to yoursister I wish all imaginable happiness; to Willoughby that he may endeavour todeserve her,”—took leave, and went away.

Elinor derived no comfortable feelings from this conversation, to lessen theuneasiness of her mind on other points; she was left, on the contrary, with amelancholy impression of Colonel Brandon’s unhappiness, and was preventedeven from wishing it removed, by her anxiety for the very event that mustconfirm it.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

Nothing occurred during the next three or four days, to make Elinor regret whatshe 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 aparty, from which Mrs. Jennings was kept away by the indisposition of heryoungest daughter; and for this party, Marianne, wholly dispirited, careless ofher appearance, and seeming equally indifferent whether she went or staid,prepared, without one look of hope or one expression of pleasure. She sat bythe drawing-room fire after tea, till the moment of Lady Middleton’sarrival, without once stirring from her seat, or altering her attitude, lost inher own thoughts, and insensible of her sister’s presence; and when atlast they were told that Lady Middleton waited for them at the door, shestarted 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 stringof carriages before them would allow, alighted, ascended the stairs, heardtheir names announced from one landing-place to another in an audible voice,and entered a room splendidly lit up, quite full of company, and insufferablyhot. When they had paid their tribute of politeness by curtsying to the lady ofthe house, they were permitted to mingle in the crowd, and take their share ofthe heat and inconvenience, to which their arrival must necessarily add. Aftersome time spent in saying little or doing less, Lady Middleton sat down toCassino, and as Marianne was not in spirits for moving about, she and Elinorluckily succeeding to chairs, placed themselves at no great distance from thetable.

They had not remained in this manner long, before Elinor perceived Willoughby,standing within a few yards of them, in earnest conversation with a veryfashionable looking young woman. She soon caught his eye, and he immediatelybowed, but without attempting to speak to her, or to approach Marianne, thoughhe 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 unobservedby her. At that moment she first perceived him, and her whole countenanceglowing with sudden delight, she would have moved towards him instantly, hadnot her sister caught hold of her.

“Good heavens!” she exclaimed, “he is there—he isthere—Oh! why does he not look at me? why cannot I speak to him?”

“Pray, pray be composed,” cried Elinor, “and do not betraywhat you feel to every body present. Perhaps he has not observed youyet.”

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

At last he turned round again, and regarded them both; she started up, andpronouncing his name in a tone of affection, held out her hand to him. Heapproached, and addressing himself rather to Elinor than Marianne, as ifwishing to avoid her eye, and determined not to observe her attitude, inquiredin a hurried manner after Mrs. Dashwood, and asked how long they had been intown. Elinor was robbed of all presence of mind by such an address, and wasunable 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 greatestemotion, “Good God! Willoughby, what is the meaning of this? Have you notreceived my letters? Will you not shake hands with me?”

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

“I did myself the honour of calling in Berkeley Street last Tuesday, andvery 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 wildestanxiety. “Here is some mistake I am sure—some dreadful mistake.What can be the meaning of it? Tell me, Willoughby; for heaven’s saketell 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 beenpreviously talking, he felt the necessity of instant exertion, he recoveredhimself again, and after saying, “Yes, I had the pleasure of receivingthe information of your arrival in town, which you were so good as to sendme,” turned hastily away with a slight bow and joined his friend.

Marianne, now looking dreadfully white, and unable to stand, sunk into herchair, and Elinor, expecting every moment to see her faint, tried to screen herfrom 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—mustspeak to him instantly.—I cannot rest—I shall not have amoment’s peace till this is explained—some dreadful misapprehensionor other. Oh, go to him this moment.”

“How can that be done? No, my dearest Marianne, you must wait. This isnot the place for explanations. Wait only till tomorrow.”

With difficulty however could she prevent her from following him herself; andto persuade her to check her agitation, to wait, at least, with the appearanceof 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 voiceto the misery of her feelings, by exclamations of wretchedness. In a short timeElinor saw Willoughby quit the room by the door towards the staircase, andtelling Marianne that he was gone, urged the impossibility of speaking to himagain that evening, as a fresh argument for her to be calm. She instantlybegged her sister would entreat Lady Middleton to take them home, as she wastoo miserable to stay a minute longer.

Lady Middleton, though in the middle of a rubber, on being informed thatMarianne was unwell, was too polite to object for a moment to her wish of goingaway, and making over her cards to a friend, they departed as soon as thecarriage could be found. Scarcely a word was spoken during their return toBerkeley Street. Marianne was in a silent agony, too much oppressed even fortears; but as Mrs. Jennings was luckily not come home, they could go directlyto their own room, where hartshorn restored her a little to herself. She wassoon undressed and in bed, and as she seemed desirous of being alone, hersister then left her, and while she waited the return of Mrs. Jennings, hadleisure enough for thinking over the past.

That some kind of engagement had subsisted between Willoughby and Marianne shecould not doubt, and that Willoughby was weary of it, seemed equally clear; forhowever Marianne might still feed her own wishes, shecould notattribute such behaviour to mistake or misapprehension of any kind. Nothing buta thorough change of sentiment could account for it. Her indignation would havebeen still stronger than it was, had she not witnessed that embarrassment whichseemed to speak a consciousness of his own misconduct, and prevented her frombelieving him so unprincipled as to have been sporting with the affections ofher sister from the first, without any design that would bear investigation.Absence might have weakened his regard, and convenience might have determinedhim to overcome it, but that such a regard had formerly existed she could notbring herself to doubt.

As for Marianne, on the pangs which so unhappy a meeting must already havegiven her, and on those still more severe which might await her in its probableconsequence, she could not reflect without the deepest concern. Her ownsituation gained in the comparison; for while she could esteemEdward asmuch as ever, however they might be divided in future, her mind might be alwayssupported. But every circumstance that could embitter such an evil seemeduniting to heighten the misery of Marianne in a final separation fromWilloughby—in an immediate and irreconcilable rupture with him.

CHAPTER XXIX.

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

“Marianne, may I ask—?”

“No, Elinor,” she replied, “ask nothing; you will soon knowall.”

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

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

At breakfast she neither ate, nor attempted to eat any thing; andElinor’s attention was then all employed, not in urging her, not inpitying 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 workingtable, when a letter was delivered to Marianne, which she eagerly caught fromthe servant, and, turning of a death-like paleness, instantly ran out of theroom. 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 asmade her hardly able to hold up her head, and sat in such a general tremour asmade her fear it impossible to escape Mrs. Jennings’s notice. That goodlady, however, saw only that Marianne had received a letter from Willoughby,which appeared to her a very good joke, and which she treated accordingly, byhoping, with a laugh, that she would find it to her liking. Of Elinor’sdistress, she was too busily employed in measuring lengths of worsted for herrug, to see any thing at all; and calmly continuing her talk, as soon asMarianne disappeared, she said,

“Upon my word, I never saw a young woman so desperately in love in mylife! Mygirls were nothing to her, and yet they used to be foolishenough; 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, forit is quite grievous to see her look so ill and forlorn. Pray, when are they tobe married?”

Elinor, though never less disposed to speak than at that moment, obligedherself to answer such an attack as this, and, therefore, trying to smile,replied, “And have you really, Ma’am, talked yourself into apersuasion of my sister’s being engaged to Mr. Willoughby? I thought ithad been only a joke, but so serious a question seems to imply more; and I mustbeg, therefore, that you will not deceive yourself any longer. I do assure youthat nothing would surprise me more than to hear of their being going to bemarried.”

“For shame, for shame, Miss Dashwood! how can you talk so? Don’t weall know that it must be a match, that they were over head and ears in lovewith each other from the first moment they met? Did not I see them together inDevonshire every day, and all day long; and did not I know that your sistercame to town with me on purpose to buy wedding clothes? Come, come, thiswon’t do. Because you are so sly about it yourself, you think nobody elsehas any senses; but it is no such thing, I can tell you, for it has been knownall over town this ever so long. I tell every body of it and so doesCharlotte.”

“Indeed, Ma’am,” said Elinor, very seriously, “you aremistaken. 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 eagerat 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, almostchoked 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 aburst 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 thisbehaviour, and after some time thus spent in joint affliction, she put all theletters into Elinor’s hands; and then covering her face with herhandkerchief, almost screamed with agony. Elinor, who knew that such grief,shocking as it was to witness it, must have its course, watched by her tillthis excess of suffering had somewhat spent itself, and then turning eagerly toWilloughby’s letter, read as follows:

“Bond Street, January.

MYDEARMADAM,
    “I have just had the honour of receiving your letter, for which I begto return my sincere acknowledgments. I am much concerned to find there wasanything in my behaviour last night that did not meet your approbation; andthough I am quite at a loss to discover in what point I could be so unfortunateas to offend you, I entreat your forgiveness of what I can assure you to havebeen perfectly unintentional. I shall never reflect on my former acquaintancewith your family in Devonshire without the most grateful pleasure, and flattermyself 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 sounfortunate as to give rise to a belief of more than I felt, or meant toexpress, I shall reproach myself for not having been more guarded in myprofessions of that esteem. That I should ever have meant more you will allowto be impossible, when you understand that my affections have been long engagedelsewhere, and it will not be many weeks, I believe, before this engagement isfulfilled. It is with great regret that I obey your commands in returning theletters with which I have been honoured from you, and the lock of hair, whichyou so obligingly bestowed on me.

“I am, dear Madam,                        
“Your most obedient                
“humble servant,        
“JOHNWILLOUGHBY.”

With what indignation such a letter as this must be read by Miss Dashwood, maybe imagined. Though aware, before she began it, that it must bring a confessionof his inconstancy, and confirm their separation for ever, she was not awarethat such language could be suffered to announce it; nor could she havesupposed Willoughby capable of departing so far from the appearance of everyhonourable and delicate feeling—so far from the common decorum of agentleman, as to send a letter so impudently cruel: a letter which, instead ofbringing with his desire of a release any professions of regret, acknowledgedno breach of faith, denied all peculiar affection whatever—a letter ofwhich every line was an insult, and which proclaimed its writer to be deep inhardened villainy.

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

In her earnest meditations on the contents of the letter, on the depravity ofthat mind which could dictate it, and probably, on the very different mind of avery different person, who had no other connection whatever with the affairthan what her heart gave him with every thing that passed, Elinor forgot theimmediate distress of her sister, forgot that she had three letters on her lapyet unread, and so entirely forgot how long she had been in the room, that whenon hearing a carriage drive up to the door, she went to the window to see whocould be coming so unreasonably early, she was all astonishment to perceiveMrs. 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 thoroughlygood-humoured concern for its cause, admitted the excuse most readily, andElinor, after seeing her safe off, returned to Marianne, whom she foundattempting to rise from the bed, and whom she reached just in time to preventher from falling on the floor, faint and giddy from a long want of proper restand food; for it was many days since she had any appetite, and many nightssince she had really slept; and now, when her mind was no longer supported bythe 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, whichElinor procured for her directly, made her more comfortable, and she was atlast 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 Icoulddo, which might be of comfort to you.”

This, as every thing else would have been, was too much for Marianne, who couldonly 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 notkill yourself and all who love you. Think of your mother; think of her miserywhile yousuffer: for her sake you must exert yourself.”

“I cannot, I cannot,” cried Marianne; “leave me, leave me, ifI distress you; leave me, hate me, forget me! but do not torture me so. Oh! howeasy for those, who have no sorrow of their own to talk of exertion! Happy,happy Elinor, youcannot have an idea of what I suffer.”

“Do you call mehappy, Marianne? Ah! if you knew!—And canyou believe me to be so, while I see you so wretched!”

“Forgive me, forgive me,” throwing her arms round hersister’s neck; “I know you feel for me; I know what a heart youhave; but yet you are—you must be happy; Edward loves you—what, ohwhat, can do away such happiness as that?”

“Many, many circumstances,” said Elinor, solemnly.

“No, no, no,” cried Marianne wildly, “he loves you, and onlyyou. You canhave 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 cando away.”

“You must not talk so, Marianne. Have you no comforts? no friends? Isyour 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 hadbeen delayed to a later period—if your engagement had been carried on formonths 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 theblow more dreadful.”

“Engagement!” cried Marianne, “there has been noengagement.”

“No engagement!”

“No, he is not so unworthy as you believe him. He has broken no faithwith me.”

“But he told you that he loved you.”

“Yes—no—never absolutely. It was every day implied, but neverprofessedly 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 cannottalk.”

Elinor said no more, and turning again to the three letters which now raised amuch stronger curiosity than before, directly ran over the contents of all. Thefirst, which was what her sister had sent him on their arrival in town, was tothis effect.

Berkeley Street, January.

“How surprised you will be, Willoughby, on receiving this; and I thinkyou will feel something more than surprise, when you know that I am in town. Anopportunity of coming hither, though with Mrs. Jennings, was a temptation wecould 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 thepresent, adieu.

“M.D.”

Her second note, which had been written on the morning after the dance at theMiddletons’, was in these words:—

“I cannot express my disappointment in having missed you the day beforeyesterday, nor my astonishment at not having received any answer to a notewhich I sent you above a week ago. I have been expecting to hear from you, andstill more to see you, every hour of the day. Pray call again as soon aspossible, and explain the reason of my having expected this in vain. You hadbetter come earlier another time, because we are generally out by one. We werelast night at Lady Middleton’s, where there was a dance. I have been toldthat you were asked to be of the party. But could it be so? You must be verymuch altered indeed since we parted, if that could be the case, and you notthere. But I will not suppose this possible, and I hope very soon to receiveyour 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 Idemand an explanation of it. I was prepared to meet you with the pleasure whichour separation naturally produced, with the familiarity which our intimacy atBarton appeared to me to justify. I was repulsed indeed! I have passed awretched night in endeavouring to excuse a conduct which can scarcely be calledless than insulting; but though I have not yet been able to form any reasonableapology for your behaviour, I am perfectly ready to hear your justification ofit. You have perhaps been misinformed, or purposely deceived, in somethingconcerning 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 ableto 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 hithertobelieved you, that your regard for us all was insincere, that your behaviour tome was intended only to deceive, let it be told as soon as possible. Myfeelings are at present in a state of dreadful indecision; I wish to acquityou, but certainty on either side will be ease to what I now suffer. If yoursentiments are no longer what they were, you will return my notes, and the lockof my hair which is in your possession.

“M.D.”

That such letters, so full of affection and confidence, could have been soanswered, Elinor, for Willoughby’s sake, would have been unwilling tobelieve. But her condemnation of him did not blind her to the impropriety oftheir having been written at all; and she was silently grieving over theimprudence which had hazarded such unsolicited proofs of tenderness, notwarranted by anything preceding, and most severely condemned by the event, whenMarianne, perceiving that she had finished the letters, observed to her thatthey contained nothing but what any one would have written in the samesituation.

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

“I can believe it,” said Elinor; “but unfortunately he didnot feel the same.”

“He didfeel the same, Elinor—for weeks and weeks he feltit. I know he did. Whatever may have changed him now, (and nothing but theblackest art employed against me can have done it), I was once as dear to himas my own soul could wish. This lock of hair, which now he can so readily giveup, 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 lastevening of our being together at Barton? The morning that we parted too! Whenhe told me that it might be many weeks before we met again—hisdistress—can I ever forget his distress?”

For a moment or two she could say no more; but when this emotion had passedaway, 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 beeninstigated?”

“By all the world, rather than by his own heart. I could rather believeevery creature of my acquaintance leagued together to ruin me in his opinion,than believe his nature capable of such cruelty. This woman of whom hewrites—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, isthere a creature in the world whom I would not rather suspect of evil thanWilloughby, whose heart I know so well?”

Elinor would not contend, and only replied, “Whoever may have been sodetestably your enemy, let them be cheated of their malignant triumph, my dearsister, by seeing how nobly the consciousness of your own innocence and goodintentions supports your spirits. It is a reasonable and laudable pride whichresists 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 beopen to all the world. Elinor, Elinor, they who suffer little may be proud andindependent as they like—may resist insult, or returnmortification—but I cannot. I must feel—I must bewretched—and they are welcome to enjoy the consciousness of it thatcan.”

“But for my mother’s sake and mine—”

“I would do more than for my own. But to appear happy when I am somiserable—Oh! who can require it?”

Again they were both silent. Elinor was employed in walking thoughtfully fromthe fire to the window, from the window to the fire, without knowing that shereceived warmth from one, or discerning objects through the other; andMarianne, seated at the foot of the bed, with her head leaning against one ofits posts, again took up Willoughby’s letter, and, after shuddering overevery 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 haveheard against me—ought he not to have suspended his belief? ought he notto 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 soobligingly bestowed on me’—That is unpardonable. Willoughby, wherewas your heart when you wrote those words? Oh, barbarouslyinsolent!—Elinor, can he be justified?”

“No, Marianne, in no possible way.”

“And yet this woman—who knows what her art may have been?—howlong it may have been premeditated, and how deeply contrived by her!—Whois she?—Who can she be?—Whom did I ever hear him talk of as youngand attractive among his female acquaintance?—Oh! no one, no one—hetalked 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 goneto-morrow?”

“To-morrow, Marianne!”

“Yes, why should I stay here? I came only for Willoughby’ssake—and now who cares for me? Who regards me?”

“It would be impossible to go to-morrow. We owe Mrs. Jennings much morethan civility; and civility of the commonest kind must prevent such a hastyremoval as that.”

“Well then, another day or two, perhaps; but I cannot stay here long, Icannot stay to endure the questions and remarks of all these people. TheMiddletons and Palmers—how am I to bear their pity? The pity of such awoman as Lady Middleton! Oh, what would hesay to that!”

Elinor advised her to lie down again, and for a moment she did so; but noattitude could give her ease; and in restless pain of mind and body she movedfrom one posture to another, till growing more and more hysterical, her sistercould with difficulty keep her on the bed at all, and for some time was fearfulof 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 tillMrs. Jennings returned, she continued on the bed quiet and motionless.

CHAPTER XXX.

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

“How do you do my dear?”—said she in a voice of greatcompassion 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-nothingfellow! I have no patience with him. Mrs. Taylor told me of it half an hourago, and she was told it by a particular friend of Miss Grey herself, else I amsure 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 ladyof my acquaintance abominably ill, and I wish with all my soul his wife mayplague 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 himagain, I will give him such a dressing as he has not had this many a day. Butthere is one comfort, my dear Miss Marianne; he is not the only young man inthe 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 haveher cry out at once and have done with. The Parrys and Sandersons luckily arecoming tonight you know, and that will amuse her.”

She then went away, walking on tiptoe out of the room, as if she supposed heryoung friend’s affliction could be increased by noise.

Marianne, to the surprise of her sister, determined on dining with them. Elinoreven advised her against it. But “no, she would go down; she could bearit very well, and the bustle about her would be less.” Elinor, pleased tohave her governed for a moment by such a motive, though believing it hardlypossible that she could sit out the dinner, said no more; and adjusting herdress 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 toit.

When there, though looking most wretchedly, she ate more and was calmer thanher sister had expected. Had she tried to speak, or had she been conscious ofhalf Mrs. Jennings’s well-meant but ill-judged attentions to her, thiscalmness could not have been maintained; but not a syllable escaped her lips;and the abstraction of her thoughts preserved her in ignorance of every thingthat was passing before her.

Elinor, who did justice to Mrs. Jennings’s kindness, though its effusionswere often distressing, and sometimes almost ridiculous, made her thoseacknowledgments, and returned her those civilities, which her sister could notmake 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 towardsa favourite child on the last day of its holidays. Marianne was to have thebest place by the fire, was to be tempted to eat by every delicacy in thehouse, and to be amused by the relation of all the news of the day. Had notElinor, in the sad countenance of her sister, seen a check to all mirth, shecould have been entertained by Mrs. Jennings’s endeavours to cure adisappointment 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 continualrepetition on Marianne, she could stay no longer. With a hasty exclamation ofMisery, and a sign to her sister not to follow her, she directly got up andhurried 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 awaywithout finishing her wine! And the dried cherries too! Lord! nothing seems todo her any good. I am sure if I knew of any thing she would like, I would sendall over the town for it. Well, it is the oddest thing to me, that a man shoulduse 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 suchthings!—”

“The lady then—Miss Grey I think you called her—is veryrich?”

“Fifty thousand pounds, my dear. Did you ever see her? a smart, stylishgirl 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. Fiftythousand pounds! and by all accounts, it won’t come before it’swanted; for they say he is all to pieces. No wonder! dashing about with hiscurricle and hunters! Well, it don’t signify talking; but when a youngman, be who he will, comes and makes love to a pretty girl, and promisesmarriage, he has no business to fly off from his word only because he growspoor, and a richer girl is ready to have him. Why don’t he, in such acase, sell his horses, let his house, turn off his servants, and make athorough reform at once? I warrant you, Miss Marianne would have been ready towait till matters came round. But that won’t do now-a-days; nothing inthe 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 beamiable?”

“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 hintedto her, that she believed Mr. and Mrs. Ellison would not be sorry to have MissGrey 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 forherself; and a pretty choice she has made!—What now,” after pausinga moment—“your poor sister is gone to her own room, I suppose, tomoan by herself. Is there nothing one can get to comfort her? Poor dear, itseems quite cruel to let her be alone. Well, by-and-by we shall have a fewfriends, and that will amuse her a little. What shall we play at? She hateswhist I know; but is there no round game she cares for?”

“Dear ma’am, this kindness is quite unnecessary. Marianne, I daresay, will not leave her room again this evening. I shall persuade her if I canto 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 downthis last week or two, for this matter I suppose has been hanging over her headas long as that. And so the letter that came today finished it! Poor soul! I amsure if I had had a notion of it, I would not have joked her about it for allmy money. But then you know, how should I guess such a thing? I made sure ofits being nothing but a common love letter, and you know young people like tobe laughed at about them. Lord! how concerned Sir John and my daughters will bewhen they hear it! If I had my senses about me I might have called in ConduitStreet in my way home, and told them of it. But I shall see themtomorrow.”

“It would be unnecessary I am sure, for you to caution Mrs. Palmer andSir John against ever naming Mr. Willoughby, or making the slightest allusionto what has passed, before my sister. Their own good-nature must point out tothem the real cruelty of appearing to know any thing about it when she ispresent; and the less that may ever be said to myself on the subject, the moremy 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 ittalked of; and as for your sister, I am sure I would not mention a word aboutit to her for the world. You saw I did not all dinner time. No more would SirJohn, 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 theless that is said about such things, the better, the sooner ’tis blownover 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 casesof a similar kind, for it has been attended by circumstances which, for thesake of every one concerned in it, make it unfit to become the publicconversation. I must do thisjustice to Mr. Willoughby—he hasbroken no positive engagement with my sister.”

“Law, my dear! Don’t pretend to defend him. No positive engagementindeed! after taking her all over Allenham House, and fixing on the very roomsthey were to live in hereafter!”

Elinor, for her sister’s sake, could not press the subject farther, andshe hoped it was not required of her for Willoughby’s; since, thoughMarianne might lose much, he could gain very little by the enforcement of thereal truth. After a short silence on both sides, Mrs. Jennings, with all hernatural hilarity, burst forth again.

“Well, my dear, ’tis a true saying about an ill-wind, for it willbe all the better for Colonel Brandon. He will have her at last; aye, that hewill. Mind me, now, if they an’t married by Mid-summer. Lord! howhe’ll chuckle over this news! I hope he will come tonight. It will be allto one a better match for your sister. Two thousand a year without debt ordrawback—except the little love-child, indeed; aye, I had forgot her; butshe 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 oldfashioned place, full of comforts and conveniences; quite shut in with greatgarden walls that are covered with the best fruit-trees in the country; andsuch a mulberry tree in one corner! Lord! how Charlotte and I did stuff theonly time we were there! Then, there is a dove-cote, some delightfulstew-ponds, and a very pretty canal; and every thing, in short, that one couldwish for; and, moreover, it is close to the church, and only a quarter of amile from the turnpike-road, so ’tis never dull, for if you only go andsit up in an old yew arbour behind the house, you may see all the carriagesthat 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 thousandtimes prettier than Barton Park, where they are forced to send three miles fortheir meat, and have not a neighbour nearer than your mother. Well, I shallspirit up the Colonel as soon as I can. One shoulder of mutton, you know,drives another down. If we canbut put Willoughby out of herhead!”

“Ay, if we can do that, Ma’am,” said Elinor, “weshall do very well with or without Colonel Brandon.” And then rising, shewent 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, tillElinor’s entrance, had been her only light.

“You had better leave me,” was all the notice that her sisterreceived from her.

“I will leave you,” said Elinor, “if you will go tobed.” But this, from the momentary perverseness of impatient suffering,she at first refused to do. Her sister’s earnest, though gentlepersuasion, however, soon softened her to compliance, and Elinor saw her layher aching head on the pillow, and as she hoped, in a way to get some quietrest 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 thatI have some of the finest old Constantia wine in the house that ever wastasted, so I have brought a glass of it for your sister. My poor husband! howfond he was of it! Whenever he had a touch of his old colicky gout, he said itdid him more good than any thing else in the world. Do take it to yoursister.”

“Dear Ma’am,” replied Elinor, smiling at the difference ofthe complaints for which it was recommended, “how good you are! But Ihave just left Marianne in bed, and, I hope, almost asleep; and as I thinknothing will be of so much service to her as rest, if you will give me leave, Iwill 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 ofit, reflected, that though its effects on a colicky gout were, at present, oflittle importance to her, its healing powers, on a disappointed heart might beas reasonably tried on herself as on her sister.

Colonel Brandon came in while the party were at tea, and by his manner oflooking round the room for Marianne, Elinor immediately fancied that he neitherexpected nor wished to see her there, and, in short, that he was already awareof what occasioned her absence. Mrs. Jennings was not struck by the samethought; for soon after his entrance, she walked across the room to thetea-table where Elinor presided, and whispered, “The Colonel looks asgrave 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 whichperfectly assured her of his good information, inquired after her sister.

“Marianne is not well,” said she. “She has been indisposedall day, and we have persuaded her to go to bed.”

“Perhaps, then,” he hesitatingly replied, “what I heard thismorning may be—there may be more truth in it than I could believepossible at first.”

“What did you hear?”

“That a gentleman, whom I had reason to think—in short, that a man,whom I knewto be engaged—but how shall I tell you? If you know italready, as surely you must, I may be spared.”

“You mean,” answered Elinor, with forced calmness, “Mr.Willoughby’s marriage with Miss Grey. Yes, we doknow it all. Thisseems to have been a day of general elucidation, for this very morning firstunfolded it to us. Mr. Willoughby is unfathomable! Where did you hearit?”

“In a stationer’s shop in Pall Mall, where I had business. Twoladies were waiting for their carriage, and one of them was giving the other anaccount 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, JohnWilloughby, frequently repeated, first caught my attention; and what followedwas a positive assertion that every thing was now finally settled respectinghis marriage with Miss Grey—it was no longer to be a secret—itwould take place even within a few weeks, with many particulars of preparationsand other matters. One thing, especially, I remember, because it served toidentify the man still more:—as soon as the ceremony was over, they wereto go to Combe Magna, his seat in Somersetshire. My astonishment!—but itwould 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’sguardian.”

“It is. But have you likewise heard that Miss Grey has fifty thousandpounds? In that, if in any thing, we may find an explanation.”

“It may be so; but Willoughby is capable—at least Ithink”—he stopped a moment; then added in a voice which seemed todistrust itself, “And your sister—how did she—”

“Her sufferings have been very severe. I have only to hope that they maybe proportionately short. It has been, it is a most cruel affliction. Tillyesterday, I believe, she never doubted his regard; and even now,perhaps—but Iam almost convinced that he never was reallyattached to her. He has been very deceitful! and, in some points, there seems ahardness of heart about him.”

“Ah!” said Colonel Brandon, “there is, indeed! But yoursister does not—I think you said so—she does not consider quite asyou do?”

“You know her disposition, and may believe how eagerly she would stilljustify him if she could.”

He made no answer; and soon afterwards, by the removal of the tea-things, andthe arrangement of the card parties, the subject was necessarily dropped. Mrs.Jennings, who had watched them with pleasure while they were talking, and whoexpected to see the effect of Miss Dashwood’s communication, in such aninstantaneous gaiety on Colonel Brandon’s side, as might have become aman 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 nextmorning 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 beforebreakfast was ready, they had gone through the subject again and again; andwith the same steady conviction and affectionate counsel on Elinor’sside, the same impetuous feelings and varying opinions on Marianne’s, asbefore. Sometimes she could believe Willoughby to be as unfortunate and asinnocent as herself, and at others, lost every consolation in the impossibilityof acquitting him. At one moment she was absolutely indifferent to theobservation of all the world, at another she would seclude herself from it forever, and at a third could resist it with energy. In one thing, however, shewas uniform, when it came to the point, in avoiding, where it was possible, thepresence of Mrs. Jennings, and in a determined silence when obliged to endureit. Her heart was hardened against the belief of Mrs. Jennings’s enteringinto her sorrows with any compassion.

“No, no, no, it cannot be,” she cried; “she cannot feel. Herkindness is not sympathy; her good-nature is not tenderness. All that she wantsis 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 sisterwas often led in her opinion of others, by the irritable refinement of her ownmind, and the too great importance placed by her on the delicacies of a strongsensibility, and the graces of a polished manner. Like half the rest of theworld, if more than half there be that are clever and good, Marianne, withexcellent abilities and an excellent disposition, was neither reasonable norcandid. She expected from other people the same opinions and feelings as herown, and she judged of their motives by the immediate effect of their actionson herself. Thus a circumstance occurred, while the sisters were together intheir own room after breakfast, which sunk the heart of Mrs. Jennings stilllower in her estimation; because, through her own weakness, it chanced to provea source of fresh pain to herself, though Mrs. Jennings was governed in it byan impulse of the utmost goodwill.

With a letter in her outstretched hand, and countenance gaily smiling, from thepersuasion of bringing comfort, she entered their room, saying,

“Now, my dear, I bring you something that I am sure will do yougood.”

Marianne heard enough. In one moment her imagination placed before her a letterfrom Willoughby, full of tenderness and contrition, explanatory of all that hadpassed, satisfactory, convincing; and instantly followed by Willoughby himself,rushing eagerly into the room to inforce, at her feet, by the eloquence of hiseyes, the assurances of his letter. The work of one moment was destroyed by thenext. The hand writing of her mother, never till then unwelcome, was beforeher; and, in the acuteness of the disappointment which followed such an ecstasyof 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 ofhappiest eloquence, could have expressed; and now she could reproach her onlyby the tears which streamed from her eyes with passionate violence—areproach, however, so entirely lost on its object, that after many expressionsof pity, she withdrew, still referring her to the letter of comfort. But theletter, when she was calm enough to read it, brought little comfort. Willoughbyfilled every page. Her mother, still confident of their engagement, and relyingas warmly as ever on his constancy, had only been roused by Elinor’sapplication, to intreat from Marianne greater openness towards them both; andthis, with such tenderness towards her, such affection for Willoughby, and sucha conviction of their future happiness in each other, that she wept with agonythrough the whole of it.

All her impatience to be at home again now returned; her mother was dearer toher than ever; dearer through the very excess of her mistaken confidence inWilloughby, and she was wildly urgent to be gone. Elinor, unable herself todetermine 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’swishes could be known; and at length she obtained her sister’s consent towait for that knowledge.

Mrs. Jennings left them earlier than usual; for she could not be easy till theMiddletons and Palmers were able to grieve as much as herself; and positivelyrefusing Elinor’s offered attendance, went out alone for the rest of themorning. Elinor, with a very heavy heart, aware of the pain she was going tocommunicate, and perceiving, by Marianne’s letter, how ill she hadsucceeded in laying any foundation for it, then sat down to write her mother anaccount of what had passed, and entreat her directions for the future; whileMarianne, who came into the drawing-room on Mrs. Jennings’s going away,remained fixed at the table where Elinor wrote, watching the advancement of herpen, grieving over her for the hardship of such a task, and grieving still morefondly 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 thedoor.

“Who can this be?” cried Elinor. “So early too! I thought wehadbeen safe.”

Marianne moved to the window.

“It is Colonel Brandon!” said she, with vexation. “We arenever 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 hisintrusion on that of others.”

The event proved her conjecture right, though it was founded on injustice anderror; for Colonel Brandon didcome in; and Elinor, who was convincedthat solicitude for Marianne brought him thither, and who saw thatsolicitude in his disturbed and melancholy look, and in his anxious thoughbrief inquiry after her, could not forgive her sister for esteeming him solightly.

“I met Mrs. Jennings in Bond Street,” said he, after the firstsalutation, “and she encouraged me to come on; and I was the more easilyencouraged, because I thought it probable that I might find you alone, which Iwas very desirous of doing. My object—my wish—my sole wish indesiring it—I hope, I believe it is—is to be a means of givingcomfort;—no, I must not say comfort—not present comfort—butconviction, lasting conviction to your sister’s mind. My regard for her,for yourself, for your mother—will you allow me to prove it, by relatingsome circumstances which nothing but a verysincere regard—nothingbut an earnest desire of being useful—I think I am justified—thoughwhere so many hours have been spent in convincing myself that I am right, isthere not some reason to fear I may be wrong?” He stopped.

“I understand you,” said Elinor. “You have something to tellme of Mr. Willoughby, that will open his character farther. Your telling itwill be the greatest act of friendship that can be shown Marianne. Mygratitude will be insured immediately by any information tending to that end,and hersmust be gained by it in time. Pray, pray let me hear it.”

“You shall; and, to be brief, when I quitted Barton lastOctober,—but this will give you no idea—I must go farther back. Youwill find me a very awkward narrator, Miss Dashwood; I hardly know where tobegin. A short account of myself, I believe, will be necessary, and itshallbe 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 tobe supposed that it could make any impression on you)—a conversationbetween us one evening at Barton Park—it was the evening of adance—in which I alluded to a lady I had once known, as resembling, insome measure, your sister Marianne.”

“Indeed,” answered Elinor, “I have notforgottenit.” He looked pleased by this remembrance, and added,

“If I am not deceived by the uncertainty, the partiality of tenderrecollection, there is a very strong resemblance between them, as well in mindas 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, andunder the guardianship of my father. Our ages were nearly the same, and fromour earliest years we were playfellows and friends. I cannot remember the timewhen 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 mightthink me incapable of having ever felt. Hers, for me, was, I believe, ferventas the attachment of your sister to Mr. Willoughby and it was, though from adifferent cause, no less unfortunate. At seventeen she was lost to me for ever.She was married—married against her inclination to my brother. Herfortune was large, and our family estate much encumbered. And this, I fear, isall that can be said for the conduct of one, who was at once her uncle andguardian. My brother did not deserve her; he did not even love her. I had hopedthat her regard for me would support her under any difficulty, and for sometime it did; but at last the misery of her situation, for she experienced greatunkindness, overcame all her resolution, and though she had promised me thatnothing—but how blindly I relate! I have never told you how this wasbrought on. We were within a few hours of eloping together for Scotland. Thetreachery, or the folly, of my cousin’s maid betrayed us. I was banishedto the house of a relation far distant, and she was allowed no liberty, nosociety, no amusement, till my father’s point was gained. I had dependedon her fortitude too far, and the blow was a severe one—but had hermarriage been happy, so young as I then was, a few months must have reconciledme to it, or at least I should not have now to lament it. This however was notthe case. My brother had no regard for her; his pleasures were not what theyought to have been, and from the first he treated her unkindly. The consequenceof 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 themisery of her situation; and happy had it been if she had not lived to overcomethose 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 orrestrain her (for my father lived only a few months after their marriage, and Iwas with my regiment in the East Indies) she should fall? Had I remained inEngland, perhaps—but I meant to promote the happiness of both by removingfrom her for years, and for that purpose had procured my exchange. The shockwhich her marriage had given me,” he continued, in a voice of greatagitation, “was of trifling weight—was nothing to what I felt whenI heard, about two years afterwards, of her divorce. It was thatwhichthrew this gloom,—even now the recollection of what Isuffered—”

He could say no more, and rising hastily walked for a few minutes about theroom. Elinor, affected by his relation, and still more by his distress, couldnot 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 exertionenabled him to proceed with composure.

“It was nearly three years after this unhappy period before I returned toEngland. My first care, when I didarrive, was of course to seek forher; but the search was as fruitless as it was melancholy. I could not traceher beyond her first seducer, and there was every reason to fear that she hadremoved from him only to sink deeper in a life of sin. Her legal allowance wasnot 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 oversome months before to another person. He imagined, and calmly could he imagineit, that her extravagance, and consequent distress, had obliged her to disposeof it for some immediate relief. At last, however, and after I had been sixmonths in England, I didfind her. Regard for a former servant of myown, who had since fallen into misfortune, carried me to visit him in aspunging-house, where he was confined for debt; and there, in the same house,under a similar confinement, was my unfortunate sister. So altered—sofaded—worn down by acute suffering of every kind! hardly could I believethe 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 sobeholding her—but I have no right to wound your feelings by attempting todescribe it—I have pained you too much already. That she was, to allappearance, in the last stage of a consumption, was—yes, in such asituation it was my greatest comfort. Life could do nothing for her, beyondgiving time for a better preparation for death; and that was given. I saw herplaced in comfortable lodgings, and under proper attendants; I visited herevery day during the rest of her short life: I was with her in her lastmoments.”

Again he stopped to recover himself; and Elinor spoke her feelings in anexclamation of tender concern, at the fate of his unfortunate friend.

“Your sister, I hope, cannot be offended,” said he, “by theresemblance I have fancied between her and my poor disgraced relation. Theirfates, their fortunes, cannot be the same; and had the natural sweetdisposition 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 whatdoes all this lead? I seem to have been distressing you for nothing. Ah! MissDashwood—a subject such as this—untouched for fourteenyears—it is dangerous to handle it at all! I willbe morecollected—more concise. She left to my care her only child, a littlegirl, the offspring of her first guilty connection, who was then about threeyears old. She loved the child, and had always kept it with her. It was avalued, a precious trust to me; and gladly would I have discharged it in thestrictest sense, by watching over her education myself, had the nature of oursituations allowed it; but I had no family, no home; and my little Eliza wastherefore placed at school. I saw her there whenever I could, and after thedeath of my brother, (which happened about five years ago, and which left to methe possession of the family property,) she visited me at Delaford. I calledher a distant relation; but I am well aware that I have in general beensuspected of a much nearer connection with her. It is now three years ago (shehad just reached her fourteenth year,) that I removed her from school, to placeher under the care of a very respectable woman, residing in Dorsetshire, whohad the charge of four or five other girls of about the same time of life; andfor two years I had every reason to be pleased with her situation. But lastFebruary, almost a twelvemonth back, she suddenly disappeared. I had allowedher, (imprudently, as it has since turned out,) at her earnest desire, to go toBath with one of her young friends, who was attending her father there for hishealth. I knew him to be a very good sort of man, and I thought well of hisdaughter—better than she deserved, for, with a most obstinate andill-judged secrecy, she would tell nothing, would give no clue, though shecertainly knew all. He, her father, a well-meaning, but not a quick-sightedman, could really, I believe, give no information; for he had been generallyconfined to the house, while the girls were ranging over the town and makingwhat acquaintance they chose; and he tried to convince me, as thoroughly as hewas convinced himself, of his daughter’s being entirely unconcerned inthe business. In short, I could learn nothing but that she was gone; all therest, for eight long months, was left to conjecture. What I thought, what Ifeared, may be imagined; and what I suffered too.”

“Good heavens!” cried Elinor, “could it be—couldWilloughby!”—

“The first news that reached me of her,” he continued, “camein 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; andthis was the reason of my leaving Barton so suddenly, which I am sure must atthe time have appeared strange to every body, and which I believe gave offenceto some. Little did Mr. Willoughby imagine, I suppose, when his looks censuredme for incivility in breaking up the party, that I was called away to therelief of one whom he had made poor and miserable; but hadhe known it,what would it have availed? Would he have been less gay or less happy in thesmiles of your sister? No, he had already done that, which no man whocanfeel for another would do. He had left the girl whose youth andinnocence he had seduced, in a situation of the utmost distress, with nocreditable 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 thanboth. Knowing all this, as I have now known it many weeks, guess what I musthave felt on seeing your sister as fond of him as ever, and on being assuredthat she was to marry him: guess what I must have felt for all your sakes. WhenI came to you last week and found you alone, I came determined to know thetruth; though irresolute what to do when it wasknown. My behaviour musthave seemed strange to you then; but now you will comprehend it. To suffer youall to be so deceived; to see your sister—but what could I do? I had nohope of interfering with success; and sometimes I thought your sister’sinfluence might yet reclaim him. But now, after such dishonorable usage, whocan tell what were his designs on her. Whatever they may have been, however,she may now, and hereafter doubtless willturn with gratitude towardsher own condition, when she compares it with that of my poor Eliza, when sheconsiders the wretched and hopeless situation of this poor girl, and picturesher to herself, with an affection for him so strong, still as strong as herown, and with a mind tormented by self-reproach, which must attend her throughlife. Surely this comparison must have its use with her. She will feel her ownsufferings to be nothing. They proceed from no misconduct, and can bring nodisgrace. On the contrary, every friend must be made still more her friend bythem. Concern for her unhappiness, and respect for her fortitude under it, muststrengthen every attachment. Use your own discretion, however, in communicatingto her what I have told you. You must know best what will be its effect; buthad I not seriously, and from my heart believed it might be of service, mightlessen her regrets, I would not have suffered myself to trouble you with thisaccount of my family afflictions, with a recital which may seem to have beenintended to raise myself at the expense of others.”

Elinor’s thanks followed this speech with grateful earnestness; attendedtoo with the assurance of her expecting material advantage to Marianne, fromthe communication of what had passed.

“I have been more pained,” said she, “by her endeavors toacquit him than by all the rest; for it irritates her mind more than the mostperfect conviction of his unworthiness can do. Now, though at first she willsuffer much, I am sure she will soon become easier. Have you,” shecontinued, after a short silence, “ever seen Mr. Willoughby since youleft him at Barton?”

“Yes,” he replied gravely, “once I have. One meeting wasunavoidable.”

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 mostreluctantly, the name of her lover; and when he returned to town, which waswithin a fortnight after myself, we met by appointment, he to defend, I topunish his conduct. We returned unwounded, and the meeting, therefore, nevergot abroad.”

Elinor sighed over the fancied necessity of this; but to a man and a soldiershe presumed not to censure it.

“Such,” said Colonel Brandon, after a pause, “has been theunhappy resemblance between the fate of mother and daughter! and so imperfectlyhave I discharged my trust!”

“Is she still in town?”

“No; as soon as she recovered from her lying-in, for I found her near herdelivery, I removed her and her child into the country, and there sheremains.”

Recollecting, soon afterwards, that he was probably dividing Elinor from hersister, he put an end to his visit, receiving from her again the same gratefulacknowledgments, and leaving her full of compassion and esteem for him.

CHAPTER XXXII.

When the particulars of this conversation were repeated by Miss Dashwood to hersister, as they very soon were, the effect on her was not entirely such as theformer had hoped to see. Not that Marianne appeared to distrust the truth ofany part of it, for she listened to it all with the most steady and submissiveattention, made neither objection nor remark, attempted no vindication ofWilloughby, 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 guiltwascarried home to her mind, though she saw with satisfaction theeffect of it, in her no longer avoiding Colonel Brandon when he called, in herspeaking to him, even voluntarily speaking, with a kind of compassionaterespect, 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 wassettled in a gloomy dejection. She felt the loss of Willoughby’scharacter yet more heavily than she had felt the loss of his heart; hisseduction and desertion of Miss Williams, the misery of that poor girl, and thedoubt of what his designs might oncehave been on herself, preyedaltogether so much on her spirits, that she could not bring herself to speak ofwhat she felt even to Elinor; and, brooding over her sorrows in silence, gavemore pain to her sister than could have been communicated by the most open andmost frequent confession of them.

To give the feelings or the language of Mrs. Dashwood on receiving andanswering Elinor’s letter would be only to give a repetition of what herdaughters had already felt and said; of a disappointment hardly less painfulthan Marianne’s, and an indignation even greater than Elinor’s.Long letters from her, quickly succeeding each other, arrived to tell all thatshe suffered and thought; to express her anxious solicitude for Marianne, andentreat she would bear up with fortitude under this misfortune. Bad indeed mustthe nature of Marianne’s affliction be, when her mother could talk offortitude! mortifying and humiliating must be the origin of those regrets,which shecould wish her not to indulge!

Against the interest of her own individual comfort, Mrs. Dashwood haddetermined 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 thepast in the strongest and most afflicting manner, by constantly placingWilloughby before her, such as she had always seen him there. She recommendedit 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 byall to comprise at least five or six weeks. A variety of occupations, ofobjects, and of company, which could not be procured at Barton, would beinevitable there, and might yet, she hoped, cheat Marianne, at times, into someinterest beyond herself, and even into some amusement, much as the ideas ofboth might now be spurned by her.

From all danger of seeing Willoughby again, her mother considered her to be atleast equally safe in town as in the country, since his acquaintance must nowbe dropped by all who called themselves her friends. Design could never bringthem in each other’s way: negligence could never leave them exposed to asurprise; and chance had less in its favour in the crowd of London than even inthe retirement of Barton, where it might force him before her while paying thatvisit at Allenham on his marriage, which Mrs. Dashwood, from foreseeing atfirst 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 intown before the middle of February, and she judged it right that they shouldsometimes see their brother.

Marianne had promised to be guided by her mother’s opinion, and shesubmitted to it therefore without opposition, though it proved perfectlydifferent from what she wished and expected, though she felt it to be entirelywrong, formed on mistaken grounds, and that by requiring her longer continuancein 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 suchscenes as must prevent her ever knowing a moment’s rest.

But it was a matter of great consolation to her, that what brought evil toherself 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 thereforemilitate against her own happiness, it would be better for Marianne than animmediate return into Devonshire.

Her carefulness in guarding her sister from ever hearing Willoughby’sname mentioned, was not thrown away. Marianne, though without knowing itherself, reaped all its advantage; for neither Mrs. Jennings, nor Sir John, noreven Mrs. Palmer herself, ever spoke of him before her. Elinor wished that thesame 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 hadalways had such reason to think well! Such a good-natured fellow! He did notbelieve 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 wordto him, meet him where he might, for all the world! No, not if it were to be bythe 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 timethey met that he had offered him one of Folly’s puppies! and this was theend of it!”

Mrs. Palmer, in her way, was equally angry. “She was determined to drophis acquaintance immediately, and she was very thankful that she had never beenacquainted with him at all. She wished with all her heart Combe Magna was notso near Cleveland; but it did not signify, for it was a great deal too far offto visit; she hated him so much that she was resolved never to mention his nameagain, and she should tell everybody she saw, how good-for-nothing hewas.”

The rest of Mrs. Palmer’s sympathy was shown in procuring all theparticulars in her power of the approaching marriage, and communicating them toElinor. She could soon tell at what coachmaker’s the new carriage wasbuilding, by what painter Mr. Willoughby’s portrait was drawn, and atwhat warehouse Miss Grey’s clothes might be seen.

The calm and polite unconcern of Lady Middleton on the occasion was a happyrelief to Elinor’s spirits, oppressed as they often were by the clamorouskindness of the others. It was a great comfort to her to be sure of exciting nointerest in oneperson at least among their circle of friends: a greatcomfort to know that there was onewho would meet her without feelingany curiosity after particulars, or any anxiety for her sister’s health.

Every qualification is raised at times, by the circumstances of the moment, tomore than its real value; and she was sometimes worried down by officiouscondolence to rate good-breeding as more indispensable to comfort thangood-nature.

Lady Middleton expressed her sense of the affair about once every day, ortwice, if the subject occurred very often, by saying, “It is veryshocking, 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 smallestemotion, 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 decidedcensure of what was wrong in the other, she thought herself at liberty toattend to the interest of her own assemblies, and therefore determined (thoughrather against the opinion of Sir John) that as Mrs. Willoughby would at oncebe a woman of elegance and fortune, to leave her card with her as soon as shemarried.

Colonel Brandon’s delicate, unobtrusive enquiries were never unwelcome toMiss Dashwood. He had abundantly earned the privilege of intimate discussion ofher sister’s disappointment, by the friendly zeal with which he hadendeavoured to soften it, and they always conversed with confidence. His chiefreward for the painful exertion of disclosing past sorrows and presenthumiliations, was given in the pitying eye with which Marianne sometimesobserved him, and the gentleness of her voice whenever (though it did not oftenhappen) she was obliged, or could oblige herself to speak to him. Theseassured him that his exertion had produced an increase of good-will towardshimself, and thesegave Elinor hopes of its being farther augmentedhereafter; but Mrs. Jennings, who knew nothing of all this, who knew only thatthe Colonel continued as grave as ever, and that she could neither prevail onhim to make the offer himself, nor commission her to make it for him, began, atthe end of two days, to think that, instead of Midsummer, they would not bemarried till Michaelmas, and by the end of a week that it would not be a matchat all. The good understanding between the Colonel and Miss Dashwood seemedrather to declare that the honours of the mulberry-tree, the canal, and the yewarbour, would all be made over to her;and Mrs. Jennings had, for sometime ceased to think at all of Mrs. Ferrars.

Early in February, within a fortnight from the receipt of Willoughby’sletter, Elinor had the painful office of informing her sister that he wasmarried. She had taken care to have the intelligence conveyed to herself, assoon as it was known that the ceremony was over, as she was desirous thatMarianne 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, andat first shed no tears; but after a short time they would burst out, and forthe rest of the day, she was in a state hardly less pitiable than when shefirst 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 hersister, who had never yet left the house since the blow first fell, to go outagain by degrees as she had done before.

About this time the two Miss Steeles, lately arrived at their cousin’shouse in Bartlett’s Buildings, Holburn, presented themselves again beforetheir more grand relations in Conduit and Berkeley Streets; and were welcomedby them all with great cordiality.

Elinor only was sorry to see them. Their presence always gave her pain, and shehardly knew how to make a very gracious return to the overpowering delight ofLucy in finding her stillin town.

“I should have been quite disappointed if I had not found you herestill,” said she repeatedly, with a strong emphasis on the word.“But I always thought I should. I was almost sure you would notleave London yet awhile; though you toldme, you know, at Barton, thatyou should not stay above a month. But I thought, at the time, that youwould most likely change your mind when it came to the point. It would havebeen such a great pity to have went away before your brother and sister came.And now to be sure you will be in no hurryto be gone. I am amazinglyglad you did not keep to your word.”

Elinor perfectly understood her, and was forced to use all her self-command tomake it appear that she did not.

“Well, my dear,” said Mrs. Jennings, “and how did youtravel?”

“Not in the stage, I assure you,” replied Miss Steele, with quickexultation; “we came post all the way, and had a very smart beau toattend us. Dr. Davies was coming to town, and so we thought we’d join himin a post-chaise; and he behaved very genteelly, and paid ten or twelveshillings more than we did.”

“Oh, oh!” cried Mrs. Jennings; “very pretty, indeed! and theDoctor 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. Mycousins say they are sure I have made a conquest; but for my part I declare Inever think about him from one hour’s end to another. ‘Lord! herecomes your beau, Nancy,’ my cousin said t’other day, when she sawhim crossing the street to the house. My beau, indeed! said I—I cannotthink who you mean. The Doctor is no beau of mine.”

“Aye, aye, that is very pretty talking—but it won’tdo—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 certainlywould not, and Miss Steele was made completely happy.

“I suppose you will go and stay with your brother and sister, MissDashwood, when they come to town,” said Lucy, returning, after acessation 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 solong a time together!”

“Long a time, indeed!” interposed Mrs. Jennings. “Why, theirvisit is but just begun!”

Lucy was silenced.

“I am sorry we cannot see your sister, Miss Dashwood,” said MissSteele. “I am sorry she is not well—” for Marianne had leftthe room on their arrival.

“You are very good. My sister will be equally sorry to miss the pleasureof seeing you; but she has been very much plagued lately with nervoushead-aches, which make her unfit for company or conversation.”

“Oh, dear, that is a great pity! but such old friends as Lucy andme!—I think she might see us;and I am sure we would not speak aword.”

Elinor, with great civility, declined the proposal. Her sister was perhaps laiddown upon the bed, or in her dressing gown, and therefore not able to come tothem.

“Oh, if that’s all,” cried Miss Steele, “we can just aswell go and see her.”

Elinor began to find this impertinence too much for her temper; but she wassaved 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 ofone sister, was of advantage in governing those of the other.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

After some opposition, Marianne yielded to her sister’s entreaties, andconsented 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 morethan accompany them to Gray’s in Sackville Street, where Elinor wascarrying on a negotiation for the exchange of a few old-fashioned jewels of hermother.

When they stopped at the door, Mrs. Jennings recollected that there was a ladyat the other end of the street on whom she ought to call; and as she had nobusiness at Gray’s, it was resolved, that while her young friendstransacted their’s, she should pay her visit and return for them.

On ascending the stairs, the Miss Dashwoods found so many people before them inthe room, that there was not a person at liberty to tend to their orders; andthey were obliged to wait. All that could be done was, to sit down at that endof the counter which seemed to promise the quickest succession; one gentlemanonly was standing there, and it is probable that Elinor was not without hope ofexciting 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 wasgiving orders for a toothpick-case for himself, and till its size, shape, andornaments were determined, all of which, after examining and debating for aquarter of an hour over every toothpick-case in the shop, were finally arrangedby his own inventive fancy, he had no leisure to bestow any other attention onthe two ladies, than what was comprised in three or four very broad stares; akind of notice which served to imprint on Elinor the remembrance of a personand face, of strong, natural, sterling insignificance, though adorned in thefirst 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 hismanner in deciding on all the different horrors of the differenttoothpick-cases presented to his inspection, by remaining unconscious of itall; for she was as well able to collect her thoughts within herself, and be asignorant of what was passing around her, in Mr. Gray’s shop, as in herown bedroom.

At last the affair was decided. The ivory, the gold, and the pearls, allreceived their appointment, and the gentleman having named the last day onwhich his existence could be continued without the possession of thetoothpick-case, drew on his gloves with leisurely care, and bestowing anotherglance on the Miss Dashwoods, but such a one as seemed rather to demand thanexpress admiration, walked off with a happy air of real conceit and affectedindifference.

Elinor lost no time in bringing her business forward, was on the point ofconcluding it, when another gentleman presented himself at her side. She turnedher 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 verycreditable appearance in Mr. Gray’s shop. John Dashwood was really farfrom 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 wildbeasts at Exeter Exchange; and we spent the rest of the day with Mrs. Ferrars.Harry was vastly pleased. Thismorning I had fully intended to call onyou, if I could possibly find a spare half hour, but one has always so much todo on first coming to town. I am come here to bespeak Fanny a seal. Buttomorrow I think I shall certainly be able to call in Berkeley Street, and beintroduced to your friend Mrs. Jennings. I understand she is a woman of verygood fortune. And the Middletons too, you must introduce me to them. Asmy mother-in-law’s relations, I shall be happy to show them everyrespect. They are excellent neighbours to you in the country, Iunderstand.”

“Excellent indeed. Their attention to our comfort, their friendliness inevery particular, is more than I can express.”

“I am extremely glad to hear it, upon my word; extremely glad indeed. Butso 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 situationpleasant might be reasonably expected. And so you are most comfortably settledin your little cottage and want for nothing! Edward brought us a most charmingaccount of the place: the most complete thing of its kind, he said, that everwas, and you all seemed to enjoy it beyond any thing. It was a greatsatisfaction to us to hear it, I assure you.”

Elinor did feel a little ashamed of her brother; and was not sorry to be sparedthe necessity of answering him, by the arrival of Mrs. Jennings’sservant, 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 thedoor of her carriage, and repeating his hope of being able to call on them thenext day, took leave.

His visit was duly paid. He came with a pretence at an apology from theirsister-in-law, for not coming too; “but she was so much engaged with hermother, that really she had no leisure for going any where.” Mrs.Jennings, however, assured him directly, that she should not stand uponceremony, for they were all cousins, or something like it, and she shouldcertainly wait on Mrs. John Dashwood very soon, and bring her sisters to seeher. His manners to them, though calm, were perfectly kind; to Mrs.Jennings, most attentively civil; and on Colonel Brandon’s coming in soonafter himself, he eyed him with a curiosity which seemed to say, that he onlywanted 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 toConduit Street, and introduce him to Sir John and Lady Middleton. The weatherwas remarkably fine, and she readily consented. As soon as they were out of thehouse, 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 inlife.”

“Me, brother! what do you mean?”

“He likes you. I observed him narrowly, and am convinced of it. What isthe amount of his fortune?”

“I believe about two thousand a year.”

“Two thousand a-year;” and then working himself up to a pitch ofenthusiastic generosity, he added, “Elinor, I wish with all my heart itwere twiceas much, for your sake.”

“Indeed I believe you,” replied Elinor; “but I am very surethat Colonel Brandon has not the smallest wish of marrying me.”

“You are mistaken, Elinor; you are very much mistaken. A very littletrouble 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 alladvise him against it. But some of those little attentions and encouragementswhich ladies can so easily give will fix him, in spite of himself. And therecan be no reason why you should not try for him. It is not to be supposed thatany prior attachment on your side—in short, you know as to an attachmentof that kind, it is quite out of the question, the objections areinsurmountable—you have too much sense not to see all that. ColonelBrandon must be the man; and no civility shall be wanting on my part to makehim pleased with you and your family. It is a match that must give universalsatisfaction. In short, it is a kind of thing that”—lowering hisvoice to an important whisper—“will be exceedingly welcome toall parties.” Recollecting himself, however, he added, “Thatis, I mean to say—your friends are all truly anxious to see you wellsettled; Fanny particularly, for she has your interest very much at heart, Iassure you. And her mother too, Mrs. Ferrars, a very good-natured woman, I amsure 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 settlingat the same time. And yet it is not very unlikely.”

“Is Mr. Edward Ferrars,” said Elinor, with resolution, “goingto be married?”

“It is not actually settled, but there is such a thing in agitation. Hehas a most excellent mother. Mrs. Ferrars, with the utmost liberality, willcome 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, withthirty thousand pounds. A very desirable connection on both sides, and I havenot a doubt of its taking place in time. A thousand a-year is a great deal fora mother to give away, to make over for ever; but Mrs. Ferrars has a noblespirit. To give you another instance of her liberality:—The other day, assoon as we came to town, aware that money could not be very plenty with us justnow, she put bank-notes into Fanny’s hands to the amount of two hundredpounds. And extremely acceptable it is, for we must live at a great expensewhile 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 tocomplain, however; it is undoubtedly a comfortable one, and I hope will in timebe better. The enclosure of Norland Common, now carrying on, is a most seriousdrain. And then I have made a little purchase within this half year; EastKingham Farm, you must remember the place, where old Gibson used to live. Theland was so very desirable for me in every respect, so immediately adjoining myown property, that I felt it my duty to buy it. I could not have answered it tomy conscience to let it fall into any other hands. A man must pay for hisconvenience; and it hascost 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 morethan I gave: but, with regard to the purchase-money, I might have been veryunfortunate indeed; for the stocks were at that time so low, that if I had nothappened to have the necessary sum in my banker’s hands, I must have soldout to very great loss.”

Elinor could only smile.

“Other great and inevitable expenses too we have had on first coming toNorland. Our respected father, as you well know, bequeathed all the Stanhilleffects 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 todispose of his own property as he chose, but, in consequence of it, we havebeen obliged to make large purchases of linen, china, &c. to supply theplace of what was taken away. You may guess, after all these expenses, how veryfar we must be from being rich, and how acceptable Mrs. Ferrars’skindness is.”

“Certainly,” said Elinor; “and assisted by her liberality, Ihope 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 stonelaid of Fanny’s green-house, and nothing but the plan of theflower-garden marked out.”

“Where is the green-house to be?”

“Upon the knoll behind the house. The old walnut trees are all come downto 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 exceedinglypretty. We have cleared away all the old thorns that grew in patches over thebrow.”

Elinor kept her concern and her censure to herself; and was very thankful thatMarianne was not present, to share the provocation.

Having now said enough to make his poverty clear, and to do away the necessityof buying a pair of ear-rings for each of his sisters, in his next visit atGray’s, his thoughts took a cheerfuller turn, and he began tocongratulate 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 notonly been of great use to you hitherto, but in the end may prove materiallyadvantageous. Her inviting you to town is certainly a vast thing in yourfavour; and indeed, it speaks altogether so great a regard for you, that in allprobability when she dies you will not be forgotten. She must have a great dealto 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 peopleof common prudence will do thatand whatever she saves, she will be ableto dispose of.”

“And do you not think it more likely that she should leave it to herdaughters, than to us?”

“Her daughters are both exceedingly well married, and therefore I cannotperceive 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, shehas given you a sort of claim on her future consideration, which aconscientious woman would not disregard. Nothing can be kinder than herbehaviour; and she can hardly do all this, without being aware of theexpectation it raises.”

“But she raises none in those most concerned. Indeed, brother, youranxiety 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 dearElinor, what is the matter with Marianne?—she looks very unwell, has losther colour, and is grown quite thin. Is she ill?”

“She is not well, she has had a nervous complaint on her for severalweeks.”

“I am sorry for that. At her time of life, any thing of an illnessdestroys the bloom for ever! Hers has been a very short one! She was ashandsome a girl last September, as I ever saw; and as likely to attract theman. There was something in her style of beauty, to please them particularly. Iremember 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 tostrike her. She will be mistaken, however. I question whether Mariannenow, will marry a man worth more than five or six hundred a-year, at theutmost, and I am very much deceived if youdo not do better.Dorsetshire! I know very little of Dorsetshire; but, my dear Elinor, I shall beexceedingly glad to know more of it; and I think I can answer for your havingFanny and myself among the earliest and best pleased of your visitors.”

Elinor tried very seriously to convince him that there was no likelihood of hermarrying Colonel Brandon; but it was an expectation of too much pleasure tohimself to be relinquished, and he was really resolved on seeking an intimacywith that gentleman, and promoting the marriage by every possible attention. Hehad just compunction enough for having done nothing for his sisters himself, tobe exceedingly anxious that everybody else should do a great deal; and an offerfrom Colonel Brandon, or a legacy from Mrs. Jennings, was the easiest means ofatoning for his own neglect.

They were lucky enough to find Lady Middleton at home, and Sir John came inbefore their visit ended. Abundance of civilities passed on all sides. Sir Johnwas ready to like anybody, and though Mr. Dashwood did not seem to know muchabout horses, he soon set him down as a very good-natured fellow: while LadyMiddleton saw enough of fashion in his appearance to think his acquaintanceworth having; and Mr. Dashwood went away delighted with both.

“I shall have a charming account to carry to Fanny,” said he, as hewalked back with his sister. “Lady Middleton is really a most elegantwoman! Such a woman as I am sure Fanny will be glad to know. And Mrs. Jenningstoo, an exceedingly well-behaved woman, though not so elegant as her daughter.Your sister need not have any scruple even of visiting her, which, tosay the truth, has been a little the case, and very naturally; for we only knewthat Mrs. Jennings was the widow of a man who had got all his money in a lowway; and Fanny and Mrs. Ferrars were both strongly prepossessed, that neithershe nor her daughters were such kind of women as Fanny would like to associatewith. 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, thatshe waited the very next day both on Mrs. Jennings and her daughter; and herconfidence was rewarded by finding even the former, even the woman with whomher sisters were staying, by no means unworthy her notice; and as for LadyMiddleton, 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 coldhearted selfishness on both sides, which mutually attracted them; and theysympathised with each other in an insipid propriety of demeanor, and a generalwant of understanding.

The same manners, however, which recommended Mrs. John Dashwood to the goodopinion of Lady Middleton did not suit the fancy of Mrs. Jennings, and tohershe appeared nothing more than a little proud-looking woman ofuncordial address, who met her husband’s sisters without any affection,and almost without having anything to say to them; for of the quarter of anhour bestowed on Berkeley Street, she sat at least seven minutes and a half insilence.

Elinor wanted very much to know, though she did not chuse to ask, whetherEdward was then in town; but nothing would have induced Fanny voluntarily tomention his name before her, till able to tell her that his marriage with MissMorton was resolved on, or till her husband’s expectations on ColonelBrandon were answered; because she believed them still so very much attached toeach other, that they could not be too sedulously divided in word and deed onevery occasion. The intelligence however, which shewould not give, soonflowed from another quarter. Lucy came very shortly to claim Elinor’scompassion on being unable to see Edward, though he had arrived in town withMr. and Mrs. Dashwood. He dared not come to Bartlett’s Buildings for fearof 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, bytwice calling in Berkeley Street. Twice was his card found on the table, whenthey returned from their morning’s engagements. Elinor was pleased thathe had called; and still more pleased that she had missed him.

The Dashwoods were so prodigiously delighted with the Middletons, that, thoughnot much in the habit of giving anything, they determined to give them—adinner; and soon after their acquaintance began, invited them to dine in HarleyStreet, where they had taken a very good house for three months. Their sistersand Mrs. Jennings were invited likewise, and John Dashwood was careful tosecure Colonel Brandon, who, always glad to be where the Miss Dashwoods were,received his eager civilities with some surprise, but much more pleasure. Theywere to meet Mrs. Ferrars; but Elinor could not learn whether her sons were tobe of the party. The expectation of seeing her, however, was enough tomake her interested in the engagement; for though she could now meetEdward’s mother without that strong anxiety which had once promised toattend such an introduction, though she could now see her with perfectindifference as to her opinion of herself, her desire of being in company withMrs. 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 afterwardsincreased, more powerfully than pleasantly, by her hearing that the MissSteeles were also to be at it.

So well had they recommended themselves to Lady Middleton, so agreeable hadtheir assiduities made them to her, that though Lucy was certainly not soelegant, and her sister not even genteel, she was as ready as Sir John to askthem to spend a week or two in Conduit Street; and it happened to beparticularly convenient to the Miss Steeles, as soon as the Dashwoods’invitation was known, that their visit should begin a few days before the partytook place.

Their claims to the notice of Mrs. John Dashwood, as the nieces of thegentleman who for many years had had the care of her brother, might not havedone much, however, towards procuring them seats at her table; but as LadyMiddleton’s guests they must be welcome; and Lucy, who had long wanted tobe personally known to the family, to have a nearer view of their charactersand her own difficulties, and to have an opportunity of endeavouring to pleasethem, had seldom been happier in her life, than she was on receiving Mrs. JohnDashwood’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 aparty given by his sister; and to see him for the first time, after all thatpassed, in the company of Lucy!—she hardly knew how she could bear it!

These apprehensions, perhaps, were not founded entirely on reason, andcertainly not at all on truth. They were relieved however, not by her ownrecollection, but by the good will of Lucy, who believed herself to beinflicting a severe disappointment when she told her that Edward certainlywould not be in Harley Street on Tuesday, and even hoped to be carrying thepain still farther by persuading her that he was kept away by the extremeaffection for herself, which he could not conceal when they were together.

The important Tuesday came that was to introduce the two young ladies to thisformidable mother-in-law.

“Pity me, dear Miss Dashwood!” said Lucy, as they walked up thestairs together—for the Middletons arrived so directly after Mrs.Jennings, that they all followed the servant at the sametime:—“there is nobody here but you, that can feel for me. Ideclare I can hardly stand. Good gracious! In a moment I shall see the personthat all my happiness depends on—that is to be my mother!”

Elinor could have given her immediate relief by suggesting the possibility ofits being Miss Morton’s mother, rather than her own, whom they were aboutto behold; but instead of doing that, she assured her, and with greatsincerity, that she did pity her—to the utter amazement of Lucy, who,though really uncomfortable herself, hoped at least to be an object ofirrepressible envy to Elinor.

Mrs. Ferrars was a little, thin woman, upright, even to formality, in herfigure, and serious, even to sourness, in her aspect. Her complexion wassallow; and her features small, without beauty, and naturally withoutexpression; but a lucky contraction of the brow had rescued her countenancefrom the disgrace of insipidity, by giving it the strong characters of prideand ill nature. She was not a woman of many words; for, unlike people ingeneral, she proportioned them to the number of her ideas; and of the fewsyllables that did escape her, not one fell to the share of Miss Dashwood, whomshe eyed with the spirited determination of disliking her at all events.

Elinor could not nowbe made unhappy by this behaviour. A few months agoit would have hurt her exceedingly; but it was not in Mrs. Ferrars’ powerto distress her by it now; and the difference of her manners to the MissSteeles, a difference which seemed purposely made to humble her more, onlyamused her. She could not but smile to see the graciousness of both mother anddaughter towards the very person—for Lucy was particularlydistinguished—whom of all others, had they known as much as she did, theywould have been most anxious to mortify; while she herself, who hadcomparatively no power to wound them, sat pointedly slighted by both. But whileshe smiled at a graciousness so misapplied, she could not reflect on themean-spirited folly from which it sprung, nor observe the studied attentionswith which the Miss Steeles courted its continuance, without thoroughlydespising them all four.

Lucy was all exultation on being so honorably distinguished; and Miss Steelewanted only to be teazed about Dr. Davies to be perfectly happy.

The dinner was a grand one, the servants were numerous, and every thing bespokethe Mistress’s inclination for show, and the Master’s ability tosupport it. In spite of the improvements and additions which were making to theNorland estate, and in spite of its owner having once been within some thousandpounds of being obliged to sell out at a loss, nothing gave any symptom of thatindigence which he had tried to infer from it;—no poverty of any kind,except of conversation, appeared—but there, the deficiency wasconsiderable. John Dashwood had not much to say for himself that was worthhearing, and his wife had still less. But there was no peculiar disgrace inthis; for it was very much the case with the chief of their visitors, whoalmost all laboured under one or other of these disqualifications for beingagreeable—Want of sense, either natural or improved—want ofelegance—want of spirits—or want of temper.

When the ladies withdrew to the drawing-room after dinner, this poverty wasparticularly evident, for the gentlemen hadsupplied the discourse withsome variety—the variety of politics, inclosing land, and breakinghorses—but then it was all over; and one subject only engaged the ladiestill coffee came in, which was the comparative heights of Harry Dashwood, andLady Middleton’s second son William, who were nearly of the same age.

Had both the children been there, the affair might have been determined tooeasily by measuring them at once; but as Harry only was present, it was allconjectural assertion on both sides; and every body had a right to be equallypositive in their opinion, and to repeat it over and over again as often asthey 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, wereequally earnest in support of their own descendant.

Lucy, who was hardly less anxious to please one parent than the other, thoughtthe boys were both remarkably tall for their age, and could not conceive thatthere could be the smallest difference in the world between them; and MissSteele, with yet greater address gave it, as fast as she could, in favour ofeach.

Elinor, having once delivered her opinion on William’s side, by which sheoffended Mrs. Ferrars and Fanny still more, did not see the necessity ofenforcing 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 hadnever thought about it.

Before her removing from Norland, Elinor had painted a very pretty pair ofscreens for her sister-in-law, which being now just mounted and brought home,ornamented her present drawing room; and these screens, catching the eye ofJohn Dashwood on his following the other gentlemen into the room, wereofficiously handed by him to Colonel Brandon for his admiration.

“These are done by my eldest sister,” said he; “and you, as aman of taste, will, I dare say, be pleased with them. I do not know whether youhave ever happened to see any of her performances before, but she is in generalreckoned to draw extremely well.”

The Colonel, though disclaiming all pretensions to connoisseurship, warmlyadmired 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 handedround for general inspection. Mrs. Ferrars, not aware of their beingElinor’s work, particularly requested to look at them; and after they hadreceived gratifying testimony of Lady Middletons’s approbation, Fannypresented them to her mother, considerately informing her, at the same time,that they were done by Miss Dashwood.

“Hum”—said Mrs. Ferrars—“verypretty,”—and without regarding them at all, returned them to herdaughter.

Perhaps Fanny thought for a moment that her mother had been quite rudeenough,—for, colouring a little, she immediately said,

“They are very pretty, ma’am—an’t they?” But thenagain, the dread of having been too civil, too encouraging herself, probablycame over her, for she presently added,

“Do you not think they are something in Miss Morton’s style ofpainting, Ma’am?—She doespaint most delightfully!—Howbeautifully her last landscape is done!”

“Beautifully indeed! But shedoes every thing well.”

Marianne could not bear this.—She was already greatly displeased withMrs. 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 herimmediately to say with warmth,

“This is admiration of a very particular kind!—what is Miss Mortonto us?—who knows, or who cares, for her?—it is Elinor of whomwethink and speak.”

And so saying, she took the screens out of her sister-in-law’s hands, toadmire them herself as they ought to be admired.

Mrs. Ferrars looked exceedingly angry, and drawing herself up more stiffly thanever, pronounced in retort this bitter philippic, “Miss Morton is LordMorton’s daughter.”

Fanny looked very angry too, and her husband was all in a fright at hissister’s audacity. Elinor was much more hurt by Marianne’s warmththan she had been by what produced it; but Colonel Brandon’s eyes, asthey were fixed on Marianne, declared that he noticed only what was amiable init, the affectionate heart which could not bear to see a sister slighted in thesmallest point.

Marianne’s feelings did not stop here. The cold insolence of Mrs.Ferrars’s general behaviour to her sister, seemed, to her, to foretellsuch difficulties and distresses to Elinor, as her own wounded heart taught herto think of with horror; and urged by a strong impulse of affectionatesensibility, she moved after a moment, to her sister’s chair, and puttingone 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 makeyouunhappy.”

She could say no more; her spirits were quite overcome, and hiding her face onElinor’s shoulder, she burst into tears. Every body’s attention wascalled, and almost every body was concerned.—Colonel Brandon rose up andwent to them without knowing what he did.—Mrs. Jennings, with a veryintelligent “Ah! poor dear,” immediately gave her her salts; andSir John felt so desperately enraged against the author of this nervousdistress, that he instantly changed his seat to one close by Lucy Steele, andgave 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 thebustle, and sit down among the rest; though her spirits retained the impressionof what had passed, the whole evening.

“Poor Marianne!” said her brother to Colonel Brandon, in a lowvoice, as soon as he could secure his attention: “She has not such goodhealth as her sister,—she is very nervous,—she has notElinor’s constitution;—and one must allow that there is somethingvery trying to a young woman who has beena beauty in the loss of herpersonal attractions. You would not think it perhaps, but Marianne wasremarkably handsome a few months ago; quite as handsome as Elinor. Now you seeit is all gone.”

CHAPTER XXXV.

Elinor’s curiosity to see Mrs. Ferrars was satisfied. She had found inher every thing that could tend to make a farther connection between thefamilies undesirable. She had seen enough of her pride, her meanness, and herdetermined prejudice against herself, to comprehend all the difficulties thatmust have perplexed the engagement, and retarded the marriage, of Edward andherself, had he been otherwise free; and she had seen almost enough to bethankful for her ownsake, that one greater obstacle preserved her fromsuffering under any other of Mrs. Ferrars’s creation, preserved her fromall dependence upon her caprice, or any solicitude for her good opinion. Or atleast, if she did not bring herself quite to rejoice in Edward’s beingfettered to Lucy, she determined, that had Lucy been more amiable, sheoughtto have rejoiced.

She wondered that Lucy’s spirits could be so very much elevated by thecivility of Mrs. Ferrars;—that her interest and her vanity should so verymuch blind her as to make the attention which seemed only paid her because shewas not Elinor, appear a compliment to herself—or to allow her toderive encouragement from a preference only given her, because her realsituation was unknown. But that it was so, had not only been declared byLucy’s eyes at the time, but was declared over again the next morningmore openly, for at her particular desire, Lady Middleton set her down inBerkeley Street on the chance of seeing Elinor alone, to tell her how happy shewas.

The chance proved a lucky one, for a message from Mrs. Palmer soon after shearrived, 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 flatteringas Mrs. Ferrars’s way of treating me yesterday? So exceeding affable asshe was! You know how I dreaded the thoughts of seeing her; but the very momentI was introduced, there was such an affability in her behaviour as reallyshould seem to say, she had quite took a fancy to me. Now was not it so? Yousaw 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 vastdeal more. Such kindness as fell to the share of nobody but me!—No pride,no hauteur, and your sister just the same—all sweetness andaffability!”

Elinor wished to talk of something else, but Lucy still pressed her to own thatshe 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;—butas that was not the case—”

“I guessed you would say so,”—replied Lucyquickly—“but there was no reason in the world why Mrs. Ferrarsshould seem to like me, if she did not, and her liking me is every thing. Youshan’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. Ferrarsis 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. Dashwoodwas!”

To this Elinor had no answer to make, and did not attempt any.

“Are you ill, Miss Dashwood?—you seem low—you don’tspeak;—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. Ishould be sorry to have youill; you, that have been the greatestcomfort to me in the world!—Heaven knows what I should have done withoutyour friendship.”

Elinor tried to make a civil answer, though doubting her own success. But itseemed to satisfy Lucy, for she directly replied,

“Indeed I am perfectly convinced of your regard for me, and next toEdward’s love, it is the greatest comfort I have. Poor Edward! But nowthere is one good thing, we shall be able to meet, and meet pretty often, forLady Middleton’s delighted with Mrs. Dashwood, so we shall be a good dealin Harley Street, I dare say, and Edward spends half his time with hissister—besides, Lady Middleton and Mrs. Ferrars will visit now;—andMrs. Ferrars and your sister were both so good to say more than once, theyshould always be glad to see me. They are such charming women!—I am sureif ever you tell your sister what I think of her, you cannot speak toohigh.”

But Elinor would not give her any encouragement to hope that she shouldtell her sister. Lucy continued.

“I am sure I should have seen it in a moment, if Mrs. Ferrars had took adislike to me. If she had only made me a formal courtesy, for instance, withoutsaying a word, and never after had took any notice of me, and never looked atme in a pleasant way—you know what I mean—if I had been treated inthat forbidding sort of way, I should have gave it all up in despair. I couldnot have stood it. For where she doesdislike, I know it is mostviolent.”

Elinor was prevented from making any reply to this civil triumph, by thedoor’s being thrown open, the servant’s announcing Mr. Ferrars, andEdward’s immediately walking in.

It was a very awkward moment; and the countenance of each showed that it wasso. They all looked exceedingly foolish; and Edward seemed to have as great aninclination to walk out of the room again, as to advance farther into it. Thevery circumstance, in its unpleasantest form, which they would each have beenmost anxious to avoid, had fallen on them.—They were not only all threetogether, but were together without the relief of any other person. The ladiesrecovered themselves first. It was not Lucy’s business to put herselfforward, and the appearance of secrecy must still be kept up. She couldtherefore only lookher 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, todo it well, that she forced herself, after a moment’s recollection, towelcome him, with a look and manner that were almost easy, and almost open; andanother struggle, another effort still improved them. She would not allow thepresence of Lucy, nor the consciousness of some injustice towards herself, todeter her from saying that she was happy to see him, and that she had very muchregretted being from home, when he called before in Berkeley Street. She wouldnot be frightened from paying him those attentions which, as a friend andalmost a relation, were his due, by the observant eyes of Lucy, though she soonperceived them to be narrowly watching her.

Her manners gave some re-assurance to Edward, and he had courage enough to sitdown; 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 hisheart had not the indifference of Lucy’s, nor could his conscience havequite the ease of Elinor’s.

Lucy, with a demure and settled air, seemed determined to make no contributionto the comfort of the others, and would not say a word; and almost every thingthat wassaid, proceeded from Elinor, who was obliged to volunteer allthe 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 soheroically disposed as to determine, under pretence of fetching Marianne, toleave the others by themselves; and she really did it, and thatin thehandsomest manner, for she loitered away several minutes on the landing-place,with the most high-minded fortitude, before she went to her sister. When thatwas once done, however, it was time for the raptures of Edward to cease; forMarianne’s joy hurried her into the drawing-room immediately. Herpleasure 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 voicethat expressed the affection of a sister.

“Dear Edward!” she cried, “this is a moment of greathappiness!—This would almost make amends for every thing!”

Edward tried to return her kindness as it deserved, but before such witnesseshe dared not say half what he really felt. Again they all sat down, and for amoment or two all were silent; while Marianne was looking with the mostspeaking tenderness, sometimes at Edward and sometimes at Elinor, regrettingonly that their delight in each other should be checked by Lucy’sunwelcome presence. Edward was the first to speak, and it was to noticeMarianne’s altered looks, and express his fear of her not finding Londonagree with her.

“Oh, don’t think of me!” she replied with spiritedearnestness, though her eyes were filled with tears as she spoke,“don’t think of myhealth. Elinor is well, you see. Thatmust be enough for us both.”

This remark was not calculated to make Edward or Elinor more easy, nor toconciliate the good will of Lucy, who looked up at Marianne with no verybenignant expression.

“Do you like London?” said Edward, willing to say any thing thatmight introduce another subject.

“Not at all. I expected much pleasure in it, but I have found none. Thesight 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 employEdward 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 acceptthe 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 whatevercause best pleased herself, was perfectly satisfied, and soon talked ofsomething else.

“We spent such a day, Edward, in Harley Street yesterday! So dull, sowretchedly dull!—But I have much to say to you on that head, which cannotbe said now.”

And with this admirable discretion did she defer the assurance of her findingtheir mutual relatives more disagreeable than ever, and of her beingparticularly 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 onher, “you think young men never stand upon engagements, if they have nomind 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 conscienceonly kept Edward from Harley Street. And I really believe he hasthemost delicate conscience in the world; the most scrupulous in performing everyengagement, however minute, and however it may make against his interest orpleasure. He is the most fearful of giving pain, of wounding expectation, andthe 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 youmust 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 beparticularly ill-suited to the feelings of two thirds of her auditors, and wasso very unexhilarating to Edward, that he very soon got up to go away.

“Going so soon!” said Marianne; “my dear Edward, this mustnot be.”

And drawing him a little aside, she whispered her persuasion that Lucy couldnot stay much longer. But even this encouragement failed, for he would go; andLucy, who would have outstaid him, had his visit lasted two hours, soonafterwards went away.

“What can bring her here so often?” said Marianne, on her leavingthem. “Could not she see that we wanted her gone!—how teazing toEdward!”

“Why so?—we were all his friends, and Lucy has been the longestknown to him of any. It is but natural that he should like to see her as wellas ourselves.”

Marianne looked at her steadily, and said, “You know, Elinor, that thisis a kind of talking which I cannot bear. If you only hope to have yourassertion contradicted, as I must suppose to be the case, you ought torecollect that I am the last person in the world to do it. I cannot descend tobe tricked out of assurances, that are not really wanted.”

She then left the room; and Elinor dared not follow her to say more, for boundas she was by her promise of secrecy to Lucy, she could give no informationthat would convince Marianne; and painful as the consequences of her stillcontinuing in an error might be, she was obliged to submit to it. All that shecould hope, was that Edward would not often expose her or himself to thedistress of hearing Marianne’s mistaken warmth, nor to the repetition ofany other part of the pain that had attended their recent meeting—andthis 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; avery interesting and satisfactory paragraph, at least to all those intimateconnections who knew it before.

This event, highly important to Mrs. Jennings’s happiness, produced atemporary alteration in the disposal of her time, and influenced, in a likedegree, the engagements of her young friends; for as she wished to be as muchas possible with Charlotte, she went thither every morning as soon as she wasdressed, 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 inConduit Street. For their own comfort they would much rather have remained, atleast all the morning, in Mrs. Jennings’s house; but it was not a thingto be urged against the wishes of everybody. Their hours were therefore madeover to Lady Middleton and the two Miss Steeles, by whom their company, in factwas as little valued, as it was professedly sought.

They had too much sense to be desirable companions to the former; and by thelatter they were considered with a jealous eye, as intruding on theirground, and sharing the kindness which they wanted to monopolize. Thoughnothing could be more polite than Lady Middleton’s behaviour to Elinorand Marianne, she did not really like them at all. Because they neitherflattered herself nor her children, she could not believe them good-natured;and because they were fond of reading, she fancied them satirical: perhapswithout exactly knowing what it was to be satirical; but thatdid notsignify. It was censure in common use, and easily given.

Their presence was a restraint both on her and on Lucy. It checked the idlenessof one, and the business of the other. Lady Middleton was ashamed of doingnothing before them, and the flattery which Lucy was proud to think of andadminister at other times, she feared they would despise her for offering. MissSteele was the least discomposed of the three, by their presence; and it was intheir power to reconcile her to it entirely. Would either of them only havegiven her a full and minute account of the whole affair between Marianne andMr. Willoughby, she would have thought herself amply rewarded for the sacrificeof the best place by the fire after dinner, which their arrival occasioned. Butthis conciliation was not granted; for though she often threw out expressionsof pity for her sister to Elinor, and more than once dropt a reflection on theinconstancy of beaux before Marianne, no effect was produced, but a look ofindifference from the former, or of disgust in the latter. An effort even yetlighter might have made her their friend. Would they only have laughed at herabout the Doctor! But so little were they, any more than the others, inclinedto oblige her, that if Sir John dined from home, she might spend a whole daywithout hearing any other raillery on the subject, than what she was kindenough to bestow on herself.

All these jealousies and discontents, however, were so totally unsuspected byMrs. Jennings, that she thought it a delightful thing for the girls to betogether; and generally congratulated her young friends every night, on havingescaped the company of a stupid old woman so long. She joined them sometimes atSir John’s, sometimes at her own house; but wherever it was, she alwayscame in excellent spirits, full of delight and importance, attributingCharlotte’s well doing to her own care, and ready to give so exact, sominute a detail of her situation, as only Miss Steele had curiosity enough todesire. One thing diddisturb her; and of that she made her dailycomplaint. Mr. Palmer maintained the common, but unfatherly opinion among hissex, of all infants being alike; and though she could plainly perceive, atdifferent times, the most striking resemblance between this baby and every oneof his relations on both sides, there was no convincing his father of it; nopersuading him to believe that it was not exactly like every other baby of thesame age; nor could he even be brought to acknowledge the simple proposition ofits 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. Jenningswere first calling on her in Harley Street, another of her acquaintance haddropt in—a circumstance in itself not apparently likely to produce evilto her. But while the imaginations of other people will carry them away to formwrong 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. Inthe present instance, this last-arrived lady allowed her fancy to so far outruntruth and probability, that on merely hearing the name of the Miss Dashwoods,and understanding them to be Mr. Dashwood’s sisters, she immediatelyconcluded them to be staying in Harley Street; and this misconstructionproduced within a day or two afterwards, cards of invitation for them as wellas for their brother and sister, to a small musical party at her house. Theconsequence of which was, that Mrs. John Dashwood was obliged to submit notonly to the exceedingly great inconvenience of sending her carriage for theMiss Dashwoods, but, what was still worse, must be subject to all theunpleasantness of appearing to treat them with attention: and who could tellthat they might not expect to go out with her a second time? The power ofdisappointing 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 bewrong, 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 outevery day, that it was become a matter of indifference to her, whether she wentor not: and she prepared quietly and mechanically for every evening’sengagement, though without expecting the smallest amusement from any, and veryoften 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 tobestow half the consideration on it, during the whole of her toilet, which itreceived from Miss Steele in the first five minutes of their being together,when it was finished. Nothing escaped herminute observation and generalcuriosity; she saw every thing, and asked every thing; was never easy till sheknew the price of every part of Marianne’s dress; could have guessed thenumber of her gowns altogether with better judgment than Marianne herself, andwas not without hopes of finding out before they parted, how much her washingcost per week, and how much she had every year to spend upon herself. Theimpertinence of these kind of scrutinies, moreover, was generally concludedwith a compliment, which though meant as its douceur, was considered byMarianne as the greatest impertinence of all; for after undergoing anexamination into the value and make of her gown, the colour of her shoes, andthe 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 agreat many conquests.”

With such encouragement as this, was she dismissed on the present occasion, toher brother’s carriage; which they were ready to enter five minutes afterit stopped at the door, a punctuality not very agreeable to theirsister-in-law, who had preceded them to the house of her acquaintance, and wasthere hoping for some delay on their part that might inconvenience eitherherself or her coachman.

The events of this evening were not very remarkable. The party, like othermusical parties, comprehended a great many people who had real taste for theperformance, and a great many more who had none at all; and the performersthemselves were, as usual, in their own estimation, and that of their immediatefriends, the first private performers in England.

As Elinor was neither musical, nor affecting to be so, she made no scruple ofturning her eyes from the grand pianoforte, whenever it suited her, andunrestrained even by the presence of a harp, and violoncello, would fix them atpleasure on any other object in the room. In one of these excursive glances sheperceived among a group of young men, the very he, who had given them a lectureon toothpick-cases at Gray’s. She perceived him soon afterwards lookingat herself, and speaking familiarly to her brother; and had just determined tofind 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 whichassured her as plainly as words could have done, that he was exactly thecoxcomb 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 meritof his nearest relations! For then his brother’s bow must have given thefinishing stroke to what the ill-humour of his mother and sister would havebegun. But while she wondered at the difference of the two young men, she didnot find that the emptiness and conceit of the one, put her out of all charitywith the modesty and worth of the other. Why they weredifferent, Robertexplained to her himself in the course of a quarter of an hour’sconversation; for, talking of his brother, and lamenting the extremegaucheriewhich he really believed kept him from mixing in propersociety, he candidly and generously attributed it much less to any naturaldeficiency, 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 theworld as any other man.

“Upon my soul,” he added, “I believe it is nothing more; andso I often tell my mother, when she is grieving about it. ‘My dearMadam,’ I always say to her, ‘you must make yourself easy. The evilis now irremediable, and it has been entirely your own doing. Why would you bepersuaded by my uncle, Sir Robert, against your own judgment, to place Edwardunder private tuition, at the most critical time of his life? If you had onlysent 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 inwhich I always consider the matter, and my mother is perfectly convinced of hererror.”

Elinor would not oppose his opinion, because, whatever might be her generalestimation of the advantage of a public school, she could not think ofEdward’s abode in Mr. Pratt’s family, with any satisfaction.

“You reside in Devonshire, I think,”—was his nextobservation, “in a cottage near Dawlish.”

Elinor set him right as to its situation; and it seemed rather surprising tohim that anybody could live in Devonshire, without living near Dawlish. Hebestowed his hearty approbation however on their species of house.

“For my own part,” said he, “I am excessively fond of acottage; there is always so much comfort, so much elegance about them. And Iprotest, if I had any money to spare, I should buy a little land and build onemyself, within a short distance of London, where I might drive myself down atany time, and collect a few friends about me, and be happy. I advise every bodywho is going to build, to build a cottage. My friend Lord Courtland came to methe other day on purpose to ask my advice, and laid before me three differentplans of Bonomi’s. I was to decide on the best of them. ‘My dearCourtland,’ 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 acottage; but this is all a mistake. I was last month at my friendElliott’s, near Dartford. Lady Elliott wished to give a dance. ‘Buthow can it be done?’ said she; ‘my dear Ferrars, do tell me how itis to be managed. There is not a room in this cottage that will hold tencouple, and where can the supper be?’ Iimmediately saw that therecould be no difficulty in it, so I said, ‘My dear Lady Elliott, do not beuneasy. The dining parlour will admit eighteen couple with ease; card-tablesmay be placed in the drawing-room; the library may be open for tea and otherrefreshments; and let the supper be set out in the saloon.’ Lady Elliottwas delighted with the thought. We measured the dining-room, and found it wouldhold exactly eighteen couple, and the affair was arranged precisely after myplan. 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 spaciousdwelling.”

Elinor agreed to it all, for she did not think he deserved the compliment ofrational opposition.

As John Dashwood had no more pleasure in music than his eldest sister, his mindwas equally at liberty to fix on any thing else; and a thought struck himduring the evening, which he communicated to his wife, for her approbation,when they got home. The consideration of Mrs. Dennison’s mistake, insupposing his sisters their guests, had suggested the propriety of their beingreally invited to become such, while Mrs. Jennings’s engagements kept herfrom home. The expense would be nothing, the inconvenience not more; and it wasaltogether an attention which the delicacy of his conscience pointed out to berequisite to its complete enfranchisement from his promise to his father. Fannywas startled at the proposal.

“I do not see how it can be done,” said she, “withoutaffronting Lady Middleton, for they spend every day with her; otherwise Ishould be exceedingly glad to do it. You know I am always ready to pay them anyattention in my power, as my taking them out this evening shows. But they areLady 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 LadyMiddleton could not be displeased at their giving the same number of days tosuch 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. ButI had just settled within myself to ask the Miss Steeles to spend a few dayswith us. They are very well behaved, good kind of girls; and I think theattention is due to them, as their uncle did so very well by Edward. We can askyour sisters some other year, you know; but the Miss Steeles may not be in townany more. I am sure you will like them; indeed, you dolike them, youknow, very much already, and so does my mother; and they are such favouriteswith Harry!”

Mr. Dashwood was convinced. He saw the necessity of inviting the Miss Steelesimmediately, and his conscience was pacified by the resolution of inviting hissisters another year; at the same time, however, slyly suspecting that anotheryear would make the invitation needless, by bringing Elinor to town as ColonelBrandon’s wife, and Marianne as theirvisitor.

Fanny, rejoicing in her escape, and proud of the ready wit that had procuredit, wrote the next morning to Lucy, to request her company and hersister’s, for some days, in Harley Street, as soon as Lady Middletoncould spare them. This was enough to make Lucy really and reasonably happy.Mrs. Dashwood seemed actually working for her, herself; cherishing all herhopes, and promoting all her views! Such an opportunity of being with Edwardand his family was, above all things, the most material to her interest, andsuch an invitation the most gratifying to her feelings! It was an advantagethat 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 itsarrival, it gave her, for the first time, some share in the expectations ofLucy; for such a mark of uncommon kindness, vouchsafed on so short anacquaintance, seemed to declare that the good-will towards her arose fromsomething more than merely malice against herself; and might be brought, bytime and address, to do every thing that Lucy wished. Her flattery had alreadysubdued the pride of Lady Middleton, and made an entry into the close heart ofMrs. John Dashwood; and these were effects that laid open the probability ofgreater.

The Miss Steeles removed to Harley Street, and all that reached Elinor of theirinfluence there, strengthened her expectation of the event. Sir John, whocalled on them more than once, brought home such accounts of the favour theywere in, as must be universally striking. Mrs. Dashwood had never been so muchpleased with any young women in her life, as she was with them; had given eachof 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 nolonger necessary to give up the whole of her time to her; and, contentingherself with visiting her once or twice a day, returned from that period to herown home, and her own habits, in which she found the Miss Dashwoods very readyto resume their former share.

About the third or fourth morning after their being thus resettled in BerkeleyStreet, Mrs. Jennings, on returning from her ordinary visit to Mrs. Palmer,entered the drawing-room, where Elinor was sitting by herself, with an air ofsuch hurrying importance as prepared her to hear something wonderful; andgiving her time only to form that idea, began directly to justify it, bysaying,

“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 sureit was very ill—it cried, and fretted, and was all over pimples. So Ilooked at it directly, and, ‘Lord! my dear,’ says I, ‘it isnothing in the world, but the red gum;’ and nurse said just the same. ButCharlotte, she would not be satisfied, so Mr. Donavan was sent for; and luckilyhe 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 wasnothing in the world but the red gum, and then Charlotte was easy. And so, justas he was going away again, it came into my head, I am sure I do not know how Ihappened to think of it, but it came into my head to ask him if there was anynews. So upon that, he smirked, and simpered, and looked grave, and seemed toknow something or other, and at last he said in a whisper, ‘For fear anyunpleasant report should reach the young ladies under your care as to theirsister’s indisposition, I think it advisable to say, that I believe thereis no great reason for alarm; I hope Mrs. Dashwood will do verywell.’”

“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 andthe short of the matter, by all I can learn, seems to be this. Mr. EdwardFerrars, the very young man I used to joke with you about (but however, as itturns out, I am monstrous glad there was never any thing in it), Mr. EdwardFerrars, it seems, has been engaged above this twelvemonth to my cousinLucy!—There’s for you, my dear! And not a creature knowing asyllable of the matter, except Nancy! Could you have believed such a thingpossible? There is no great wonder in their liking one another; but thatmatters should be brought so forward between them, and nobody suspect it!Thatis strange! I never happened to see them together, or I am sure Ishould 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 suspecteda word of the matter: till this very morning, poor Nancy, who, you know, is awell-meaning creature, but no conjurer, popt it all out. ‘Lord!’thinks she to herself, ‘they are all so fond of Lucy, to be sure theywill 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 tocome—for she had just been saying to your brother, only five minutesbefore, that she thought to make a match between Edward and some Lord’sdaughter or other, I forget who. So you may think what a blow it was to all hervanity and pride. She fell into violent hysterics immediately, with suchscreams as reached your brother’s ears, as he was sitting in his owndressing-room down stairs, thinking about writing a letter to his steward inthe country. So up he flew directly, and a terrible scene took place, for Lucywas come to them by that time, little dreaming what was going on. Poor soul! Ipity her. And I must say, I think she was used very hardly; for yoursister 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 aboutthe room, and said he did not know what to do. Mrs. Dashwood declared theyshould not stay a minute longer in the house, and your brother was forced to godown upon hisknees too, to persuade her to let them stay till they hadpacked up their clothes. Thenshe fell into hysterics again, and he wasso frightened that he would send for Mr. Donavan, and Mr. Donavan found thehouse in all this uproar. The carriage was at the door ready to take my poorcousins away, and they were just stepping in as he came off; poor Lucy in sucha 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 bein when he hears of it! To have his love used so scornfully! for they say he ismonstrous fond of her, as well he may. I should not wonder, if he was to be inthe greatest passion!—and Mr. Donavan thinks just the same. He and I hada great deal of talk about it; and the best of all is, that he is gone backagain to Harley Street, that he may be within call when Mrs. Ferrars is told ofit, for she was sent for as soon as ever my cousins left the house, for yoursister was sure shewould be in hysterics too; and so she may, for whatI care. I have no pity for either of them. I have no notion of people’smaking such a to-do about money and greatness. There is no reason on earth whyMr. Edward and Lucy should not marry; for I am sure Mrs. Ferrars may afford todo very well by her son, and though Lucy has next to nothing herself, she knowsbetter 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 anappearance with it as any body else would with eight. Lord! how snug they mightlive in such another cottage as yours—or a little bigger—with twomaids, and two men; and I believe I could help them to a housemaid, for myBetty has a sister out of place, that would fit them exactly.”

Here Mrs. Jennings ceased, and as Elinor had had time enough to collect herthoughts, she was able to give such an answer, and make such observations, asthe subject might naturally be supposed to produce. Happy to find that she wasnot suspected of any extraordinary interest in it; that Mrs. Jennings (as shehad of late often hoped might be the case) had ceased to imagine her at allattached 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 togive her judgment, as she believed, with impartiality on the conduct of everyone 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 toend 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, shewas anxious to hear; and still more anxious to know how Edward would conducthimself. For himshe felt much compassion;—for Lucy verylittle—and it cost her some pains to procure that little;—for therest of the party none at all.

As Mrs. Jennings could talk on no other subject, Elinor soon saw the necessityof preparing Marianne for its discussion. No time was to be lost in undeceivingher, in making her acquainted with the real truth, and in endeavouring to bringher to hear it talked of by others, without betraying that she felt anyuneasiness for her sister, or any resentment against Edward.

Elinor’s office was a painful one.—She was going to remove what shereally believed to be her sister’s chief consolation,—to give suchparticulars of Edward as she feared would ruin him for ever in her goodopinion,-and to make Marianne, by a resemblance in their situations, which toherfancy 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 Elinortherefore hastened to perform it.

She was very far from wishing to dwell on her own feelings, or to representherself as suffering much, any otherwise than as the self-command she hadpractised since her first knowledge of Edward’s engagement, might suggesta 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 byviolent agitation, nor impetuous grief. Thatbelonged rather to thehearer, for Marianne listened with horror, and cried excessively. Elinor was tobe the comforter of others in her own distresses, no less than in theirs; andall 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 secondWilloughby; and acknowledging as Elinor did, that she hadloved him mostsincerely, could she feel less than herself! As for Lucy Steele, she consideredher 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 havebeen natural; and Elinor left her to be convinced that it was so, by that whichonly could convince her, a better knowledge of mankind.

Her first communication had reached no farther than to state the fact of theengagement, and the length of time it had existed.—Marianne’sfeelings had then broken in, and put an end to all regularity of detail; andfor some time all that could be done was to soothe her distress, lessen heralarms, and combat her resentment. The first question on her side, which led tofarther particulars, was,—

“How long has this been known to you, Elinor? has he written toyou?”

“I have known it these four months. When Lucy first came to Barton Parklast November, she told me in confidence of her engagement.”

At these words, Marianne’s eyes expressed the astonishment which her lipscould 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 thereverse!”

“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, obligedme to be secret. I owed it to her, therefore, to avoid giving any hint of thetruth; and I owed it to my family and friends, not to create in them asolicitude 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 withoutbetraying 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 wasdear to me, I was glad to spare them from knowing how much I felt. Now, I canthink and speak of it with little emotion. I would not have you suffer on myaccount; for I assure you I no longer suffer materially myself. I have manythings to support me. I am not conscious of having provoked the disappointmentby any imprudence of my own, I have borne it as much as possible withoutspreading it farther. I acquit Edward of essential misconduct. I wish him veryhappy; and I am so sure of his always doing his duty, that though now he mayharbour 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 afterall, Marianne, after all that is bewitching in the idea of a single andconstant attachment, and all that can be said of one’s happinessdepending entirely on any particular person, it is not meant—it is notfit—it is not possible that it should be so. Edward will marry Lucy; hewill marry a woman superior in person and understanding to half her sex; andtime and habit will teach him to forget that he ever thought another superiorto her.”

“If such is your way of thinking,” said Marianne, “if theloss of what is most valued is so easily to be made up by something else, yourresolution, your self-command, are, perhaps, a little less to be wonderedat.—They are brought more within my comprehension.”

“I understand you. You do not suppose that I have ever felt much. Forfour months, Marianne, I have had all this hanging on my mind, without being atliberty to speak of it to a single creature; knowing that it would make you andmy mother most unhappy whenever it were explained to you, yet unable to prepareyou for it in the least. It was told me,—it was in a manner forced on meby the very person herself, whose prior engagement ruined all my prospects; andtold me, as I thought, with triumph. This person’s suspicions, therefore,I have had to oppose, by endeavouring to appear indifferent where I have beenmost deeply interested; and it has not been only once; I have had her hopes andexultation to listen to again and again. I have known myself to be divided fromEdward for ever, without hearing one circumstance that could make me lessdesire the connection. Nothing has proved him unworthy; nor has anythingdeclared him indifferent to me. I have had to contend against the unkindnessof his sister, and the insolence of his mother; and have suffered thepunishment of an attachment, without enjoying its advantages. And all this hasbeen going on at a time, when, as you know too well, it has not been my onlyunhappiness. If you can think me capable of ever feeling, surely you maysuppose that I have suffered now. The composure of mind with which Ihave brought myself at present to consider the matter, the consolation that Ihave been willing to admit, have been the effect of constant and painfulexertion; they did not spring up of themselves; they did not occur to relievemy spirits at first. No, Marianne. Then, if I had not been bound tosilence, perhaps nothing could have kept me entirely—not even what I owedto my dearest friends—from openly showing that I was veryunhappy.”

Marianne was quite subdued.

“Oh! Elinor,” she cried, “you have made me hate myself forever.—How barbarous have I been to you!—you, who have been my onlycomfort, who have borne with me in all my misery, who have seemed to be onlysuffering for me!—Is this my gratitude?—Is this the only return Ican make you?—Because your merit cries out upon myself, I have beentrying to do it away.”

The tenderest caresses followed this confession. In such a frame of mind as shewas now in, Elinor had no difficulty in obtaining from her whatever promise sherequired; and at her request, Marianne engaged never to speak of the affair toany one with the least appearance of bitterness; to meet Lucy without betrayingthe smallest increase of dislike to her; and even to see Edward himself, ifchance should bring them together, without any diminution of her usualcordiality. These were great concessions; but where Marianne felt that she hadinjured, no reparation could be too much for her to make.

She performed her promise of being discreet, to admiration.—She attendedto all that Mrs. Jennings had to say upon the subject, with an unchangingcomplexion, dissented from her in nothing, and was heard three times to say,“Yes, ma’am.”—She listened to her praise of Lucy withonly moving from one chair to another, and when Mrs. Jennings talked ofEdward’s affection, it cost her only a spasm in her throat.—Suchadvances towards heroism in her sister, made Elinor feel equal to any thingherself.

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 bringthem news of his wife.

“You have heard, I suppose,” said he with great solemnity, as soonas he was seated, “of the very shocking discovery that took place underour 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 complicateddistress—but I will hope that the storm may be weathered without ourbeing 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 tobe apprehended; her constitution is a good one, and her resolution equal to anything. She has borne it all, with the fortitude of an angel! She says she nevershall think well of anybody again; and one cannot wonder at it, after being sodeceived!—meeting with such ingratitude, where so much kindness had beenshown, so much confidence had been placed! It was quite out of the benevolenceof her heart, that she had asked these young women to her house; merely becauseshe thought they deserved some attention, were harmless, well-behaved girls,and would be pleasant companions; for otherwise we both wished very much tohave invited you and Marianne to be with us, while your kind friend there, wasattending her daughter. And now to be so rewarded! ‘I wish, with all myheart,’ says poor Fanny in her affectionate way, ‘that we had askedyour 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, isnot to be described. While she with the truest affection had been planning amost eligible connection for him, was it to be supposed that he could be allthe time secretly engaged to another person!—such a suspicion could neverhave entered her head! If she suspected anyprepossession elsewhere, itcould not be in thatquarter. ‘There, to be sure,’said she, ‘I might have thought myself safe.’ She was quite in anagony. We consulted together, however, as to what should be done, and at lastshe determined to send for Edward. He came. But I am sorry to relate whatensued. All that Mrs. Ferrars could say to make him put an end to theengagement, assisted too as you may well suppose by my arguments, andFanny’s entreaties, was of no avail. Duty, affection, every thing wasdisregarded. I never thought Edward so stubborn, so unfeeling before. Hismother explained to him her liberal designs, in case of his marrying MissMorton; told him she would settle on him the Norfolk estate, which, clear ofland-tax, brings in a good thousand a-year; offered even, when matters grewdesperate, to make it twelve hundred; and in opposition to this, if he stillpersisted in this low connection, represented to him the certain penury thatmust attend the match. His own two thousand pounds she protested should be hisall; she would never see him again; and so far would she be from affording himthe smallest assistance, that if he were to enter into any profession with aview of better support, she would do all in her power to prevent him advancingin it.”

Here Marianne, in an ecstasy of indignation, clapped her hands together, andcried, “Gracious God! can this be possible!”

“Well may you wonder, Marianne,” replied her brother, “at theobstinacy which could resist such arguments as these. Your exclamation is verynatural.”

Marianne was going to retort, but she remembered her promises, and forbore.

“All this, however,” he continued, “was urged in vain. Edwardsaid 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 tobe 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. Ihave some little concern in the business, as well as yourself, for Lucy Steeleis 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 toprovocation, and he never wished to offend anybody, especially anybody of goodfortune. 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 inthe present case you know, the connection must be impossible. And to haveentered 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, isperhaps, altogether a little extraordinary. In short, I do not mean to reflectupon the behaviour of any person whom you have a regard for, Mrs. Jennings. Weall wish her extremely happy; and Mrs. Ferrars’s conduct throughout thewhole, has been such as every conscientious, good mother, in likecircumstances, would adopt. It has been dignified and liberal. Edward has drawnhis own lot, and I fear it will be a bad one.”

Marianne sighed out her similar apprehension; and Elinor’s heart wrungfor the feelings of Edward, while braving his mother’s threats, for awoman 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:—Edwardis dismissed for ever from his mother’s notice. He left her houseyesterday, but where he is gone, or whether he is still in town, I do not know;for weof 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 theprospect of such affluence! I cannot conceive a situation more deplorable. Theinterest of two thousand pounds—how can a man live on it?—and whento that is added the recollection, that he might, but for his own folly, withinthree months have been in the receipt of two thousand, five hundred a-year (forMiss Morton has thirty thousand pounds,) I cannot picture to myself a morewretched condition. We must all feel for him; and the more so, because it istotally out of our power to assist him.”

“Poor young man!” cried Mrs. Jennings, “I am sure he shouldbe very welcome to bed and board at my house; and so I would tell him if Icould see him. It is not fit that he should be living about at his own chargenow, at lodgings and taverns.”

Elinor’s heart thanked her for such kindness towards Edward, though shecould not forbear smiling at the form of it.

“If he would only have done as well by himself,” said JohnDashwood, “as all his friends were disposed to do by him, he might nowhave been in his proper situation, and would have wanted for nothing. But as itis, it must be out of anybody’s power to assist him. And there is onething more preparing against him, which must be worse than all—his motherhas determined, with a very natural kind of spirit, to settle thatestate upon Robert immediately, which might have been Edward’s, on properconditions. I left her this morning with her lawyer, talking over thebusiness.”

“Well!” said Mrs. Jennings, “that is herrevenge.Everybody has a way of their own. But I don’t think mine would be, tomake 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,” continuedJohn, “than to see his younger brother in possession of an estate whichmight 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; andwith repeated assurances to his sisters that he really believed there was nomaterial danger in Fanny’s indisposition, and that they need nottherefore be very uneasy about it, he went away; leaving the three ladiesunanimous in their sentiments on the present occasion, as far at least as itregarded Mrs. Ferrars’s conduct, the Dashwoods’, andEdward’s.

Marianne’s indignation burst forth as soon as he quitted the room; and asher 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 onlyElinor and Marianne understood its true merit. Theyonly knew how littlehe 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 lossof friends and fortune. Elinor gloried in his integrity; and Marianne forgaveall his offences in compassion for his punishment. But though confidencebetween them was, by this public discovery, restored to its proper state, itwas 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 herthoughts, by the too warm, too positive assurances of Marianne, that belief ofEdward’s continued affection for herself which she rather wished to doaway; and Marianne’s courage soon failed her, in trying to converse upona topic which always left her more dissatisfied with herself than ever, by thecomparison 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, tourge her to exertion now; she felt it with all the pain of continualself-reproach, regretted most bitterly that she had never exerted herselfbefore; but it brought only the torture of penitence, without the hope ofamendment. Her mind was so much weakened that she still fancied presentexertion impossible, and therefore it only dispirited her more.

Nothing new was heard by them, for a day or two afterwards, of affairs inHarley Street, or Bartlett’s Buildings. But though so much of the matterwas known to them already, that Mrs. Jennings might have had enough to do inspreading that knowledge farther, without seeking after more, she had resolvedfrom the first to pay a visit of comfort and inquiry to her cousins as soon asshe could; and nothing but the hindrance of more visitors than usual, hadprevented her going to them within that time.

The third day succeeding their knowledge of the particulars, was so fine, sobeautiful a Sunday as to draw many to Kensington Gardens, though it was onlythe second week in March. Mrs. Jennings and Elinor were of the number; butMarianne, who knew that the Willoughbys were again in town, and had a constantdread of meeting them, chose rather to stay at home, than venture into sopublic a place.

An intimate acquaintance of Mrs. Jennings joined them soon after they enteredthe Gardens, and Elinor was not sorry that by her continuing with them, andengaging all Mrs. Jennings’s conversation, she was herself left to quietreflection. She saw nothing of the Willoughbys, nothing of Edward, and for sometime nothing of anybody who could by any chance whether grave or gay, beinteresting to her. But at last she found herself with some surprise, accostedby Miss Steele, who, though looking rather shy, expressed great satisfaction inmeeting them, and on receiving encouragement from the particular kindness ofMrs. 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’stoo, that she would tell any thing withoutbeing asked; for nothingwould otherwise have been learnt.

“I am so glad to meet you;” said Miss Steele, taking her familiarlyby the arm—“for I wanted to see you of all things in theworld.” And then lowering her voice, “I suppose Mrs. Jennings hasheard all about it. Is she angry?”

“Not at all, I believe, with you.”

“That is a good thing. And Lady Middleton, is sheangry?”

“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 nevertrim me up a new bonnet, nor do any thing else for me again, so long as shelived; 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,youare going to laugh at me too. But why should not I wear pinkribbons? I do not care if it isthe Doctor’s favourite colour. Iam sure, for my part, I should never have known he didlike it betterthan any other colour, if he had not happened to say so. My cousins have beenso plaguing me! I declare sometimes I do not know which way to look beforethem.”

She had wandered away to a subject on which Elinor had nothing to say, andtherefore soon judged it expedient to find her way back again to the first.

“Well, but Miss Dashwood,” speaking triumphantly, “people maysay 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 suchill-natured reports to be spread abroad. Whatever Lucy might think about itherself, you know, it was no business of other people to set it down forcertain.”

“I never heard any thing of the kind hinted at before, I assureyou,” said Elinor.

“Oh, did not you? But it wassaid, I know, very well, and by morethan one; for Miss Godby told Miss Sparks, that nobody in their senses couldexpect Mr. Ferrars to give up a woman like Miss Morton, with thirty thousandpounds to her fortune, for Lucy Steele that had nothing at all; and I had itfrom Miss Sparks myself. And besides that, my cousin Richard said himself, thatwhen it came to the point he was afraid Mr. Ferrars would be off; and whenEdward did not come near us for three days, I could not tell what to thinkmyself; and I believe in my heart Lucy gave it up all for lost; for we cameaway from your brother’s Wednesday, and we saw nothing of him not allThursday, Friday, and Saturday, and did not know what was become of him. OnceLucy thought to write to him, but then her spirits rose against that. Howeverthis morning he came just as we came home from church; and then it all cameout, how he had been sent for Wednesday to Harley Street, and been talked to byhis mother and all of them, and how he had declared before them all that heloved nobody but Lucy, and nobody but Lucy would he have. And how he had beenso worried by what passed, that as soon as he had went away from hismother’s house, he had got upon his horse, and rid into the country, somewhere or other; and how he had stayed about at an inn all Thursday and Friday,on purpose to get the better of it. And after thinking it all over and overagain, he said, it seemed to him as if, now he had no fortune, and no nothingat all, it would be quite unkind to keep her on to the engagement, because itmust be for her loss, for he had nothing but two thousand pounds, and no hopeof any thing else; and if he was to go into orders, as he had some thoughts, hecould get nothing but a curacy, and how was they to live upon that?—Hecould not bear to think of her doing no better, and so he begged, if she hadthe least mind for it, to put an end to the matter directly, and leave himshift for himself. I heard him say all this as plain as could possibly be. Andit was entirely for hersake, and upon heraccount, that he saida word about being off, and not upon his own. I will take my oath he neverdropt a syllable of being tired of her, or of wishing to marry Miss Morton, orany thing like it. But, to be sure, Lucy would not give ear to such kind oftalking; so she told him directly (with a great deal about sweet and love, youknow, and all that—Oh, la! one can’t repeat such kind of things youknow)—she told him directly, she had not the least mind in the world tobe off, for she could live with him upon a trifle, and how little so ever hemight have, she should be very glad to have it all, you know, or something ofthe kind. So then he was monstrous happy, and talked on some time about whatthey should do, and they agreed he should take orders directly, and they mustwait to be married till he got a living. And just then I could not hear anymore, for my cousin called from below to tell me Mrs. Richardson was come inher coach, and would take one of us to Kensington Gardens; so I was forced togo into the room and interrupt them, to ask Lucy if she would like to go, butshe did not care to leave Edward; so I just run up stairs and put on a pair ofsilk stockings and came off with the Richardsons.”

“I do not understand what you mean by interrupting them,” saidElinor; “you were all in the same room together, were not you?”

“No, indeed, not us. La! Miss Dashwood, do you think people make lovewhen any body else is by? Oh, for shame!—To be sure you must know betterthan that. (Laughing affectedly.)—No, no; they were shut up in thedrawing-room together, and all I heard was only by listening at thedoor.”

“How!” cried Elinor; “have you been repeating to me what youonly learnt yourself by listening at the door? I am sorry I did not know itbefore; for I certainly would not have suffered you to give me particulars of aconversation which you ought not to have known yourself. How could you behaveso unfairly by your sister?”

“Oh, la! there is nothing in that. I only stood at the door, andheard what I could. And I am sure Lucy would have done just the same by me; fora year or two back, when Martha Sharpe and I had so many secrets together, shenever made any bones of hiding in a closet, or behind a chimney-board, onpurpose to hear what we said.”

Elinor tried to talk of something else; but Miss Steele could not be keptbeyond a couple of minutes, from what was uppermost in her mind.

“Edward talks of going to Oxford soon,” said she; “but now heis 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, Ishan’t say anything against them to you;and to be sure they didsend us home in their own chariot, which was more than I looked for. And for mypart, I was all in a fright for fear your sister should ask us for the huswifesshe 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 atOxford, he says; so he must go there for a time; and after that, as soonas he can light upon a Bishop, he will be ordained. I wonder what curacy hewill get! Good gracious! (giggling as she spoke) I’d lay my life I knowwhat my cousins will say, when they hear of it. They will tell me I shouldwrite to the Doctor, to get Edward the curacy of his new living. I know theywill; 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 ofsuch a thing? Iwrite to the Doctor, indeed!’”

“Well,” said Elinor, “it is a comfort to be prepared againstthe worst. You have got your answer ready.”

Miss Steele was going to reply on the same subject, but the approach of her ownparty 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 verygenteel people. He makes a monstrous deal of money, and they keep their owncoach. I have not time to speak to Mrs. Jennings about it myself, but pray tellher I am quite happy to hear she is not in anger against us, and Lady Middletonthe same; and if anything should happen to take you and your sister away, andMrs. Jennings should want company, I am sure we should be very glad to come andstay with her for as long a time as she likes. I suppose Lady Middletonwon’t ask us any more this bout. Good-by; I am sorry Miss Marianne wasnot here. Remember me kindly to her. La! if you have not got your spottedmuslin 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 herfarewell compliments to Mrs. Jennings, before her company was claimed by Mrs.Richardson; and Elinor was left in possession of knowledge which might feed herpowers of reflection some time, though she had learnt very little more thanwhat had been already foreseen and foreplanned in her own mind. Edward’smarriage with Lucy was as firmly determined on, and the time of its takingplace remained as absolutely uncertain, as she had concluded it wouldbe;—every thing depended, exactly after her expectation, on his gettingthat preferment, of which, at present, there seemed not the smallest chance.

As soon as they returned to the carriage, Mrs. Jennings was eager forinformation; but as Elinor wished to spread as little as possible intelligencethat had in the first place been so unfairly obtained, she confined herself tothe brief repetition of such simple particulars, as she felt assured that Lucy,for the sake of her own consequence, would choose to have known. Thecontinuance of their engagement, and the means that were able to be taken forpromoting 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 thatwillend:—they will wait a twelvemonth, and finding no good comes of it, willset down upon a curacy of fifty pounds a-year, with the interest of his twothousand 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 theywill be! I must see what I can give them towards furnishing their house. Twomaids and two men, indeed! as I talked of t’ other day. No, no, they mustget a stout girl of all works. Betty’s sister would never do for themnow.”

The next morning brought Elinor a letter by the two-penny post from Lucyherself. It was as follows:

“Bartlett’s Building, March.

“I hope my dear Miss Dashwood will excuse the liberty I take of writingto her; but I know your friendship for me will make you pleased to hear such agood account of myself and my dear Edward, after all the troubles we have wentthrough 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, andas happy as we must always be in one another’s love. We have had greattrials, and great persecutions, but however, at the same time, gratefullyacknowledge many friends, yourself not the least among them, whose greatkindness I shall always thankfully remember, as will Edward too, who I havetold 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 ourparting, though earnestly did I, as I thought my duty required, urge him to itfor prudence sake, and would have parted for ever on the spot, would he consentto it; but he said it should never be, he did not regard his mother’sanger, while he could have my affections; our prospects are not very bright, tobe 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 aliving to bestow, am very sure you will not forget us, and dear Mrs. Jenningstoo, trust she will speak a good word for us to Sir John, or Mr. Palmer, or anyfriend that may be able to assist us.—Poor Anne was much to blame forwhat she did, but she did it for the best, so I say nothing; hope Mrs. Jenningswon’t think it too much trouble to give us a call, should she come thisway any morning, ’twould be a great kindness, and my cousins would beproud to know her.—My paper reminds me to conclude; and begging to bemost gratefully and respectfully remembered to her, and to Sir John, and LadyMiddleton, and the dear children, when you chance to see them, and love to MissMarianne,

“I am, &c.”

As soon as Elinor had finished it, she performed what she concluded to be itswriter’s real design, by placing it in the hands of Mrs. Jennings, whoread it aloud with many comments of satisfaction and praise.

“Very well indeed!—how prettily she writes!—aye, that wasquite proper to let him be off if he would. That was just like Lucy. Poor soul!I wish I couldget him a living, with all my heart. She calls me dearMrs. Jennings, you see. She is a good-hearted girl as ever lived. Very wellupon my word. That sentence is very prettily turned. Yes, yes, I will go andsee her, sure enough. How attentive she is, to think of every body!—Thankyou, my dear, for showing it me. It is as pretty a letter as ever I saw, anddoes Lucy’s head and heart great credit.”

CHAPTER XXXIX.

The Miss Dashwoods had now been rather more than two months in town, andMarianne’s impatience to be gone increased every day. She sighed for theair, the liberty, the quiet of the country; and fancied that if any place couldgive her ease, Barton must do it. Elinor was hardly less anxious than herselffor their removal, and only so much less bent on its being effectedimmediately, as that she was conscious of the difficulties of so long ajourney, which Marianne could not be brought to acknowledge. She began,however, seriously to turn her thoughts towards its accomplishment, and hadalready mentioned their wishes to their kind hostess, who resisted them withall the eloquence of her good-will, when a plan was suggested, which, thoughdetaining them from home yet a few weeks longer, appeared to Elinor altogethermuch more eligible than any other. The Palmers were to remove to Clevelandabout the end of March, for the Easter holidays; and Mrs. Jennings, with bothher friends, received a very warm invitation from Charlotte to go with them.This would not, in itself, have been sufficient for the delicacy of MissDashwood;—but it was inforced with so much real politeness by Mr. Palmerhimself, as, joined to the very great amendment of his manners towards themsince her sister had been known to be unhappy, induced her to accept it withpleasure.

When she told Marianne what she had done, however, her first reply was not veryauspicious.

“Cleveland!”—she cried, with great agitation. “No, Icannot go to Cleveland.”

“You forget,” said Elinor gently, “that its situation isnot—that it is not in the neighbourhood of—”

“But it is in Somersetshire.—I cannot go intoSomersetshire.—There, where I looked forward to going...No, Elinor, youcannot expect me to go there.”

Elinor would not argue upon the propriety of overcoming suchfeelings;—she only endeavoured to counteract them by working onothers;—represented it, therefore, as a measure which would fix the timeof her returning to that dear mother, whom she so much wished to see, in a moreeligible, more comfortable manner, than any other plan could do, and perhapswithout any greater delay. From Cleveland, which was within a few miles ofBristol, the distance to Barton was not beyond one day, though a longday’s journey; and their mother’s servant might easily come thereto attend them down; and as there could be no occasion of their staying above aweek at Cleveland, they might now be at home in little more than threeweeks’ time. As Marianne’s affection for her mother was sincere, itmust 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 themvery earnestly to return with her again from Cleveland. Elinor was grateful forthe attention, but it could not alter her design; and their mother’sconcurrence being readily gained, every thing relative to their return wasarranged as far as it could be;—and Marianne found some relief in drawingup 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 MissDashwoods;”—was Mrs. Jennings’s address to him when he firstcalled on her, after their leaving her was settled—“for they arequite resolved upon going home from the Palmers;—and how forlorn we shallbe, when I come back!—Lord! we shall sit and gape at one another as dullas two cats.”

Perhaps Mrs. Jennings was in hopes, by this vigorous sketch of their futureennui, to provoke him to make that offer, which might give himself an escapefrom it; and if so, she had soon afterwards good reason to think her objectgained; for, on Elinor’s moving to the window to take more expeditiouslythe dimensions of a print, which she was going to copy for her friend, hefollowed her to it with a look of particular meaning, and conversed with herthere for several minutes. The effect of his discourse on the lady too, couldnot escape her observation, for though she was too honorable to listen, and hadeven changed her seat, on purpose that she might nothear, to one closeby the piano forte on which Marianne was playing, she could not keep herselffrom seeing that Elinor changed colour, attended with agitation, and was toointent on what he said to pursue her employment. Still farther in confirmationof her hopes, in the interval of Marianne’s turning from one lesson toanother, some words of the Colonel’s inevitably reached her ear, in whichhe seemed to be apologising for the badness of his house. This set the matterbeyond 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 couldnot distinguish, but judged from the motion of her lips, that she did not thinkthatany material objection; and Mrs. Jennings commended her in herheart for being so honest. They then talked on for a few minutes longer withouther catching a syllable, when another lucky stop in Marianne’sperformance 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 cryout, “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 ormortify his fair companion in the least, for on their breaking up theconference soon afterwards, and moving different ways, Mrs. Jennings veryplainly heard Elinor say, and with a voice which showed her to feel what shesaid,

“I shall always think myself very much obliged to you.”

Mrs. Jennings was delighted with her gratitude, and only wondered that afterhearing such a sentence, the Colonel should be able to take leave of them, ashe immediately did, with the utmost sang-froid, and go away withoutmaking her any reply! She had not thought her old friend could have made soindifferent a suitor.

What had really passed between them was to this effect.

“I have heard,” said he, with great compassion, “of theinjustice your friend Mr. Ferrars has suffered from his family; for if Iunderstand the matter right, he has been entirely cast off by them forpersevering in his engagement with a very deserving young woman. Have I beenrightly informed? Is it so?;”

Elinor told him that it was.

“The cruelty, the impolitic cruelty,” he replied, with greatfeeling, “of dividing, or attempting to divide, two young people longattached to each other, is terrible. Mrs. Ferrars does not know what she may bedoing—what she may drive her son to. I have seen Mr. Ferrars two or threetimes in Harley Street, and am much pleased with him. He is not a young manwith whom one can be intimately acquainted in a short time, but I have seenenough of him to wish him well for his own sake, and as a friend of yours, Iwish it still more. I understand that he intends to take orders. Will you be sogood as to tell him that the living of Delaford, now just vacant, as I aminformed 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 maybe nonsense to appear to doubt; I only wish it were more valuable. It is arectory, but a small one; the late incumbent, I believe, did not make more than200£ per annum, and though it is certainly capable of improvement, I fear, notto 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 assurehim 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, wasalready provided to enable him to marry; and she, of all people in theworld, was fixed on to bestow it! Her emotion was such as Mrs. Jennings hadattributed to a very different cause; but whatever minor feelings less pure,less pleasing, might have a share in that emotion, her esteem for the generalbenevolence, and her gratitude for the particular friendship, which togetherprompted Colonel Brandon to this act, were strongly felt, and warmly expressed.She thanked him for it with all her heart, spoke of Edward’s principlesand disposition with that praise which she knew them to deserve; and promisedto undertake the commission with pleasure, if it were really his wish to putoff so agreeable an office to another. But at the same time, she could not helpthinking that no one could so well perform it as himself. It was an office inshort, from which, unwilling to give Edward the pain of receiving an obligationfrom her, she would have been very glad to be spared herself; butColonel Brandon, on motives of equal delicacy, declining it likewise, stillseemed so desirous of its being given through her means, that she would not onany account make farther opposition. Edward, she believed, was still in town,and fortunately she had heard his address from Miss Steele. She could undertaketherefore to inform him of it, in the course of the day. After this had beensettled, Colonel Brandon began to talk of his own advantage in securing sorespectable and agreeable a neighbour, and thenit was that he mentionedwith regret, that the house was small and indifferent; an evil which Elinor, asMrs. Jennings had supposed her to do, made very light of, at least as far asregarded its size.

“The smallness of the house,” said she, “I cannot imagine anyinconvenience to them, for it will be in proportion to their family andincome.”

By which the Colonel was surprised to find that shewas considering Mr.Ferrars’s marriage as the certain consequence of the presentation; for hedid 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 cando no more than make Mr. Ferrarscomfortable as a bachelor; it cannot enable him to marry. I am sorry to saythat 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 readyto be useful to him then as I sincerely wish I could be at present. What I amnow doing indeed, seems nothing at all, since it can advance him so littletowards what must be his principal, his only object of happiness. His marriagemust still be a distant good; at least, I am afraid it cannot take place verysoon.”

Such was the sentence which, when misunderstood, so justly offended thedelicate feelings of Mrs. Jennings; but after this narration of what reallypassed between Colonel Brandon and Elinor, while they stood at the window, thegratitude expressed by the latter on their parting, may perhaps appear ingeneral, not less reasonably excited, nor less properly worded than if it hadarisen from an offer of marriage.

CHAPTER XL.

“Well, Miss Dashwood,” said Mrs. Jennings, sagaciously smiling, assoon as the gentleman had withdrawn, “I do not ask you what the Colonelhas been saying to you; for though, upon my honour, I triedto keep outof hearing, I could not help catching enough to understand his business. And Iassure you I never was better pleased in my life, and I wish you joy of it withall my heart.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” said Elinor. “It isa matterof 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 socompassionate a heart! I never was more astonished in my life.”

“Lord! my dear, you are very modest. I an’t the least astonished atit in the world, for I have often thought of late, there was nothing morelikely to happen.”

“You judged from your knowledge of the Colonel’s generalbenevolence; but at least you could not foresee that the opportunity would sovery 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 willsoon 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 knowwhere 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, Ido not know what the Colonel would be at, for it is as good a one as ever Isaw.”

“He spoke of its being out of repair.”

“Well, and whose fault is that? why don’t he repair it?—whoshould do it but himself?”

They were interrupted by the servant’s coming in to announce the carriagebeing 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. Ido not ask you to go with me, for I dare say your mind is too full of thematter to care for company; and besides, you must long to tell your sister allabout it.”

Marianne had left the room before the conversation began.

“Certainly, ma’am, I shall tell Marianne of it; but I shall notmention 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 faras Holborn to-day.”

“No, ma’am, not even Lucy if you please. One day’s delay willnot be very material; and till I have written to Mr. Ferrars, I think it oughtnot to be mentioned to any body else. I shall do thatdirectly. It is ofimportance that no time should be lost with him, for he will of course havemuch to do relative to his ordination.”

This speech at first puzzled Mrs. Jennings exceedingly. Why Mr. Ferrars was tohave been written to about it in such a hurry, she could not immediatelycomprehend. A few moments’ reflection, however, produced a very happyidea, and she exclaimed;—

“Oh, ho!—I understand you. Mr. Ferrars is to be the man. Well, somuch the better for him. Ay, to be sure, he must be ordained in readiness; andI am very glad to find things are so forward between you. But, my dear, is notthis 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 toits conclusion.

“Colonel Brandon is so delicate a man, that he rather wished any one toannounce his intentions to Mr. Ferrars than himself.”

“And so youare forced to do it. Well thatis an odd kindof 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 anything 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 bevery glad to get her so good a mistress. But whether she would do for alady’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 yourleisure.”

“Certainly, ma’am,” replied Elinor, not hearing much of whatshe 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 toEdward, was now all her concern. The particular circumstances between them madea difficulty of that which to any other person would have been the easiestthing in the world; but she equally feared to say too much or too little, andsat deliberating over her paper, with the pen in her hand, till broken in on bythe entrance of Edward himself.

He had met Mrs. Jennings at the door in her way to the carriage, as he came toleave 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 tospeak 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, itwas at least preferable to giving the information by word of mouth, when hervisitor entered, to force her upon this greatest exertion of all. Herastonishment and confusion were very great on his so sudden appearance. She hadnot seen him before since his engagement became public, and therefore not sincehis knowing her to be acquainted with it; which, with the consciousness of whatshe had been thinking of, and what she had to tell him, made her feelparticularly uncomfortable for some minutes. He too was much distressed; andthey sat down together in a most promising state ofembarrassment.—Whether he had asked her pardon for his intrusion on firstcoming into the room, he could not recollect; but determining to be on the safeside, he made his apology in form as soon as he could say any thing, aftertaking a chair.

“Mrs. Jennings told me,” said he, “that you wished to speakwith me, at least I understood her so—or I certainly should not haveintruded on you in such a manner; though at the same time, I should have beenextremely sorry to leave London without seeing you and your sister; especiallyas it will most likely be some time—it is not probable that I should soonhave the pleasure of meeting you again. I go to Oxford tomorrow.”

“You would not have gone, however,” said Elinor, recoveringherself, and determined to get over what she so much dreaded as soon aspossible, “without receiving our good wishes, even if we had not beenable to give them in person. Mrs. Jennings was quite right in what she said. Ihave something of consequence to inform you of, which I was on the point ofcommunicating by paper. I am charged with a most agreeable office (breathingrather faster than usual as she spoke.) Colonel Brandon, who was here only tenminutes 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 havingso respectable and well-judging a friend, and to join in his wish that theliving—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 temporaryaccommodation to yourself—such, in short, as might establish all yourviews of happiness.”

What Edward felt, as he could not say it himself, it cannot be expected thatany one else should say for him. He lookedall the astonishment whichsuch unexpected, such unthought-of information could not fail of exciting; buthe said only these two words,—

“Colonel Brandon!”

“Yes,” continued Elinor, gathering more resolution, as some of theworst was over, “Colonel Brandon means it as a testimony of his concernfor what has lately passed—for the cruel situation in which theunjustifiable conduct of your family has placed you—a concern which I amsure Marianne, myself, and all your friends, must share; and likewise as aproof of his high esteem for your general character, and his particularapprobation of your behaviour on the present occasion.”

“Colonel Brandon give mea living!—Can it bepossible?”

“The unkindness of your own relations has made you astonished to findfriendship any where.”

“No,” replied he, with sudden consciousness, “not to find itin you;for I cannot be ignorant that to you, to your goodness, I owe itall.—I feel it—I would express it if I could—but, as you wellknow, I am no orator.”

“You are very much mistaken. I do assure you that you owe it entirely, atleast almost entirely, to your own merit, and Colonel Brandon’sdiscernment of it. I have had no hand in it. I did not even know, till Iunderstood his design, that the living was vacant; nor had it ever occurred tome that he might have had such a living in his gift. As a friend of mine, of myfamily, he may, perhaps—indeed I know he has, still greaterpleasure in bestowing it; but, upon my word, you owe nothing to mysolicitation.”

Truth obliged her to acknowledge some small share in the action, but she was atthe same time so unwilling to appear as the benefactress of Edward, that sheacknowledged it with hesitation; which probably contributed to fix thatsuspicion in his mind which had recently entered it. For a short time he satdeep in thought, after Elinor had ceased to speak;—at last, and as if itwere rather an effort, he said,

“Colonel Brandon seems a man of great worth and respectability. I havealways 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 thegentleman.”

“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 besuch very near neighbours (for I understand the parsonage is almost close tothe mansion-house,) it is particularly important that he shouldbe allthis.”

Edward made no answer; but when she had turned away her head, gave her a lookso serious, so earnest, so uncheerful, as seemed to say, that he mighthereafter wish the distance between the parsonage and the mansion-house muchgreater.

“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 notallow me to give you;to assure him that he has made me a very—anexceedingly happy man.”

Elinor did not offer to detain him; and they parted, with a very earnestassurance on herside of her unceasing good wishes for his happiness inevery change of situation that might befall him; on his, with rather anattempt to return the same good will, than the power of expressing it.

“When I see him again,” said Elinor to herself, as the door shuthim 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 shehad 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 Elinorappeared.

“Well, my dear,” she cried, “I sent you up the young man. Didnot I do right?—And I suppose you had no great difficulty—You didnot find him very unwilling to accept your proposal?”

“No, ma’am; thatwas not very likely.”

“Well, and how soon will he be ready?—For it seems all to dependupon that.”

“Really,” said Elinor, “I know so little of these kind offorms, that I can hardly even conjecture as to the time, or the preparationnecessary; but I suppose two or three months will complete hisordination.”

“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! Lordbless me!—I am sure it would put mequite out ofpatience!—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 inorders already.”

“My dear ma’am,” said Elinor, “what can you be thinkingof? 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 theColonel only marries you for the sake of giving ten guineas to Mr.Ferrars!”

The deception could not continue after this; and an explanation immediatelytook place, by which both gained considerable amusement for the moment, withoutany material loss of happiness to either, for Mrs. Jennings only exchanged oneform of delight for another, and still without forfeiting her expectation ofthe first.

“Aye, aye, the parsonage is but a small one,” said she, after thefirst ebullition of surprise and satisfaction was over, “and very likelymaybe out of repair; but to hear a man apologising, as I thought, for ahouse that to my knowledge has five sitting rooms on the ground-floor, and Ithink the housekeeper told me could make up fifteen beds! and to you too, thathad been used to live in Barton cottage! It seems quite ridiculous. But, mydear, we must touch up the Colonel to do some thing to the parsonage, and makeit comfortable for them, before Lucy goes to it.”

“But Colonel Brandon does not seem to have any idea of the living’sbeing enough to allow them to marry.”

“The Colonel is a ninny, my dear; because he has two thousand a-yearhimself, 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 beforeMichaelmas; 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 forany thing more.

CHAPTER XLI.

Edward, having carried his thanks to Colonel Brandon, proceeded with hishappiness to Lucy; and such was the excess of it by the time he reachedBartlett’s Buildings, that she was able to assure Mrs. Jennings, whocalled on her again the next day with her congratulations, that she had neverseen him in such spirits before in her life.

Her own happiness, and her own spirits, were at least very certain; and shejoined Mrs. Jennings most heartily in her expectation of their being allcomfortably together in Delaford Parsonage before Michaelmas. So far was she,at the same time, from any backwardness to give Elinor that credit which Edwardwouldgive her, that she spoke of her friendship for them both with themost grateful warmth, was ready to own all their obligation to her, and openlydeclared that no exertion for their good on Miss Dashwood’s part, eitherpresent or future, would ever surprise her, for she believed her capable ofdoing any thing in the world for those she really valued. As for ColonelBrandon, she was not only ready to worship him as a saint, but was moreovertruly anxious that he should be treated as one in all worldly concerns; anxiousthat his tithes should be raised to the utmost; and secretly resolved to availherself, at Delaford, as far as she possibly could, of his servants, hiscarriage, his cows, and his poultry.

It was now above a week since John Dashwood had called in Berkeley Street, andas since that time no notice had been taken by them of his wife’sindisposition, beyond one verbal enquiry, Elinor began to feel it necessary topay her a visit.—This was an obligation, however, which not only opposedher own inclination, but which had not the assistance of any encouragement fromher 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 dislikedMrs. John Dashwood, that not even her curiosity to see how she looked after thelate discovery, nor her strong desire to affront her by taking Edward’spart, could overcome her unwillingness to be in her company again. Theconsequence was, that Elinor set out by herself to pay a visit, for which noone could really have less inclination, and to run the risk of a tête-à-têtewith 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 meetingElinor, 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 toher presently, for I am sure she will not have the least objection in the worldto seeing you. Very far from it, indeed. Nowespecially therecannot be—but however, you and Marianne were always great favourites. Whywould not Marianne come?”

Elinor made what excuse she could for her.

“I am not sorry to see you alone,” he replied, “for I have agood deal to say to you. This living of Colonel Brandon’s—can it betrue?—has he really given it to Edward?—I heard it yesterday bychance, and was coming to you on purpose to enquire farther about it.”

“It is perfectly true.—Colonel Brandon has given the living ofDelaford to Edward.”

“Really!—Well, this is very astonishing!—norelationship!—no connection between them!—and now that livingsfetch 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 thatvalue—supposing the late incumbent to have been old and sickly, andlikely to vacate it soon—he might have got I dare say—fourteenhundred pounds. And how came he not to have settled that matter before thisperson’s death? Now, indeed it would be too late to sell it, but aman of Colonel Brandon’s sense! I wonder he should be so improvident in apoint of such common, such natural, concern! Well, I am convinced that there isa 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 hasreally sold the presentation, is old enough to take it. Aye, aye, that is thefact, depend upon it.”

Elinor contradicted it, however, very positively; and by relating that she hadherself been employed in conveying the offer from Colonel Brandon to Edward,and, therefore, must understand the terms on which it was given, obliged him tosubmit to her authority.

“It is truly astonishing!”—he cried, after hearing what shesaid—“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 luckyman.—You will not mention the matter to Fanny, however, for though I havebroke it to her, and she bears it vastly well,—she will not like to hearit much talked of.”

Elinor had some difficulty here to refrain from observing, that she thoughtFanny 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 becomingso important a subject, “knows nothing about it at present, and I believeit will be best to keep it entirely concealed from her as long as maybe. 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 supposedthat Mrs. Ferrars can have the smallest satisfaction in knowing that her sonhas money enough to live upon, for thatmust be quite out of thequestion; yet why, upon her late behaviour, is she supposed to feel at all? Shehas done with her son,—she cast him off for ever, and has made all thoseover 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 hisaccount: she cannot be interested in any thing that befalls him. She would notbe so weak as to throw away the comfort of a child, and yet retain the anxietyof a parent!”

“Ah! Elinor,” said John, “your reasoning is very good, but itis founded on ignorance of human nature. When Edward’s unhappy matchtakes place, depend upon it his mother will feel as much as if she had neverdiscarded him; and, therefore every circumstance that may accelerate thatdreadful event, must be concealed from her as much as possible. Mrs. Ferrarscan never forget that Edward is her son.”

“You surprise me; I should think it must nearly have escaped her memoryby thistime.”

“You wrong her exceedingly. Mrs. Ferrars is one of the most affectionatemothers in the world.”

Elinor was silent.

“We think now,”—said Mr. Dashwood, after a shortpause, “of Robert’smarrying Miss Morton.”

Elinor, smiling at the grave and decisive importance of her brother’stone, 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 thesame to Miss Morton whether she marry Edward or Robert.”

“Certainly, there can be no difference; for Robert will now to allintents and purposes be considered as the eldest son;—and as to any thingelse, they are both very agreeable young men: I do not know that one issuperior to the other.”

Elinor said no more, and John was also for a short time silent.—Hisreflections ended thus.

“Of onething, my dear sister,” kindly taking her hand, andspeaking in an awful whisper, “I may assure you;—and I willdo it, because I know it must gratify you. I have good reason tothink—indeed I have it from the best authority, or I should not repeatit, for otherwise it would be very wrong to say any thing about it,—but Ihave it from the very best authority,—not that I ever precisely heardMrs. Ferrars say it herself—but her daughter did, and I have itfrom her,—that in short, whatever objections there might be against acertain—a certain connection, you understand me,—it would have beenfar preferable to her,—it would not have given her half the vexation thatthisdoes. I was exceedingly pleased to hear that Mrs. Ferrarsconsidered it in that light; a very gratifying circumstance you know to us all.‘It would have been beyond comparison,’ she said, ‘the leastevil of the two, and she would be glad to compound nowfor nothingworse.’ But however, all that is quite out of the question,—not tobe thought of or mentioned—as to any attachment you know, it never couldbe: all that is gone by. But I thought I would just tell you of this, because Iknew how much it must please you. Not that you have any reason to regret, mydear Elinor. There is no doubt of your doing exceedingly well,—quite aswell, or better, perhaps, all things considered. Has Colonel Brandon been withyou lately?”

Elinor had heard enough, if not to gratify her vanity, and raise herself-importance, to agitate her nerves and fill her mind;—and she wastherefore 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 entranceof 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 heracquaintance with Robert, who, by the gay unconcern, the happy self-complacencyof his manner while enjoying so unfair a division of his mother’s loveand liberality, to the prejudice of his banished brother, earned only by hisown dissipated course of life, and that brother’s integrity, wasconfirming her most unfavourable opinion of his head and heart.

They had scarcely been two minutes by themselves, before he began to speak ofEdward; for he, too, had heard of the living, and was very inquisitive on thesubject. 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 thanit had been on him. He laughed most immoderately. The idea ofEdward’s being a clergyman, and living in a small parsonage-house,diverted him beyond measure;—and when to that was added the fancifulimagery of Edward reading prayers in a white surplice, and publishing the bannsof marriage between John Smith and Mary Brown, he could conceive nothing moreridiculous.

Elinor, while she waited in silence and immovable gravity, the conclusion ofsuch folly, could not restrain her eyes from being fixed on him with a lookthat spoke all the contempt it excited. It was a look, however, very wellbestowed, for it relieved her own feelings, and gave no intelligence to him. Hewas recalled from wit to wisdom, not by any reproof of hers, but by his ownsensibility.

“We may treat it as a joke,” said he, at last, recovering from theaffected laugh which had considerably lengthened out the genuine gaiety of themoment; “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 verygood-hearted creature; as well-meaning a fellow perhaps, as any in the world.You must not judge of him, Miss Dashwood, from yourslight acquaintance.Poor Edward! His manners are certainly not the happiest in nature. But we arenot all born, you know, with the same powers,—the same address. Poorfellow! 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 Ideclare and protest to you I never was so shocked in my life, as when it allburst forth. I could not believe it. My mother was the first person who told meof it; and I, feeling myself called on to act with resolution, immediately saidto her, ‘My dear madam, I do not know what you may intend to do on theoccasion, but as for myself, I must say, that if Edward does marry this youngwoman, Inever will see him again.’ That was what I saidimmediately. I was most uncommonly shocked, indeed! Poor Edward! he has donefor himself completely,—shut himself out for ever from all decentsociety! But, as I directly said to my mother, I am not in the least surprisedat it; from his style of education, it was always to be expected. My poormother was half frantic.”

“Have you ever seen the lady?”

“Yes; once, while she was staying in this house, I happened to drop infor ten minutes; and I saw quite enough of her. The merest awkward countrygirl, without style, or elegance, and almost without beauty. I remember herperfectly. Just the kind of girl I should suppose likely to captivate poorEdward. 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 latethen, I found, to do any thing, for unluckily, I was not in the way atfirst, and knew nothing of it till after the breach had taken place, when itwas not for me, you know, to interfere. But had I been informed of it a fewhours earlier, I think it is most probable that something might have been hiton. I certainly should have represented it to Edward in a very strong light.‘My dear fellow,’ I should have said, ‘consider what you aredoing. You are making a most disgraceful connection, and such a one as yourfamily 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 bestarved, 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 shenever spoke ofit out of her own family, Elinor could see its influence on her mind, in thesomething like confusion of countenance with which she entered, and an attemptat cordiality in her behaviour to herself. She even proceeded so far as to beconcerned to find that Elinor and her sister were so soon to leave town, as shehad hoped to see more of them;—an exertion in which her husband, whoattended her into the room, and hung enamoured over her accents, seemed todistinguish every thing that was most affectionate and graceful.

CHAPTER XLII.

One other short call in Harley Street, in which Elinor received herbrother’s congratulations on their travelling so far towards Bartonwithout any expense, and on Colonel Brandon’s being to follow them toCleveland in a day or two, completed the intercourse of the brother and sistersin town;—and a faint invitation from Fanny, to come to Norland wheneverit should happen to be in their way, which of all things was the most unlikelyto 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 allthat foretold any meeting in the country.

It amused her to observe that all her friends seemed determined to send her toDelaford;—a place, in which, of all others, she would now least chuse tovisit, or wish to reside; for not only was it considered as her future home byher brother and Mrs. Jennings, but even Lucy, when they parted, gave her apressing invitation to visit her there.

Very early in April, and tolerably early in the day, the two parties fromHanover Square and Berkeley Street set out from their respective homes, tomeet, by appointment, on the road. For the convenience of Charlotte and herchild, they were to be more than two days on their journey, and Mr. Palmer,travelling more expeditiously with Colonel Brandon, was to join them atCleveland soon after their arrival.

Marianne, few as had been her hours of comfort in London, and eager as she hadlong been to quit it, could not, when it came to the point, bid adieu to thehouse in which she had for the last time enjoyed those hopes, and thatconfidence, in Willoughby, which were now extinguished for ever, without greatpain. Nor could she leave the place in which Willoughby remained, busy in newengagements, and new schemes, in which shecould have no share, withoutshedding many tears.

Elinor’s satisfaction, at the moment of removal, was more positive. Shehad no such object for her lingering thoughts to fix on, she left no creaturebehind, from whom it would give her a moment’s regret to be divided forever, she was pleased to be free herself from the persecution of Lucy’sfriendship, she was grateful for bringing her sister away unseen by Willoughbysince his marriage, and she looked forward with hope to what a few months oftranquility at Barton might do towards restoring Marianne’s peace ofmind, and confirming her own.

Their journey was safely performed. The second day brought them into thecherished, or the prohibited, county of Somerset, for as such was it dwelt onby turns in Marianne’s imagination; and in the forenoon of the third theydrove up to Cleveland.

Cleveland was a spacious, modern-built house, situated on a sloping lawn. Ithad no park, but the pleasure-grounds were tolerably extensive; and like everyother place of the same degree of importance, it had its open shrubbery, andcloser wood walk, a road of smooth gravel winding round a plantation, led tothe front, the lawn was dotted over with timber, the house itself was under theguardianship of the fir, the mountain-ash, and the acacia, and a thick screenof them altogether, interspersed with tall Lombardy poplars, shut out theoffices.

Marianne entered the house with a heart swelling with emotion from theconsciousness of being only eighty miles from Barton, and not thirty from CombeMagna; and before she had been five minutes within its walls, while the otherswere busily helping Charlotte to show her child to the housekeeper, she quittedit again, stealing away through the winding shrubberies, now just beginning tobe in beauty, to gain a distant eminence; where, from its Grecian temple, hereye, wandering over a wide tract of country to the south-east, could fondlyrest on the farthest ridge of hills in the horizon, and fancy that from theirsummits Combe Magna might be seen.

In such moments of precious, invaluable misery, she rejoiced in tears of agonyto 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 toplace in free and luxurious solitude, she resolved to spend almost every hourof every day while she remained with the Palmers, in the indulgence of suchsolitary rambles.

She returned just in time to join the others as they quitted the house, on anexcursion through its more immediate premises; and the rest of the morning waseasily whiled away, in lounging round the kitchen garden, examining the bloomupon its walls, and listening to the gardener’s lamentations uponblights, in dawdling through the green-house, where the loss of her favouriteplants, unwarily exposed, and nipped by the lingering frost, raised thelaughter of Charlotte,—and in visiting her poultry-yard, where, in thedisappointed hopes of her dairy-maid, by hens forsaking their nests, or beingstolen by a fox, or in the rapid decrease of a promising young brood, she foundfresh 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 rainfrom going out again after dinner. She had depended on a twilight walk to theGrecian temple, and perhaps all over the grounds, and an evening merely cold ordamp would not have deterred her from it; but a heavy and settled rain evenshecould not fancy dry or pleasant weather for walking.

Their party was small, and the hours passed quietly away. Mrs. Palmer had herchild, and Mrs. Jennings her carpet-work; they talked of the friends they hadleft behind, arranged Lady Middleton’s engagements, and wondered whetherMr. Palmer and Colonel Brandon would get farther than Reading that night.Elinor, however little concerned in it, joined in their discourse; andMarianne, 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 abook.

Nothing was wanting on Mrs. Palmer’s side that constant and friendly goodhumour could do, to make them feel themselves welcome. The openness andheartiness of her manner more than atoned for that want of recollection andelegance which made her often deficient in the forms of politeness; herkindness, recommended by so pretty a face, was engaging; her folly, thoughevident was not disgusting, because it was not conceited; and Elinor could haveforgiven every thing but her laugh.

The two gentlemen arrived the next day to a very late dinner, affording apleasant enlargement of the party, and a very welcome variety to theirconversation, which a long morning of the same continued rain had reduced verylow.

Elinor had seen so little of Mr. Palmer, and in that little had seen so muchvariety in his address to her sister and herself, that she knew not what toexpect to find him in his own family. She found him, however, perfectly thegentleman in his behaviour to all his visitors, and only occasionally rude tohis wife and her mother; she found him very capable of being a pleasantcompanion, and only prevented from being so always, by too great an aptitude tofancy himself as much superior to people in general, as he must feel himself tobe 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 allunusual in his sex and time of life. He was nice in his eating, uncertain inhis hours; fond of his child, though affecting to slight it; and idled away themornings at billiards, which ought to have been devoted to business. She likedhim, however, upon the whole, much better than she had expected, and in herheart was not sorry that she could like him no more;—not sorry to bedriven 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 intelligencefrom Colonel Brandon, who had been into Dorsetshire lately; and who, treatingher at once as the disinterested friend of Mr. Ferrars, and the kind confidanteof himself, talked to her a great deal of the parsonage at Delaford, describedits deficiencies, and told her what he meant to do himself towards removingthem.—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, hisreadiness to converse with her, and his deference for her opinion, might verywell justify Mrs. Jennings’s persuasion of his attachment, and would havebeen enough, perhaps, had not Elinor still, as from the first, believedMarianne 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 thenicest observer of the two;—she watched his eyes, while Mrs. Jenningsthought only of his behaviour;—and while his looks of anxious solicitudeon Marianne’s feeling, in her head and throat, the beginning of a heavycold, because unexpressed by words, entirely escaped the latter lady’sobservation;—shecould discover in them the quick feelings, andneedless alarm of a lover.

Two delightful twilight walks on the third and fourth evenings of her beingthere, 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 somethingmore of wildness than in the rest, where the trees were the oldest, and thegrass was the longest and wettest, had—assisted by the still greaterimprudence of sitting in her wet shoes and stockings—given Marianne acold so violent as, though for a day or two trifled with or denied, would forceitself by increasing ailments on the concern of every body, and the notice ofherself. Prescriptions poured in from all quarters, and as usual, were alldeclined. Though heavy and feverish, with a pain in her limbs, and a cough, anda sore throat, a good night’s rest was to cure her entirely; and it waswith difficulty that Elinor prevailed on her, when she went to bed, to try oneor two of the simplest of the remedies.

CHAPTER XLIII.

Marianne got up the next morning at her usual time; to every inquiry repliedthat she was better, and tried to prove herself so, by engaging in heraccustomary employments. But a day spent in sitting shivering over the firewith a book in her hand, which she was unable to read, or in lying, weary andlanguid, on a sofa, did not speak much in favour of her amendment; and when, atlast, she went early to bed, more and more indisposed, Colonel Brandon was onlyastonished at her sister’s composure, who, though attending and nursingher the whole day, against Marianne’s inclination, and forcing propermedicines on her at night, trusted, like Marianne, to the certainty andefficacy of sleep, and felt no real alarm.

A very restless and feverish night, however, disappointed the expectation ofboth; and when Marianne, after persisting in rising, confessed herself unableto sit up, and returned voluntarily to her bed, Elinor was very ready to adoptMrs. Jennings’s advice, of sending for the Palmers’ apothecary.

He came, examined his patient, and though encouraging Miss Dashwood to expectthat a very few days would restore her sister to health, yet, by pronouncingher disorder to have a putrid tendency, and allowing the word“infection” to pass his lips, gave instant alarm to Mrs. Palmer, onher baby’s account. Mrs. Jennings, who had been inclined from the firstto think Marianne’s complaint more serious than Elinor, now looked verygrave on Mr. Harris’s report, and confirming Charlotte’s fears andcaution, urged the necessity of her immediate removal with her infant; and Mr.Palmer, though treating their apprehensions as idle, found the anxiety andimportunity 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 herhusband promised, at her earnest entreaty, to join her in a day or two; andwhither 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 Marianneremained ill, and of endeavouring, by her own attentive care, to supply to herthe place of the mother she had taken her from; and Elinor found her on everyoccasion a most willing and active helpmate, desirous to share in all herfatigues, and often by her better experience in nursing, of material use.

Poor Marianne, languid and low from the nature of her malady, and feelingherself universally ill, could no longer hope that tomorrow would find herrecovered; and the idea of what tomorrow would have produced, but for thisunlucky illness, made every ailment severe; for on that day they were to havebegun their journey home; and, attended the whole way by a servant of Mrs.Jennings, were to have taken their mother by surprise on the followingforenoon. The little she said was all in lamentation of this inevitable delay;though Elinor tried to raise her spirits, and make her believe, as shethenreally believed herself, that it would be a very short one.

The next day produced little or no alteration in the state of the patient; shecertainly was not better, and, except that there was no amendment, did notappear worse. Their party was now farther reduced; for Mr. Palmer, though veryunwilling to go as well from real humanity and good-nature, as from a dislikeof appearing to be frightened away by his wife, was persuaded at last byColonel Brandon to perform his promise of following her; and while he waspreparing to go, Colonel Brandon himself, with a much greater exertion, beganto talk of going likewise.—Here, however, the kindness of Mrs. Jenningsinterposed most acceptably; for to send the Colonel away while his love was inso much uneasiness on her sister’s account, would be to deprive themboth, she thought, of every comfort; and therefore telling him at once that hisstay at Cleveland was necessary to herself, that she should want him to play atpiquet 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 wishof 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 wellable to assist or advise Miss Dashwood in any emergence.

Marianne was, of course, kept in ignorance of all these arrangements. She knewnot that she had been the means of sending the owners of Cleveland away, inabout seven days from the time of their arrival. It gave her no surprise thatshe saw nothing of Mrs. Palmer; and as it gave her likewise no concern, shenever mentioned her name.

Two days passed away from the time of Mr. Palmer’s departure, and hersituation continued, with little variation, the same. Mr. Harris, who attendedher every day, still talked boldly of a speedy recovery, and Miss Dashwood wasequally sanguine; but the expectation of the others was by no means socheerful. Mrs. Jennings had determined very early in the seizure that Mariannewould never get over it, and Colonel Brandon, who was chiefly of use inlistening to Mrs. Jennings’s forebodings, was not in a state of mind toresist their influence. He tried to reason himself out of fears, which thedifferent judgment of the apothecary seemed to render absurd; but the manyhours of each day in which he was left entirely alone, were but too favourablefor the admission of every melancholy idea, and he could not expel from hismind the persuasion that he should see Marianne no more.

On the morning of the third day however, the gloomy anticipations of both werealmost done away; for when Mr. Harris arrived, he declared his patientmaterially better. Her pulse was much stronger, and every symptom morefavourable than on the preceding visit. Elinor, confirmed in every pleasanthope, was all cheerfulness; rejoicing that in her letters to her mother, shehad pursued her own judgment rather than her friend’s, in making verylight of the indisposition which delayed them at Cleveland; and almost fixingon the time when Marianne would be able to travel.

But the day did not close so auspiciously as it began. Towards the eveningMarianne became ill again, growing more heavy, restless, and uncomfortable thanbefore. Her sister, however, still sanguine, was willing to attribute thechange to nothing more than the fatigue of having sat up to have her bed made;and carefully administering the cordials prescribed, saw her, withsatisfaction, sink at last into a slumber, from which she expected the mostbeneficial 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, knowingnothing of any change in the patient, went unusually early to bed; her maid,who was one of the principal nurses, was recreating herself in thehousekeeper’s room, and Elinor remained alone with Marianne.

The repose of the latter became more and more disturbed; and her sister, whowatched, with unremitting attention her continual change of posture, and heardthe frequent but inarticulate sounds of complaint which passed her lips, wasalmost wishing to rouse her from so painful a slumber, when Marianne, suddenlyawakened by some accidental noise in the house, started hastily up, and, withfeverish wildness, cried out,—

“Is mama coming?”

“Not yet,” cried the other, concealing her terror, and assistingMarianne to lie down again, “but she will be here, I hope, before it islong. It is a great way, you know, from hence to Barton.”

“But she must not go round by London,” cried Marianne, in the samehurried manner. “I shall never see her, if she goes by London.”

Elinor perceived with alarm that she was not quite herself, and, whileattempting to soothe her, eagerly felt her pulse. It was lower and quicker thanever! and Marianne, still talking wildly of mama, her alarm increased sorapidly, as to determine her on sending instantly for Mr. Harris, anddespatching a messenger to Barton for her mother. To consult with ColonelBrandon on the best means of effecting the latter, was a thought whichimmediately followed the resolution of its performance; and as soon she hadrung up the maid to take her place by her sister, she hastened down to thedrawing-room, where she knew he was generally to be found at a much later hourthan the present.

It was no time for hesitation. Her fears and her difficulties were immediatelybefore him. Her fears, he had no courage, no confidence to attempt the removalof:—he listened to them in silent despondence;—but her difficultieswere instantly obviated, for with a readiness that seemed to speak theoccasion, and the service pre-arranged in his mind, he offered himself as themessenger who should fetch Mrs. Dashwood. Elinor made no resistance that wasnot easily overcome. She thanked him with brief, though fervent gratitude, andwhile he went to hurry off his servant with a message to Mr. Harris, and anorder 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 acompanion for her mother,—how gratefully was it felt!—a companionwhose judgment would guide, whose attendance must relieve, and whose friendshipmight soothe her!—as far as the shock of such a summons couldbelessened to her, his presence, his manners, his assistance, would lessen it.

He, meanwhile, whatever he might feel, acted with all the firmness of acollected mind, made every necessary arrangement with the utmost despatch, andcalculated with exactness the time in which she might look for his return. Nota moment was lost in delay of any kind. The horses arrived, even before theywere expected, and Colonel Brandon only pressing her hand with a look ofsolemnity, and a few words spoken too low to reach her ear, hurried into thecarriage. It was then about twelve o’clock, and she returned to hersister’s apartment to wait for the arrival of the apothecary, and towatch by her the rest of the night. It was a night of almost equal suffering toboth. Hour after hour passed away in sleepless pain and delirium onMarianne’s side, and in the most cruel anxiety on Elinor’s, beforeMr. Harris appeared. Her apprehensions once raised, paid by their excess forall her former security; and the servant who sat up with her, for she would notallow Mrs. Jennings to be called, only tortured her more, by hints of what hermistress had always thought.

Marianne’s ideas were still, at intervals, fixed incoherently on hermother, and whenever she mentioned her name, it gave a pang to the heart ofpoor Elinor, who, reproaching herself for having trifled with so many days ofillness, and wretched for some immediate relief, fancied that all relief mightsoon be in vain, that every thing had been delayed too long, and pictured toherself her suffering mother arriving too late to see this darling child, or tosee her rational.

She was on the point of sending again for Mr. Harris, or if hecould notcome, for some other advice, when the former—but not till after fiveo’clock—arrived. His opinion, however, made some little amends forhis delay, for though acknowledging a very unexpected and unpleasant alterationin his patient, he would not allow the danger to be material, and talked of therelief 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 inthe course of three or four hours, and left both the patient and her anxiousattendant more composed than he had found them.

With strong concern, and with many reproaches for not being called to theiraid, did Mrs. Jennings hear in the morning of what had passed. Her formerapprehensions, now with greater reason restored, left her no doubt of theevent; and though trying to speak comfort to Elinor, her conviction of hersister’s danger would not allow her to offer the comfort of hope. Herheart 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 forthree months her companion, was still under her care, and she was known to havebeen greatly injured, and long unhappy. The distress of her sister too,particularly a favourite, was before her;—and as for their mother, whenMrs. Jennings considered that Marianne might probably be to herwhatCharlotte was to herself, her sympathy in hersufferings was verysincere.

Mr. Harris was punctual in his second visit;—but he came to bedisappointed in his hopes of what the last would produce. His medicines hadfailed;—the fever was unabated; and Marianne only more quiet—notmore herself—remained in a heavy stupor. Elinor, catching all, and morethan all, his fears in a moment, proposed to call in further advice. But hejudged it unnecessary: he had still something more to try, some more freshapplication, of whose success he was as confident as the last, and his visitconcluded with encouraging assurances which reached the ear, but could notenter the heart of Miss Dashwood. She was calm, except when she thought of hermother; but she was almost hopeless; and in this state she continued till noon,scarcely stirring from her sister’s bed, her thoughts wandering from oneimage of grief, one suffering friend to another, and her spirits oppressed tothe utmost by the conversation of Mrs. Jennings, who scrupled not to attributethe severity and danger of this attack to the many weeks of previousindisposition which Marianne’s disappointment had brought on. Elinor feltall the reasonableness of the idea, and it gave fresh misery to herreflections.

About noon, however, she began—but with a caution—a dread ofdisappointment which for some time kept her silent, even to her friend—tofancy, to hope she could perceive a slight amendment in her sister’spulse;—she waited, watched, and examined it again and again;—and atlast, with an agitation more difficult to bury under exterior calmness, thanall her foregoing distress, ventured to communicate her hopes. Mrs. Jennings,though forced, on examination, to acknowledge a temporary revival, tried tokeep her young friend from indulging a thought of its continuance;—andElinor, conning over every injunction of distrust, told herself likewise not tohope. But it was too late. Hope had already entered; and feeling all itsanxious flutter, she bent over her sister to watch—she hardly knew forwhat. 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 flatteredElinor with signs of amendment; and Marianne fixed her eyes on her with arational, though languid, gaze. Anxiety and hope now oppressed her in equaldegrees, and left her no moment of tranquillity till the arrival of Mr. Harrisat four o’clock;—when his assurances, his felicitations on arecovery 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 entirelyout of danger. Mrs. Jennings, perhaps satisfied with the partial justificationof her forebodings which had been found in their late alarm, allowed herself totrust in his judgment, and admitted, with unfeigned joy, and soon withunequivocal cheerfulness, the probability of an entire recovery.

Elinor could not be cheerful. Her joy was of a different kind, and led to anything rather than to gaiety. Marianne restored to life, health, friends, and toher doting mother, was an idea to fill her heart with sensations of exquisitecomfort, and expand it in fervent gratitude;—but it led to no outwarddemonstrations of joy, no words, no smiles. All within Elinor’s breastwas satisfaction, silent and strong.

She continued by the side of her sister, with little intermission the wholeafternoon, calming every fear, satisfying every inquiry of her enfeebledspirits, supplying every succour, and watching almost every look and everybreath. The possibility of a relapse would of course, in some moments, occur toremind her of what anxiety was—but when she saw, on her frequent andminute examination, that every symptom of recovery continued, and saw Marianneat six o’clock sink into a quiet, steady, and to all appearancecomfortable, sleep, she silenced every doubt.

The time was now drawing on, when Colonel Brandon might be expected back. Atten o’clock, she trusted, or at least not much later her mother would berelieved from the dreadful suspense in which she must now be travelling towardsthem. The Colonel, too!—perhaps scarcely less an object ofpity!—Oh!—how slow was the progress of time which yet kept them inignorance!

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 herfears, and of dinner by their sudden reverse, from eating much;—and thepresent refreshment, therefore, with such feelings of content as she brought toit, was particularly welcome. Mrs. Jennings would have persuaded her, at itsconclusion, to take some rest before her mother’s arrival, and allowherto 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 keptaway from her sister an unnecessary instant. Mrs. Jennings therefore attendingher up stairs into the sick chamber, to satisfy herself that all continuedright, left her there again to her charge and her thoughts, and retired to herown room to write letters and sleep.

The night was cold and stormy. The wind roared round the house, and the rainbeat against the windows; but Elinor, all happiness within, regarded it not.Marianne slept through every blast; and the travellers—they had a richreward in store, for every present inconvenience.

The clock struck eight. Had it been ten, Elinor would have been convinced thatat that moment she heard a carriage driving up to the house; and so strong wasthe persuasion that she did, in spite of the almostimpossibilityof their being already come, that she moved into the adjoining dressing-closetand opened a window shutter, to be satisfied of the truth. She instantly sawthat her ears had not deceived her. The flaring lamps of a carriage wereimmediately in view. By their uncertain light she thought she could discern itto be drawn by four horses; and this, while it told the excess of her poormother’s alarm, gave some explanation to such unexpected rapidity.

Never in her life had Elinor found it so difficult to be calm, as at thatmoment. The knowledge of what her mother must be feeling as the carriage stoptat the door—of her doubt—her dread—perhaps herdespair!—and of what shehad to tell!—with such knowledge itwas 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 hersister, she hurried down stairs.

The bustle in the vestibule, as she passed along an inner lobby, assured herthat they were already in the house. She rushed to the drawing-room,—sheentered it,—and saw only Willoughby.

CHAPTER XLIV.

Elinor, starting back with a look of horror at the sight of him, obeyed thefirst impulse of her heart in turning instantly to quit the room, and her handwas already on the lock, when its action was suspended by his hastilyadvancing, and saying, in a voice rather of command than supplication,

“Miss Dashwood, for half an hour—for ten minutes—I entreatyou to stay.”

“No, sir,” she replied with firmness, “I shall notstay. Your business cannot be with me. The servants, I suppose, forgotto tell you that Mr. Palmer was not in the house.”

“Had they told me,” he cried with vehemence, “that Mr. Palmerand all his relations were at the devil, it would not have turned me from thedoor. 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 ColonelBrandon’s arriving and finding her there, came across her. But she hadpromised to hear him, and her curiosity no less than her honor was engaged.After a moment’s recollection, therefore, concluding that prudencerequired dispatch, and that her acquiescence would best promote it, she walkedsilently towards the table, and sat down. He took the opposite chair, and forhalf 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 momentafterwards—“is out of danger. I heard it from the servant. God bepraised!—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 shenot?”

“We hope she is.”

He rose up, and walked across the room.

“Had I known as much half an hour ago;—but since I amhere,” speaking with a forced vivacity as he returned to hisseat,—“what does it signify? For once, Miss Dashwood—it willbe the last time, perhaps—let us be cheerful together. I am in a finemood for gaiety. Tell me honestly” a deeper glow overspreading hischeeks, “do you think me most a knave or a fool?”

Elinor looked at him with greater astonishment than ever. She began to thinkthat he must be in liquor;—the strangeness of such a visit, and of suchmanners, seemed no otherwise intelligible; and with this impression sheimmediately rose, saying,

“Mr. Willoughby, I advise you at present to return to Combe. I am not atleisure to remain with you longer. Whatever your business may be with me, itwill be better recollected and explained to-morrow.”

“I understand you,” he replied, with an expressive smile, and avoice perfectly calm; “yes, I am very drunk. A pint of porter with mycold beef at Marlborough was enough to over-set me.”

“At Marlborough!”—cried Elinor, more and more at a loss tounderstand what he would be at.

“Yes,—I left London this morning at eight o’clock, and theonly ten minutes I have spent out of my chaise since that time procured me anuncheon 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 toCleveland, he was not brought there by intoxication, she said, after amoment’s recollection,

“Mr. Willoughby, you oughtto feel, and I certainly do,that after what has passed, your coming here in this manner, and forcingyourself upon my notice, requires a very particular excuse. What is it, thatyou mean by it?”

“I mean,” said he, with serious energy, “if I can, to makeyou hate me one degree less than you do now. I mean to offer some kindof explanation, some kind of apology, for the past; to open my whole heart toyou, and by convincing you, that though I have been always a blockhead, I havenot 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 whichbrought all the former Willoughby to her remembrance, and in spite of herselfmade her think him sincere.

“If that is all, you may be satisfied already; for Marianne does,she has longforgiven you.”

“Has she?” he cried, in the same eager tone. “Then she hasforgiven me before she ought to have done it. But she shall forgive me again,and on more reasonable grounds. Nowwill 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 youmay have accounted for mybehaviour 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 trialhowever, and you shall hear every thing. When I first became intimate in yourfamily, I had no other intention, no other view in the acquaintance than topass my time pleasantly while I was obliged to remain in Devonshire, morepleasantly than I had ever done before. Your sister’s lovely person andinteresting manners could not but please me; and her behaviour to me almostfrom the first, was of a kind—it is astonishing, when I reflect on whatit was, and what shewas, that my heart should have been so insensible!But at first I must confess, my vanity only was elevated by it. Careless of herhappiness, thinking only of my own amusement, giving way to feelings which Ihad always been too much in the habit of indulging, I endeavoured, by everymeans in my power, to make myself pleasing to her, without any design ofreturning her affection.”

Miss Dashwood, at this point, turning her eyes on him with the most angrycontempt, stopped him, by saying,

“It is hardly worth while, Mr. Willoughby, for you to relate, or for meto listen any longer. Such a beginning as this cannot be followed by anything. 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, “Myfortune was never large, and I had always been expensive, always in the habitof associating with people of better income than myself. Every year since mycoming of age, or even before, I believe, had added to my debts; and though thedeath of my old cousin, Mrs. Smith, was to set me free; yet that event beinguncertain, and possibly far distant, it had been for some time my intention tore-establish my circumstances by marrying a woman of fortune. To attach myselfto your sister, therefore, was not a thing to be thought of; and with ameanness, selfishness, cruelty, which no indignant, no contemptuous look, evenof yours, Miss Dashwood, can ever reprobate too much,—I was acting inthis 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 notthenknow what it was to love. But have I ever known it? Well may it bedoubted; for, had I really loved, could I have sacrificed my feelings tovanity, to avarice? or, what is more, could I have sacrificed hers? But I havedone it. To avoid a comparative poverty, which her affection and her societywould 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, “believeyourself at one time attached to her?”

“To have resisted such attractions, to have withstood such tenderness! Isthere a man on earth who could have done it? Yes, I found myself, by insensibledegrees, sincerely fond of her; and the happiest hours of my life were what Ispent with her when I felt my intentions were strictly honourable, and myfeelings blameless. Even then, however, when fully determined on payingmy addresses to her, I allowed myself most improperly to put off, from day today, the moment of doing it, from an unwillingness to enter into an engagementwhile my circumstances were so greatly embarrassed. I will not reasonhere—nor will I stop for youto expatiate on the absurdity, andthe worse than absurdity, of scrupling to engage my faith where my honour wasalready bound. The event has proved, that I was a cunning fool, providing withgreat circumspection for a possible opportunity of making myself contemptibleand wretched for ever. At last, however, my resolution was taken, and I haddetermined, as soon as I could engage her alone, to justify the attentions Ihad so invariably paid her, and openly assure her of an affection which I hadalready taken such pains to display. But in the interim—in the interim ofthe very few hours that were to pass, before I could have an opportunity ofspeaking with her in private—a circumstance occurred—an unluckycircumstance, to ruin all my resolution, and with it all my comfort. Adiscovery took place,”—here he hesitated and looked down.“Mrs. Smith had somehow or other been informed, I imagine by some distantrelation, whose interest it was to deprive me of her favour, of an affair, aconnection—but I need not explain myself farther,” he added,looking at her with an heightened colour and an enquiringeye,—“your particular intimacy—you have probably heard thewhole story long ago.”

“I have,” returned Elinor, colouring likewise, and hardening herheart anew against any compassion for him, “I have heard it all. And howyou will explain away any part of your guilt in that dreadful business, Iconfess is beyond my comprehension.”

“Remember,” cried Willoughby, “from whom you received theaccount. Could it be an impartial one? I acknowledge that her situation and hercharacter 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 tourge—that because she was injured she was irreproachable, and becauseIwas a libertine, shemust be a saint. If the violence of herpassions, the weakness of her understanding—I do not mean, however, todefend 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 neverbeen. But I have injured more than herself; and I have injured one, whoseaffection for me (may I say it?) was scarcely less warm than hers; and whosemind—Oh! how infinitely superior!”

“Your indifference, however, towards that unfortunate girl—I mustsay it, unpleasant to me as the discussion of such a subject may wellbe—your indifference is no apology for your cruel neglect of her. Do notthink yourself excused by any weakness, any natural defect of understanding onher side, in the wanton cruelty so evident on yours. You must have known, thatwhile you were enjoying yourself in Devonshire pursuing fresh schemes, alwaysgay, always happy, she was reduced to the extremest indigence.”

“But, upon my soul, I did notknow it,” he warmly replied;“I did not recollect that I had omitted to give her my direction; andcommon 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 theworld—every thing was against me. The matter itself I could not deny, andvain was every endeavour to soften it. She was previously disposed, I believe,to doubt the morality of my conduct in general, and was moreover discontentedwith the very little attention, the very little portion of my time that I hadbestowed on her, in my present visit. In short, it ended in a total breach. Byone measure I might have saved myself. In the height of her morality, goodwoman! she offered to forgive the past, if I would marry Eliza. That could notbe—and I was formally dismissed from her favour and her house. The nightfollowing this affair—I was to go the next morning—was spent by mein deliberating on what my future conduct should be. The struggle wasgreat—but it ended too soon. My affection for Marianne, my thoroughconviction of her attachment to me—it was all insufficient to outweighthat dread of poverty, or get the better of those false ideas of the necessityof riches, which I was naturally inclined to feel, and expensive society hadincreased. I had reason to believe myself secure of my present wife, if I choseto address her, and I persuaded myself to think that nothing else in commonprudence remained for me to do. A heavy scene however awaited me, before Icould leave Devonshire;—I was engaged to dine with you on that very day;some apology was therefore necessary for my breaking this engagement. Butwhether I should write this apology, or deliver it in person, was a point oflong debate. To see Marianne, I felt, would be dreadful, and I even doubtedwhether 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, Isaw her, and saw her miserable, and left her miserable—and left herhoping 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 tocall?”

“It was necessary to my own pride. I could not bear to leave the countryin a manner that might lead you, or the rest of the neighbourhood, to suspectany part of what had really passed between Mrs. Smith and myself—and Iresolved therefore on calling at the cottage, in my way to Honiton. The sightof 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 onlythe 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, satisfiedwith myself, delighted with every body! But in this, our last interview offriendship, I approached her with a sense of guilt that almost took from me thepower of dissembling. Her sorrow, her disappointment, her deep regret, when Itold her that I was obliged to leave Devonshire so immediately—I nevershall forget it—united too with such reliance, such confidence inme!—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 likelihoodmuch more than was justified by the future. I cannot think of it.—Itwon’t do.—Then came your dear mother to torture me farther, withall her kindness and confidence. Thank Heaven! it didtorture me. I wasmiserable. Miss Dashwood, you cannot have an idea of the comfort it gives me tolook 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 onlytriumph and exultation to me now. Well, I went, left all that I loved, and wentto those to whom, at best, I was only indifferent. My journey totown—travelling with my own horses, and therefore so tediously—nocreature to speak to—my own reflections so cheerful—when I lookedforward every thing so inviting!—when I looked back at Barton, thepicture so soothing!—oh, it was a blessed journey!”

He stopped.

“Well, sir,” said Elinor, who, though pitying him, grew impatientfor his departure, “and this is all?”

“All!—no:—have you forgot what passed in town? Thatinfamous 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 intown the whole time,) what I felt is—in the common phrase, not to beexpressed; in a more simple one—perhaps too simple to raise anyemotion—my feelings were very, very painful.—Every line, every wordwas—in the hackneyed metaphor which their dear writer, were she here,would forbid—a dagger to my heart. To know that Marianne was in townwas—in the same language—a thunderbolt.—Thunderbolts anddaggers!—what a reproof would she have given me!—her taste, heropinions—I believe they are better known to me than my own,—and Iam sure they are dearer.”

Elinor’s heart, which had undergone many changes in the course of thisextraordinary conversation, was now softened again;—yet she felt it herduty 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 asin former days,—that in spite of the many, many weeks we had beenseparated, she was as constant in her own feelings, and as full of faith in theconstancy of mine as ever,—awakened all my remorse. I say awakened,because time and London, business and dissipation, had in some measure quietedit, and I had been growing a fine hardened villain, fancying myself indifferentto 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 everyreproach, overcoming every scruple, by secretly saying now and then, ‘Ishall be heartily glad to hear she is well married.’ But this note mademe know myself better. I felt that she was infinitely dearer to me than anyother woman in the world, and that I was using her infamously. But every thingwas then just settled between Miss Grey and me. To retreat was impossible. Allthat 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 timeI 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 anythingelse, I watched you all safely out of the house one morning, and left myname.”

“Watched us out of the house!”

“Even so. You would be surprised to hear how often I watched you, howoften I was on the point of falling in with you. I have entered many a shop toavoid 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 ofyou; and nothing but the most constant watchfulness on my side, a mostinvariably prevailing desire to keep out of your sight, could have separated usso long. I avoided the Middletons as much as possible, as well as everybodyelse who was likely to prove an acquaintance in common. Not aware of theirbeing in town, however, I blundered on Sir John, I believe, the first day ofhis coming, and the day after I had called at Mrs. Jennings’s. He askedme to a party, a dance at his house in the evening. Had he nottold meas an inducement that you and your sister were to be there, I should have feltit too certain a thing, to trust myself near him. The next morning broughtanother short note from Marianne—still affectionate, open, artless,confiding—everything that could make myconduct most hateful. Icould not answer it. I tried—but could not frame a sentence. But Ithought of her, I believe, every moment of the day. If you canpity me,Miss Dashwood, pity my situation as it was then. With my head and heartfull 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 nottell you, you were forced on me; and what a sweet figure I cut! what an eveningof agony it was! Marianne, beautiful as an angel on one side, calling meWilloughby in such a tone! Oh, God! holding out her hand to me, asking me foran explanation, with those bewitching eyes fixed in such speaking solicitude onmy face! and Sophia, jealous as the devil on the other hand, looking all thatwas—Well, it does not signify; it is over now. Such an evening! I ranaway from you all as soon as I could; but not before I had seenMarianne’s sweet face as white as death. Thatwas the last, lastlook I ever had of her; the last manner in which she appeared to me. It was ahorrid sight! yet when I thought of her to-day as really dying, it was a kindof 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 Itravelled, in the same look and hue.”

A short pause of mutual thoughtfulness succeeded. Willoughby first rousinghimself, 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 tosay about that?”

“Yes, yes, thatin particular. Your sister wrote to me again, youknow, the very next morning. You saw what she said. I was breakfasting at theEllisons,—and her letter, with some others, was brought to me there frommy lodgings. It happened to catch Sophia’s eye before it caughtmine—and its size, the elegance of the paper, the hand-writingaltogether, immediately gave her a suspicion. Some vague report had reached herbefore of my attachment to some young lady in Devonshire, and what had passedwithin 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 letterdirectly, and read its contents. She was well paid for her impudence. She readwhat made her wretched. Her wretchedness I could have borne, but herpassion—her malice—At all events it must be appeased. And, inshort—what do you think of my wife’s style ofletter-writing?—delicate—tender—truly feminine—was itnot?”

“Your wife!—The letter was in your own hand-writing.”

“Yes, but I had only the credit of servilely copying such sentences as Iwas ashamed to put my name to. The original was all her own—her own happythoughts and gentle diction. But what could I do!—we were engaged, everything 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 asituation like mine, any thing was to be done to prevent a rupture. And afterall, what did it signify to my character in the opinion of Marianne and herfriends, in what language my answer was couched? It must have been only to oneend. My business was to declare myself a scoundrel, and whether I did it with abow or a bluster was of little importance. ‘I am ruined for ever in theiropinion,’ said I to myself: ‘I am shut out for ever from theirsociety, they already think me an unprincipled fellow, this letter will onlymake them think me a blackguard one.’ Such were my reasonings, as, in asort of desperate carelessness, I copied my wife’s words, and parted withthe last relics of Marianne. Her three notes,—unluckily they were all inmy pocketbook, or I should have denied their existence, and hoarded them forever,—I was forced to put them up, and could not even kiss them. And thelock of hair—that too I had always carried about me in the samepocket-book, which was now searched by Madam with the most ingratiatingvirulence,—the dear lock,—all, every memento was torn fromme.”

“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 mysister. You had made your own choice. It was not forced on you. Your wife has aclaim to your politeness, to your respect, at least. She must be attached toyou, or she would not have married you. To treat her with unkindness, to speakof her slightingly is no atonement to Marianne—nor can I suppose it arelief 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 herwhen we married. Well, married we were, and came down to Combe Magna to behappy, and afterwards returned to town to be gay. And now do you pity me, MissDashwood? Or have I said all this to no purpose? Am I,—be it only onedegree,—am I less guilty in your opinion than I was before? My intentionswere not always wrong. Have I explained away any part of my guilt?”

“Yes, you have certainly removed something—a little. You haveproved yourself, on the whole, less faulty than I had believed you. You haveproved your heart less wicked, much less wicked. But I hardly know—themisery that you have inflicted—I hardly know what could have made itworse.”

“Will you repeat to your sister when she is recovered, what I have beentelling you?—Let me be a little lightened too in her opinion as well asin yours. You tell me that she has forgiven me already. Let me be able to fancythat a better knowledge of my heart, and of my present feelings, will draw fromher a more spontaneous, more natural, more gentle, less dignified, forgiveness.Tell her of my misery and my penitence—tell her that my heart was neverinconstant to her, and if you will, that at this moment she is dearer to methan ever.”

“I will tell her all that is necessary to what may comparatively becalled, your justification. But you have not explained to me the particularreason of your coming now, nor how you heard of her illness.”

“Last night, in Drury Lane lobby, I ran against Sir John Middleton, andwhen 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 orresentment. Now, however, his good-natured, honest, stupid soul, full ofindignation against me, and concern for your sister, could not resist thetemptation of telling me what he knew ought to, though probably he did notthink 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 atCleveland—a letter that morning received from Mrs. Jennings declared herdanger most imminent—the Palmers are all gone off in a fright, &c. Iwas too much shocked to be able to pass myself off as insensible even to theundiscerning Sir John. His heart was softened in seeing mine suffer; and somuch of his ill-will was done away, that when we parted, he almost shook me bythe hand while he reminded me of an old promise about a pointer puppy. What Ifelt on hearing that your sister was dying, and dying too, believing me thegreatest villain upon earth, scorning, hating me in her latestmoments—for how could I tell what horrid projects might not have beenimputed? Oneperson I was sure would represent me as capable ofanything—What I felt was dreadful! My resolution was soon made, and ateight o’clock this morning I was in my carriage. Now you know all.”

Elinor made no answer. Her thoughts were silently fixed on the irreparableinjury which too early an independence and its consequent habits of idleness,dissipation, and luxury, had made in the mind, the character, the happiness, ofa man who, to every advantage of person and talents, united a dispositionnaturally open and honest, and a feeling, affectionate temper. The world hadmade him extravagant and vain—Extravagance and vanity had made himcold-hearted and selfish. Vanity, while seeking its own guilty triumph at theexpense of another, had involved him in a real attachment, which extravagance,or at least its offspring, necessity, had required to be sacrificed. Eachfaulty propensity in leading him to evil, had led him likewise to punishment.The attachment, from which against honour, against feeling, against everybetter interest he had outwardly torn himself, now, when no longer allowable,governed every thought; and the connection, for the sake of which he had, withlittle scruple, left her sister to misery, was likely to prove a source ofunhappiness to himself of a far more incurable nature. From a reverie of thiskind she was recalled at the end of some minutes by Willoughby, who, rousinghimself from a reverie at least equally painful, started up in preparation forgoing, 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 aday or two. Good bye.”

He held out his hand. She could not refuse to give him hers;—he pressedit with affection.

“And you dothink something better of me than you did?” saidhe, letting it fall, and leaning against the mantel-piece as if forgetting hewas to go.

Elinor assured him that she did;—that she forgave, pitied, wished himwell—was even interested in his happiness—and added some gentlecounsel as to the behaviour most likely to promote it. His answer was not veryencouraging.

“As to that,” said he, “I must rub through the world as wellas I can. Domestic happiness is out of the question. If, however, I am allowedto think that you and yours feel an interest in my fate and actions, it may bethe means—it may put me on my guard—at least, it may be somethingto live for. Marianne to be sure is lost to me for ever. Were I even by anyblessed chance at liberty again—”

Elinor stopped him with a reproof.

“Well,”—he replied—“once more good bye. I shallnow 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 isnow.”

“But she will be gained by some one else. And if that some one should bethe very he whom, of all others, I could least bear—but I will not stayto rob myself of all your compassionate goodwill, by showing that where I havemost 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 ofhis 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, tothink even of her sister.

Willoughby, he, whom only half an hour ago she had abhorred as the mostworthless of men, Willoughby, in spite of all his faults, excited a degree ofcommiseration for the sufferings produced by them, which made her think of himas now separated for ever from her family, with a tenderness, a regret, ratherin proportion, as she soon acknowledged within herself—to his wishes thanto his merits. She felt that his influence over her mind was heightened bycircumstances which ought not in reason to have weight; by that person ofuncommon attraction, that open, affectionate, and lively manner which it was nomerit to possess; and by that still ardent love for Marianne, which it was noteven innocent to indulge. But she felt that it was so, long, long before shecould feel his influence less.

When at last she returned to the unconscious Marianne, she found her justawaking, 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’sexpected arrival, threw her altogether into an agitation of spirits which keptoff every indication of fatigue, and made her only fearful of betraying herselfto her sister. Short was the time, however, in which that fear could affecther, for within half an hour after Willoughby’s leaving the house, shewas again called down stairs by the sound of another carriage.—Eager tosave her mother from every unnecessary moment’s horrible suspense, sheran immediately into the hall, and reached the outward door just in time toreceive and support her as she entered it.

Mrs. Dashwood, whose terror as they drew near the house had produced almost theconviction of Marianne’s being no more, had no voice to inquire afterher, no voice even for Elinor; but she, waiting neither for salutationnor inquiry, instantly gave the joyful relief; and her mother, catching it withall her usual warmth, was in a moment as much overcome by her happiness, as shehad been before by her fears. She was supported into the drawing-room betweenher daughter and her friend; and there, shedding tears of joy, though stillunable to speak, embraced Elinor again and again, turning from her at intervalsto press Colonel Brandon’s hand, with a look which spoke at once hergratitude, and her conviction of his sharing with herself in the bliss of themoment. 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 firstdesire; and in two minutes she was with her beloved child, rendered dearer toher than ever by absence, unhappiness, and danger. Elinor’s delight, asshe saw what each felt in the meeting, was only checked by an apprehension ofits robbing Marianne of farther sleep: but Mrs. Dashwood could be calm, couldbe even prudent, when the life of a child was at stake, and Marianne, satisfiedin knowing her mother was near her, and conscious of being too weak forconversation, submitted readily to the silence and quiet prescribed by everynurse around her. Mrs. Dashwood wouldsit up with her all night; andElinor, in compliance with her mother’s entreaty, went to bed. But therest, which one night entirely sleepless, and many hours of the most wearinganxiety seemed to make requisite, was kept off by irritation of spirits.Willoughby, “poor Willoughby,” as she now allowed herself to callhim, was constantly in her thoughts; she would not but have heard hisvindication for the world, and now blamed, now acquitted herself for havingjudged him so harshly before. But her promise of relating it to her sister wasinvariably painful. She dreaded the performance of it, dreaded what its effecton Marianne might be; doubted whether after such an explanation she could everbe happy with another; and for a moment wished Willoughby a widower. Then,remembering Colonel Brandon, reproved herself, felt that to hissufferings and hisconstancy far more than to his rival’s, thereward 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 toMrs. Dashwood by her own previous alarm; for so great was her uneasiness aboutMarianne, that she had already determined to set out for Cleveland on that veryday, without waiting for any further intelligence, and had so far settled herjourney before his arrival, that the Careys were then expected every moment tofetch Margaret away, as her mother was unwilling to take her where there mightbe 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 declaredherself, one of the happiest women in the world. Elinor could not hear thedeclaration, nor witness its proofs without sometimes wondering whether hermother ever recollected Edward. But Mrs. Dashwood, trusting to the temperateaccount of her own disappointment which Elinor had sent her, was led away bythe exuberance of her joy to think only of what would increase it. Marianne wasrestored to her from a danger in which, as she now began to feel, her ownmistaken judgment in encouraging the unfortunate attachment to Willoughby, hadcontributed to place her;—and in her recovery she had yet another sourceof joy unthought of by Elinor. It was thus imparted to her, as soon as anyopportunity 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 notsurprised, was all silent attention.

“You are never like me, dear Elinor, or I should wonder at your composurenow. Had I sat down to wish for any possible good to my family, I should havefixed on Colonel Brandon’s marrying one of you as the object mostdesirable. And I believe Marianne will be the most happy with him of thetwo.”

Elinor was half inclined to ask her reason for thinking so, because satisfiedthat none founded on an impartial consideration of their age, characters, orfeelings, could be given;—but her mother must always be carried away byher imagination on any interesting subject, and therefore instead of aninquiry, she passed it off with a smile.

“He opened his whole heart to me yesterday as we travelled. It came outquite unawares, quite undesignedly. I, you may well believe, could talk ofnothing but my child;—he could not conceal his distress; I saw that itequalled my own, and he perhaps, thinking that mere friendship, as the worldnow goes, would not justify so warm a sympathy—or rather, not thinking atall, I suppose—giving way to irresistible feelings, made me acquaintedwith 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 ofColonel Brandon, but the natural embellishments of her mother’s activefancy, which fashioned every thing delightful to her as it chose.

“His regard for her, infinitely surpassing anything that Willoughby everfelt or feigned, as much more warm, as more sincere or constant—whichever we are to call it—has subsisted through all the knowledge of dearMarianne’s unhappy prepossession for that worthless young man!—andwithout selfishness—without encouraging a hope!—could he have seenher happy with another—Such a noble mind!—such openness, suchsincerity!—no one can be deceived in him.”

“Colonel Brandon’s character,” said Elinor, “as anexcellent man, is well established.”

“I know it is,”—replied her mother seriously, “or aftersuch a warning, Ishould be the last to encourage such affection, oreven 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 ofmen.”

“His character, however,” answered Elinor, “does not rest ononeact of kindness, to which his affection for Marianne, were humanityout 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; andeven my own knowledge of him, though lately acquired, is very considerable; andso highly do Ivalue and esteem him, that if Marianne can be happy withhim, I shall be as ready as yourself to think our connection the greatestblessing to us in the world. What answer did you give him?—Did you allowhim to hope?”

“Oh! my love, I could not then talk of hope to him or to myself. Mariannemight at that moment be dying. But he did not ask for hope or encouragement.His was an involuntary confidence, an irrepressible effusion to a soothingfriend, not an application to a parent. Yet after a time I didsay, forat first I was quite overcome, that if she lived, as I trusted she might, mygreatest happiness would lie in promoting their marriage; and since ourarrival, 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, Itell him, will do everything; Marianne’s heart is not to be wasted forever on such a man as Willoughby. His own merits must soon secure it.”

“To judge from the Colonel’s spirits, however, you have not yetmade him equally sanguine.”

“No. He thinks Marianne’s affection too deeply rooted for anychange in it under a great length of time, and even supposing her heart againfree, is too diffident of himself to believe, that with such a difference ofage and disposition he could ever attach her. There, however, he is quitemistaken. His age is only so much beyond hers as to be an advantage, as to makehis 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 mannerstoo, are all in his favour. My partiality does not blind me; he certainly isnot so handsome as Willoughby; but at the same time, there is something muchmore pleasing in his countenance. There was always a something, if youremember, in Willoughby’s eyes at times, which I did not like.”

Elinor could notremember it; but her mother, without waiting for herassent, continued,

“And his manners, the Colonel’s manners are not only more pleasingto me than Willoughby’s ever were, but they are of a kind I well know tobe more solidly attaching to Marianne. Their gentleness, their genuineattention to other people, and their manly unstudied simplicity is much moreaccordant with her real disposition, than the liveliness, often artificial, andoften ill-timed of the other. I am very sure myself, that had Willoughby turnedout as really amiable, as he has proved himself the contrary, Marianne wouldyet never have been so happy with himas she will be with ColonelBrandon.”

She paused.—Her daughter could not quite agree with her, but her dissentwas not heard, and therefore gave no offence.

“At Delaford, she will be within an easy distance of me,” addedMrs. Dashwood, “even if I remain at Barton; and in allprobability,—for I hear it is a large village,—indeed therecertainly mustbe some small house or cottage close by, that would suitus quite as well as our present situation.”

Poor Elinor!—here was a new scheme for getting her to Delaford!—buther spirit was stubborn.

“His fortune too!—for at my time of life you know, everybody caresabout that;—and though I neither know nor desire to know, what itreally is, I am sure it must be a good one.”

Here they were interrupted by the entrance of a third person, and Elinorwithdrew to think it all over in private, to wish success to her friend, andyet in wishing it, to feel a pang for Willoughby.

CHAPTER XLVI.

Marianne’s illness, though weakening in its kind, had not been longenough to make her recovery slow; and with youth, natural strength, and hermother’s presence in aid, it proceeded so smoothly as to enable her toremove, within four days after the arrival of the latter, into Mrs.Palmer’s dressing-room. When there, at her own particular request, forshe 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 receivingthe pale hand which she immediately held out to him, was such, as, inElinor’s conjecture, must arise from something more than his affectionfor Marianne, or the consciousness of its being known to others; and she soondiscovered in his melancholy eye and varying complexion as he looked at hersister, the probable recurrence of many past scenes of misery to his mind,brought back by that resemblance between Marianne and Eliza alreadyacknowledged, and now strengthened by the hollow eye, the sickly skin, theposture of reclining weakness, and the warm acknowledgment of peculiarobligation.

Mrs. Dashwood, not less watchful of what passed than her daughter, but with amind very differently influenced, and therefore watching to very differenteffect, saw nothing in the Colonel’s behaviour but what arose from themost simple and self-evident sensations, while in the actions and words ofMarianne she persuaded herself to think that something more than gratitudealready dawned.

At the end of another day or two, Marianne growing visibly stronger everytwelve hours, Mrs. Dashwood, urged equally by her own and her daughter’swishes, began to talk of removing to Barton. On hermeasures dependedthose of her two friends; Mrs. Jennings could not quit Cleveland during theDashwoods’ stay; and Colonel Brandon was soon brought, by their unitedrequest, to consider his own abode there as equally determinate, if not equallyindispensable. At his and Mrs. Jennings’s united request in return, Mrs.Dashwood was prevailed on to accept the use of his carriage on her journeyback, for the better accommodation of her sick child; and the Colonel, at thejoint invitation of Mrs. Dashwood and Mrs. Jennings, whose active good-naturemade her friendly and hospitable for other people as well as herself, engagedwith pleasure to redeem it by a visit at the cottage, in the course of a fewweeks.

The day of separation and departure arrived; and Marianne, after taking soparticular 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 secretacknowledgment of past inattention, and bidding Colonel Brandon farewell with acordiality of a friend, was carefully assisted by him into the carriage, ofwhich he seemed anxious that she should engross at least half. Mrs. Dashwoodand Elinor then followed, and the others were left by themselves, to talk ofthe travellers, and feel their own dullness, till Mrs. Jennings was summoned toher chaise to take comfort in the gossip of her maid for the loss of her twoyoung companions; and Colonel Brandon immediately afterwards took his solitaryway 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, themost solicitous care could do to render her comfortable, was the office of eachwatchful companion, and each found their reward in her bodily ease, and hercalmness of spirits. To Elinor, the observation of the latter was particularlygrateful. She, who had seen her week after week so constantly suffering,oppressed by anguish of heart which she had neither courage to speak of, norfortitude 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 ofserious reflection, must eventually lead her to contentment and cheerfulness.

As they approached Barton, indeed, and entered on scenes of which every fieldand every tree brought some peculiar, some painful recollection, she grewsilent and thoughtful, and turning away her face from their notice, satearnestly gazing through the window. But here, Elinor could neither wonder norblame; and when she saw, as she assisted Marianne from the carriage, that shehad been crying, she saw only an emotion too natural in itself to raise anything less tender than pity, and in its unobtrusiveness entitled to praise. Inthe whole of her subsequent manner, she traced the direction of a mind awakenedto reasonable exertion; for no sooner had they entered their commonsitting-room, than Marianne turned her eyes around it with a look of resolutefirmness, as if determined at once to accustom herself to the sight of everyobject with which the remembrance of Willoughby could be connected.—Shesaid little, but every sentence aimed at cheerfulness, and though a sighsometimes 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 onwhich her eye first rested was an opera, procured for her by Willoughby,containing some of their favourite duets, and bearing on its outward leaf herown name in his hand-writing.—That would not do.—She shook herhead, 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 futurepractice much.

The next morning produced no abatement in these happy symptoms. On thecontrary, with a mind and body alike strengthened by rest, she looked and spokewith more genuine spirit, anticipating the pleasure of Margaret’s return,and talking of the dear family party which would then be restored, of theirmutual 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 tothe farm at the edge of the down, and see how the children go on; we will walkto Sir John’s new plantations at Barton Cross, and the Abbeyland; and wewill often go to the old ruins of the Priory, and try to trace its foundationsas far as we are told they once reached. I know we shall be happy. I know thesummer will pass happily away. I mean never to be later in rising than six, andfrom that time till dinner I shall divide every moment between music andreading. I have formed my plan, and am determined to enter on a course ofserious study. Our own library is too well known to me, to be resorted to forany thing beyond mere amusement. But there are many works well worth reading atthe Park; and there are others of more modern production which I know I canborrow of Colonel Brandon. By reading only six hours a-day, I shall gain in thecourse of a twelve-month a great deal of instruction which I now feel myself towant.”

Elinor honoured her for a plan which originated so nobly as this; thoughsmiling to see the same eager fancy which had been leading her to the extremeof languid indolence and selfish repining, now at work in introducing excessinto a scheme of such rational employment and virtuous self-control. Her smilehowever changed to a sigh when she remembered that promise to Willoughby wasyet unfulfilled, and feared she had that to communicate which might againunsettle the mind of Marianne, and ruin at least for a time this fair prospectof busy tranquillity. Willing therefore to delay the evil hour, she resolved towait 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 enoughfor an invalid like herself to venture out. But at last a soft, genial morningappeared; such as might tempt the daughter’s wishes and themother’s confidence; and Marianne, leaning on Elinor’s arm, wasauthorised to walk as long as she could without fatigue, in the lane before thehouse.

The sisters set out at a pace, slow as the feebleness of Marianne in anexercise hitherto untried since her illness required; and they had advancedonly so far beyond the house as to admit a full view of the hill, the importanthill behind, when pausing with her eyes turned towards it, Marianne calmlysaid,—

“There, exactly there,”—pointing with one hand, “onthat projecting mound,—there I fell; and there I first sawWilloughby.”

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 cantalk of it now, I hope, as I ought todo.”

Elinor tenderly invited her to be open.

“As for regret,” said Marianne, “I have done with that, asfar as heis concerned. I do not mean to talk to you of what my feelingshave been for him, but what they are now. At present, if I could besatisfied on one point, if I could be allowed to think that he was notalwaysacting a part, not alwaysdeceiving me; but above all, ifI could be assured that he never was so verywicked as my fears havesometimes 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 ithorrible to suspect a person, who has been what hehas been tome, of such designs, but what must it make me appear to myself? What ina situation like mine, but a most shamefully unguarded affection could exposeme to—”

“How then,” asked her sister, “would you account for hisbehaviour?”

“I would suppose him,—Oh, how gladly would I suppose him, onlyfickle, very, very fickle.”

Elinor said no more. She was debating within herself on the eligibility ofbeginning her story directly, or postponing it till Marianne were in strongerhealth;—and they crept on for a few minutes in silence.

“I am not wishing him too much good,” said Marianne at last with asigh, “when I wish his secret reflections may be no more unpleasant thanmy 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 withyours.”

“Our situations have borne little resemblance.”

“They have borne more than our conduct. Do not, my dearest Elinor, letyour kindness defend what I know your judgment must censure. My illness hasmade 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. Iconsidered the past: I saw in my own behaviour, since the beginning of ouracquaintance with him last autumn, nothing but a series of imprudence towardsmyself, and want of kindness to others. I saw that my own feelings had preparedmy sufferings, and that my want of fortitude under them had almost led me tothe grave. My illness, I well knew, had been entirely brought on by myself bysuch 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 tillthe danger was removed; but with such feelings as these reflections gave me, Iwonder at my recovery,—wonder that the very eagerness of my desire tolive, to have time for atonement to my God, and to you all, did not kill me atonce. Had I died, in what peculiar misery should I have left you, my nurse, myfriend, my sister! You, who had seen all the fretful selfishness of my latterdays; who had known all the murmurings of my heart! How should I have lived inyourremembrance! My mother too! How could you have consoled her! Icannot express my own abhorrence of myself. Whenever I looked towards the past,I saw some duty neglected, or some failing indulged. Every body seemed injuredby me. The kindness, the unceasing kindness of Mrs. Jennings, I had repaid withungrateful contempt. To the Middletons, to the Palmers, the Steeles, to everycommon acquaintance even, I had been insolent and unjust; with a heart hardenedagainst 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 thantheir 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 influenceme?—not to any compassion that could benefit you or myself.—Yourexample was before me; but to what avail? Was I more considerate of you andyour comfort? Did I imitate your forbearance, or lessen your restraints, bytaking any part in those offices of general complaisance or particulargratitude which you had hitherto been left to discharge alone? No; not lesswhen I knew you to be unhappy, than when I had believed you at ease, did I turnaway from every exertion of duty or friendship; scarcely allowing sorrow toexist but with me, regretting only thatheart which had deserted andwronged me, and leaving you, for whom I professed an unbounded affection, to bemiserable for my sake.”

Here ceased the rapid flow of her self-reproving spirit; and Elinor, impatientto soothe, though too honest to flatter, gave her instantly that praise andsupport which her frankness and her contrition so well deserved. Mariannepressed her hand and replied,—

“You are very good.—The future must be my proof. I have laid downmy plan, and if I am capable of adhering to it—my feelings shall begoverned and my temper improved. They shall no longer worry others, nor torturemyself. 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 entirelybetween you. From you, from my home, I shall never again have the smallestincitement to move; and if I do mix in other society, it will be only to showthat my spirit is humbled, my heart amended, and that I can practise thecivilities, the lesser duties of life, with gentleness and forbearance. As forWilloughby—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 oropinions. But it shall be regulated, it shall be checked by religion, byreason, by constant employment.”

She paused—and added in a low voice, “If I could but knowhisheart, everything would become easy.”

Elinor, who had now been for some time reflecting on the propriety orimpropriety of speedily hazarding her narration, without feeling at all nearerdecision than at first, heard this; and perceiving that as reflection didnothing, resolution must do all, soon found herself leading to the fact.

She managed the recital, as she hoped, with address; prepared her anxiouslistener with caution; related simply and honestly the chief points on whichWilloughby grounded his apology; did justice to his repentance, and softenedonly his protestations of present regard. Marianne said not a word.—Shetrembled, her eyes were fixed on the ground, and her lips became whiter thaneven sickness had left them. A thousand inquiries sprung up from her heart, butshe dared not urge one. She caught every syllable with panting eagerness; herhand, unknowingly to herself, closely pressed her sister’s, and tearscovered her cheeks.

Elinor, dreading her being tired, led her towards home; and till they reachedthe door of the cottage, easily conjecturing what her curiosity must be thoughno question was suffered to speak it, talked of nothing but Willoughby, andtheir conversation together; and was carefully minute in every particular ofspeech and look, where minuteness could be safely indulged. As soon as theyentered the house, Marianne with a kiss of gratitude and these two words justarticulate through her tears, “Tell mama,” withdrew from her sisterand walked slowly up stairs. Elinor would not attempt to disturb a solitude soreasonable as what she now sought; and with a mind anxiously pre-arranging itsresult, and a resolution of reviving the subject again, should Marianne fail todo 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. Sherejoiced in his being cleared from some part of his imputed guilt;—shewas sorry for him;—she wished him happy. But the feelings of the pastcould not be recalled.—Nothing could restore him with a faithunbroken—a character unblemished, to Marianne. Nothing could do away theknowledge of what the latter had suffered through his means, nor remove theguilt of his conduct towards Eliza. Nothing could replace him, therefore, inher former esteem, nor injure the interests of Colonel Brandon.

Had Mrs. Dashwood, like her daughter, heard Willoughby’s story fromhimself—had she witnessed his distress, and been under the influence ofhis countenance and his manner, it is probable that her compassion would havebeen greater. But it was neither in Elinor’s power, nor in her wish, torouse such feelings in another, by her retailed explanation, as had at firstbeen 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 werereally due to his character, without any embellishment of tenderness to leadthe fancy astray.

In the evening, when they were all three together, Marianne began voluntarilyto speak of him again;—but that it was not without an effort, therestless, unquiet thoughtfulness in which she had been for some time previouslysitting—her rising colour, as she spoke,—and her unsteady voice,plainly showed.

“I wish to assure you both,” said she, “that I see everything—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 thismorning—I have now heard exactly what I wished to hear.”—Forsome moments her voice was lost; but recovering herself, she added, and withgreater calmness than before—“I am now perfectly satisfied, I wishfor no change. I never could have been happy with him, after knowing, as sooneror later I must have known, all this.—I should have had no confidence, noesteem. Nothing could have done it away to my feelings.”

“I know it—I know it,” cried her mother. “Happy with aman of libertine practices!—With one who so injured the peace of thedearest of our friends, and the best of men!—No—my Marianne has nota heart to be made happy with such a man!—Her conscience, her sensitiveconscience, would have felt all that the conscience of her husband ought tohave felt.”

Marianne sighed, and repeated, “I wish for no change.”

“You consider the matter,” said Elinor, “exactly as a goodmind 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, reasonenough to be convinced that your marriage must have involved you in manycertain troubles and disappointments, in which you would have been poorlysupported by an affection, on his side, much less certain. Had you married, youmust have been always poor. His expensiveness is acknowledged even by himself,and his whole conduct declares that self-denial is a word hardly understood byhim. His demands and your inexperience together, on a small, very small income,must have brought on distresses which would not be the lessgrievous toyou, from having been entirely unknown and unthought of before. Yoursense of honour and honesty would have led you, I know, when aware of yoursituation, to attempt all the economy that would appear to you possible: and,perhaps, as long as your frugality retrenched only on your own comfort, youmight have been suffered to practice it, but beyond that—and how littlecould the utmost of your single management do to stop the ruin which had begunbefore your marriage? Beyond that, had you endeavoured, howeverreasonably, to abridge hisenjoyments, is it not to be feared, thatinstead of prevailing on feelings so selfish to consent to it, you would havelessened your own influence on his heart, and made him regret the connectionwhich had involved him in such difficulties?”

Marianne’s lips quivered, and she repeated the word“Selfish?” in a tone that implied—“do you really thinkhim selfish?”

“The whole of his behaviour,” replied Elinor, “from thebeginning to the end of the affair, has been grounded on selfishness. It wasselfishness which first made him sport with your affections; which afterwards,when his own were engaged, made him delay the confession of it, and whichfinally carried him from Barton. His own enjoyment, or his own ease, was, inevery particular, his ruling principle.”

“It is very true. Myhappiness 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 towardshimself. It has not made him happy. His circumstances are nowunembarrassed—he suffers from no evil of that kind; and he thinks onlythat he has married a woman of a less amiable temper than yourself. But does itfollow that had he married you, he would have been happy?—Theinconveniences would have been different. He would then have suffered under thepecuniary distresses which, because they are removed, he now reckons asnothing. 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 wouldsoon have learned to rank the innumerable comforts of a clear estate and goodincome as of far more importance, even to domestic happiness, than the meretemper of a wife.”

“I have not a doubt of it,” said Marianne; “and I havenothing to regret—nothing but my own folly.”

“Rather say your mother’s imprudence, my child,” said Mrs.Dashwood; “shemust be answerable.”

Marianne would not let her proceed;—and Elinor, satisfied that each felttheir own error, wished to avoid any survey of the past that might weaken hersister’s spirits; she, therefore, pursuing the first subject, immediatelycontinued,

“Oneobservation may, I think, be fairly drawn from the whole ofthe story—that all Willoughby’s difficulties have arisen from thefirst offence against virtue, in his behaviour to Eliza Williams. That crimehas been the origin of every lesser one, and of all his presentdiscontents.”

Marianne assented most feelingly to the remark; and her mother was led by it toan enumeration of Colonel Brandon’s injuries and merits, warm asfriendship 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 herresolution was unsubdued, and she still tried to appear cheerful and easy, hersister could safely trust to the effect of time upon her health.

Margaret returned, and the family were again all restored to each other, againquietly settled at the cottage; and if not pursuing their usual studies withquite so much vigour as when they first came to Barton, at least planning avigorous prosecution of them in future.

Elinor grew impatient for some tidings of Edward. She had heard nothing of himsince her leaving London, nothing new of his plans, nothing certain even of hispresent abode. Some letters had passed between her and her brother, inconsequence of Marianne’s illness; and in the first of John’s,there had been this sentence:—“We know nothing of our unfortunateEdward, and can make no enquiries on so prohibited a subject, but conclude himto be still at Oxford;” which was all the intelligence of Edward affordedher by the correspondence, for his name was not even mentioned in any of thesucceeding letters. She was not doomed, however, to be long in ignorance of hismeasures.

Their man-servant had been sent one morning to Exeter on business; and when, ashe waited at table, he had satisfied the inquiries of his mistress as to theevent 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 turningpale, and fell back in her chair in hysterics. Mrs. Dashwood, whose eyes, asshe answered the servant’s inquiry, had intuitively taken the samedirection, was shocked to perceive by Elinor’s countenance how much shereally suffered, and a moment afterwards, alike distressed by Marianne’ssituation, knew not on which child to bestow her principal attention.

The servant, who saw only that Miss Marianne was taken ill, had sense enough tocall one of the maids, who, with Mrs. Dashwood’s assistance, supportedher into the other room. By that time, Marianne was rather better, and hermother 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 reasonand voice as to be just beginning an inquiry of Thomas, as to the source of hisintelligence. Mrs. Dashwood immediately took all that trouble on herself; andElinor 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 hislady too, Miss Steele as was. They was stopping in a chaise at the door of theNew London Inn, as I went there with a message from Sally at the Park to herbrother, who is one of the post-boys. I happened to look up as I went by thechaise, and so I see directly it was the youngest Miss Steele; so I took off myhat, and she knew me and called to me, and inquired after you, ma’am, andthe young ladies, especially Miss Marianne, and bid me I should give hercompliments and Mr. Ferrars’s, their best compliments and service, andhow sorry they was they had not time to come on and see you, but they was in agreat 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 seeyou.”

“But did she tell you she was married, Thomas?”

“Yes, ma’am. She smiled, and said how she had changed her namesince she was in these parts. She was always a very affable and free-spokenyoung 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 lookup;—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 toldme.”

“And are they going farther westward?”

“Yes, ma’am—but not to bide long. They will soon be backagain, and then they’d be sure and call here.”

Mrs. Dashwood now looked at her daughter; but Elinor knew better than to expectthem. She recognised the whole of Lucy in the message, and was very confidentthat Edward would never come near them. She observed in a low voice, to hermother, that they were probably going down to Mr. Pratt’s, near Plymouth.

Thomas’s intelligence seemed over. Elinor looked as if she wished to hearmore.

“Did you see them off, before you came away?”

“No, ma’am—the horses were just coming out, but I could notbide 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 wasalways 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 sentto say, that she should eat nothing more. Mrs. Dashwood’s andElinor’s appetites were equally lost, and Margaret might think herselfvery well off, that with so much uneasiness as both her sisters had latelyexperienced, so much reason as they had often had to be careless of theirmeals, she had never been obliged to go without her dinner before.

When the dessert and the wine were arranged, and Mrs. Dashwood and Elinor wereleft by themselves, they remained long together in a similarity ofthoughtfulness and silence. Mrs. Dashwood feared to hazard any remark, andventured not to offer consolation. She now found that she had erred in relyingon Elinor’s representation of herself; and justly concluded that everything had been expressly softened at the time, to spare her from an increase ofunhappiness, suffering as she then had suffered for Marianne. She found thatshe had been misled by the careful, the considerate attention of her daughter,to think the attachment, which once she had so well understood, much slighterin 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, becausemore acknowledged, more immediately before her, had too much engrossed hertenderness, and led her away to forget that in Elinor she might have a daughtersuffering almost as much, certainly with less self-provocation, and greaterfortitude.

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. Shenow found, that in spite of herself, she had always admitted a hope, whileEdward remained single, that something would occur to prevent his marryingLucy; that some resolution of his own, some mediation of friends, or some moreeligible opportunity of establishment for the lady, would arise to assist thehappiness of all. But he was now married; and she condemned her heart for thelurking 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 hera little at first. But she soon saw how likely it was that Lucy, in herself-provident care, in her haste to secure him, should overlook every thingbut the risk of delay. They were married, married in town, and now hasteningdown to her uncle’s. What had Edward felt on being within four miles fromBarton, on seeing her mother’s servant, on hearing Lucy’s message!

They would soon, she supposed, be settled atDelaford.—Delaford,—that place in which so much conspired to giveher an interest; which she wished to be acquainted with, and yet desired toavoid. She saw them in an instant in their parsonage-house; saw in Lucy, theactive, contriving manager, uniting at once a desire of smart appearance withthe utmost frugality, and ashamed to be suspected of half her economicalpractices;—pursuing her own interest in every thought, courting thefavour of Colonel Brandon, of Mrs. Jennings, and of every wealthy friend. InEdward—she knew not what she saw, nor what she wished to see;—happyor unhappy,—nothing pleased her; she turned away her head from everysketch of him.

Elinor flattered herself that some one of their connections in London wouldwrite to them to announce the event, and give farther particulars,—butday after day passed off, and brought no letter, no tidings. Though uncertainthat any one were to blame, she found fault with every absent friend. They wereall thoughtless or indolent.

“When do you write to Colonel Brandon, ma’am?” was an inquirywhich 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 tohear from him again. I earnestly pressed his coming to us, and should not besurprised to see him walk in today or tomorrow, or any day.”

This was gaining something, something to look forward to. Colonel Brandonmusthave some information to give.

Scarcely had she so determined it, when the figure of a man on horseback drewher eyes to the window. He stopt at their gate. It was a gentleman, it wasColonel Brandon himself. Now she could hear more; and she trembled inexpectation of it. But it was notColonel Brandon; neither his air, norhis height. Were it possible, she must say it must be Edward. She looked again.He had just dismounted: she could not be mistaken,—it wasEdward.She moved away and sat down. “He comes from Mr. Pratt’s purposelyto see us. I willbe calm; I willbe 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, andwhisper a few sentences to each other. She would have given the world to beable to speak—and to make them understand that she hoped no coolness, noslight, 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 oftheir visitor. His footsteps were heard along the gravel path; in a moment hewas 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 hisreception, and conscious that he merited no kind one. Mrs. Dashwood, however,conforming, as she trusted, to the wishes of that daughter, by whom she thenmeant in the warmth of her heart to be guided in every thing, met him with alook of forced complacency, gave him her hand, and wished him joy.

He coloured, and stammered out an unintelligible reply. Elinor’s lips hadmoved with her mother’s, and, when the moment of action was over, shewished that she had shaken hands with him too. But it was then too late, andwith a countenance meaning to be open, she sat down again and talked of theweather.

Marianne had retreated as much as possible out of sight, to conceal herdistress; 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 farfrom him as she could, and maintained a strict silence.

When Elinor had ceased to rejoice in the dryness of the season, a very awfulpause took place. It was put an end to by Mrs. Dashwood, who felt obliged tohope that he had left Mrs. Ferrars very well. In a hurried manner, he repliedin 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, mymother is in town.”

“I meant,” said Elinor, taking up some work from the table,“to enquire for Mrs. EdwardFerrars.”

She dared not look up;—but her mother and Marianne both turned their eyeson him. He coloured, seemed perplexed, looked doubtingly, and, after somehesitation, said,—

“Perhaps you mean—my brother—you mean Mrs.—Mrs.RobertFerrars.”

“Mrs. Robert Ferrars!” was repeated by Marianne and her mother inan accent of the utmost amazement; and though Elinor could not speak, evenhereyes were fixed on him with the same impatient wonder. He rose fromhis 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 andtheir sheath by cutting the latter to pieces as he spoke, said, in a hurriedvoice,—

“Perhaps you do not know: you may not have heard that my brother islately married to—to the youngest—to Miss Lucy Steele.”

His words were echoed with unspeakable astonishment by all but Elinor, who satwith her head leaning over her work, in a state of such agitation as made herhardly know where she was.

“Yes,” said he, “they were married last week, and are now atDawlish.”

Elinor could sit it no longer. She almost ran out of the room, and as soon asthe door was closed, burst into tears of joy, which at first she thought wouldnever 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; forimmediately afterwards he fell into a reverie, which no remarks, no inquiries,no affectionate address of Mrs. Dashwood could penetrate, and at last, withoutsaying a word, quitted the room, and walked out towards thevillage—leaving the others in the greatest astonishment and perplexity ona change in his situation, so wonderful and so sudden;—a perplexity whichthey had no means of lessening but by their own conjectures.

CHAPTER XLIX.

Unaccountable, however, as the circumstances of his release might appear to thewhole family, it was certain that Edward was free; and to what purpose thatfreedom would be employed was easily pre-determined by all;—for afterexperiencing the blessings of oneimprudent engagement, contractedwithout his mother’s consent, as he had already done for more than fouryears, 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 tomarry him;—and considering that he was not altogether inexperienced insuch a question, it might be strange that he should feel so uncomfortable inthe present case as he really did, so much in need of encouragement and freshair.

How soon he had walked himself into the proper resolution, however, how soon anopportunity of exercising it occurred, in what manner he expressed himself, andhow he was received, need not be particularly told. This only need besaid;—that when they all sat down to table at four o’clock, aboutthree hours after his arrival, he had secured his lady, engaged hermother’s consent, and was not only in the rapturous profession of thelover, but, in the reality of reason and truth, one of the happiest of men. Hissituation indeed was more than commonly joyful. He had more than the ordinarytriumph of accepted love to swell his heart, and raise his spirits. He wasreleased without any reproach to himself, from an entanglement which had longformed his misery, from a woman whom he had long ceased to love;—andelevated at once to that security with another, which he must have thought ofalmost with despair, as soon as he had learnt to consider it with desire. Hewas brought, not from doubt or suspense, but from misery tohappiness;—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 philosophicdignity 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. Hadmy mother given me some active profession when I was removed at eighteen fromthe 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 mostunconquerable preference for his niece, yet had I then had any pursuit, anyobject to engage my time and keep me at a distance from her for a few months, Ishould very soon have outgrown the fancied attachment, especially by mixingmore with the world, as in such case I must have done. But instead of havingany thing to do, instead of having any profession chosen for me, or beingallowed to chuse any myself, I returned home to be completely idle; and for thefirst twelvemonth afterwards I had not even the nominal employment, whichbelonging to the university would have given me; for I was not entered atOxford till I was nineteen. I had therefore nothing in the world to do, but tofancy myself in love; and as my mother did not make my home in every respectcomfortable, as I had no friend, no companion in my brother, and disliked newacquaintance, it was not unnatural for me to be very often at Longstaple, whereI always felt myself at home, and was always sure of a welcome; and accordinglyI spent the greatest part of my time there from eighteen to nineteen: Lucyappeared everything that was amiable and obliging. She was pretty too—atleast I thought so then;and I had seen so little of other women, that Icould make no comparisons, and see no defects. Considering everything,therefore, I hope, foolish as our engagement was, foolish as it has since inevery way been proved, it was not at the time an unnatural or an inexcusablepiece of folly.”

The change which a few hours had wrought in the minds and the happiness of theDashwoods, was such—so great—as promised them all, the satisfactionof a sleepless night. Mrs. Dashwood, too happy to be comfortable, knew not howto love Edward, nor praise Elinor enough, how to be enough thankful for hisrelease without wounding his delicacy, nor how at once to give them leisure forunrestrained conversation together, and yet enjoy, as she wished, the sight andsociety of both.

Marianne could speak herhappiness only by tears. Comparisons wouldoccur—regrets would arise; and her joy, though sincere as her love forher sister, was of a kind to give her neither spirits nor language.

But Elinor—how are herfeelings to be described? From the momentof learning that Lucy was married to another, that Edward was free, to themoment of his justifying the hopes which had so instantly followed, she wasevery thing by turns but tranquil. But when the second moment had passed, whenshe found every doubt, every solicitude removed, compared her situation withwhat so lately it had been,—saw him honourably released from his formerengagement,—saw him instantly profiting by the release, to addressherself and declare an affection as tender, as constant as she had eversupposed it to be,—she was oppressed, she was overcome by her ownfelicity; and happily disposed as is the human mind to be easily familiarizedwith any change for the better, it required several hours to give sedateness toher spirits, or any degree of tranquillity to her heart.

Edward was now fixed at the cottage at least for a week;—for whateverother claims might be made on him, it was impossible that less than a weekshould be given up to the enjoyment of Elinor’s company, or suffice tosay half that was to be said of the past, the present, and thefuture;—for though a very few hours spent in the hard labor of incessanttalking will despatch more subjects than can really be in common between anytwo rational creatures, yet with lovers it is different. Between themnosubject is finished, no communication is even made, till it has been made atleast 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;—andElinor’s particular knowledge of each party made it appear to her inevery view, as one of the most extraordinary and unaccountable circumstancesshe had ever heard. How they could be thrown together, and by what attractionRobert could be drawn on to marry a girl, of whose beauty she had herself heardhim speak without any admiration,—a girl too already engaged to hisbrother, and on whose account that brother had been thrown off by hisfamily—it was beyond her comprehension to make out. To her own heart itwas a delightful affair, to her imagination it was even a ridiculous one, butto her reason, her judgment, it was completely a puzzle.

Edward could only attempt an explanation by supposing, that, perhaps, at firstaccidentally meeting, the vanity of the one had been so worked on by theflattery of the other, as to lead by degrees to all the rest. Elinor rememberedwhat Robert had told her in Harley Street, of his opinion of what his ownmediation in his brother’s affairs might have done, if applied to intime. She repeated it to Edward.

“Thatwas exactly like Robert,” was his immediateobservation. “And that,” he presently added, “mightperhaps be in hishead when the acquaintance between them first began.And Lucy perhaps at first might think only of procuring his good offices in myfavour. Other designs might afterward arise.”

How long it had been carrying on between them, however, he was equally at aloss with herself to make out; for at Oxford, where he had remained for choiceever since his quitting London, he had had no means of hearing of her but fromherself, and her letters to the very last were neither less frequent, nor lessaffectionate than usual. Not the smallest suspicion, therefore, had everoccurred to prepare him for what followed;—and when at last it burst onhim in a letter from Lucy herself, he had been for some time, he believed, halfstupified between the wonder, the horror, and the joy of such a deliverance. Heput the letter into Elinor’s hands.

“DEARSIR,
    “Being very sure I have long lost your affections, I have thoughtmyself at liberty to bestow my own on another, and have no doubt of being ashappy with him as I once used to think I might be with you; but I scorn toaccept a hand while the heart was another’s. Sincerely wish you happy inyour choice, and it shall not be my fault if we are not always good friends, asour 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 hasgained my affections entirely, and as we could not live without one another, weare just returned from the altar, and are now on our way to Dawlish for a fewweeks, which place your dear brother has great curiosity to see, but thought Iwould first trouble you with these few lines, and shall always remain,

“Your sincere well-wisher, friend, and sister,            
“LUCYFERRARS.

“I have burnt all your letters, and will return your picture the firstopportunity. Please to destroy my scrawls—but the ring with my hair youare very welcome to keep.”

Elinor read and returned it without any comment.

“I will not ask your opinion of it as a composition,” saidEdward.—“For worlds would not I have had a letter of hers seen byyouin former days.—In a sister it is bad enough, but in awife!—how I have blushed over the pages of her writing!—and Ibelieve I may say that since the first half year of ourfoolish—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 apause,—“they are certainly married. And your mother has brought onherself 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 thevery deed which she disinherited the other for intending to do. She will hardlybe less hurt, I suppose, by Robert’s marrying Lucy, than she would havebeen by your marrying her.”

“She will be more hurt by it, for Robert always was herfavourite.—She will be more hurt by it, and on the same principle willforgive him much sooner.”

In what state the affair stood at present between them, Edward knew not, for nocommunication with any of his family had yet been attempted by him. He hadquitted 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 noleisure to form any scheme of conduct, with which that road did not hold themost intimate connection. He could do nothing till he were assured of his fatewith Miss Dashwood; and by his rapidity in seeking thatfate, it is tobe supposed, in spite of the jealousy with which he had once thought of ColonelBrandon, in spite of the modesty with which he rated his own deserts, and thepoliteness 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 hedid, and he said it very prettily. What he might say on the subject atwelvemonth 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 maliceagainst him in her message by Thomas, was perfectly clear to Elinor; and Edwardhimself, now thoroughly enlightened on her character, had no scruple inbelieving her capable of the utmost meanness of wanton ill-nature. Though hiseyes had been long opened, even before his acquaintance with Elinor began, toher ignorance and a want of liberality in some of her opinions—they hadbeen equally imputed, by him, to her want of education; and till her lastletter reached him, he had always believed her to be a well-disposed,good-hearted girl, and thoroughly attached to himself. Nothing but such apersuasion 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, hadbeen 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 wasrenounced by my mother, and stood to all appearance without a friend in theworld to assist me. In such a situation as that, where there seemed nothing totempt 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 mightbe, that any thing but the most disinterested affection was her inducement? Andeven now, I cannot comprehend on what motive she acted, or what fanciedadvantage it could be to her, to be fettered to a man for whom she had not thesmallest regard, and who had only two thousand pounds in the world. She couldnot 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 bycontinuing the engagement, for she has proved that it fettered neither herinclination nor her actions. The connection was certainly a respectable one,and probably gained her consideration among her friends; and, if nothing moreadvantageous occurred, it would be better for her to marry youthan besingle.”

Edward was, of course, immediately convinced that nothing could have been morenatural than Lucy’s conduct, nor more self-evident than the motive of it.

Elinor scolded him, harshly as ladies always scold the imprudence whichcompliments 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 wereall led away by it to fancy and expect what, as you were thensituated, could never be.”

He could only plead an ignorance of his own heart, and a mistaken confidence inthe force of his engagement.

“I was simple enough to think, that because my faithwas plightedto another, there could be no danger in my being with you; and that theconsciousness of my engagement was to keep my heart as safe and sacred as myhonour. 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 knowhow far I was got. After that, I suppose, I waswrong in remaining somuch in Sussex, and the arguments with which I reconciled myself to theexpediency of it, were no better than these:—The danger is my own; I amdoing no injury to anybody but myself.”

Elinor smiled, and shook her head.

Edward heard with pleasure of Colonel Brandon’s being expected at theCottage, as he really wished not only to be better acquainted with him, but tohave an opportunity of convincing him that he no longer resented his giving himthe living of Delaford—“Which, at present,” said he,“after thanks so ungraciously delivered as mine were on the occasion, hemust think I have never forgiven him for offering.”

Nowhe 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 hisknowledge of the house, garden, and glebe, extent of the parish, condition ofthe land, and rate of the tithes, to Elinor herself, who had heard so much ofit from Colonel Brandon, and heard it with so much attention, as to be entirelymistress of the subject.

One question after this only remained undecided, between them, one difficultyonly was to be overcome. They were brought together by mutual affection, withthe warmest approbation of their real friends; their intimate knowledge of eachother seemed to make their happiness certain—and they only wantedsomething 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 wasimpossible that Mrs. Dashwood should advance anything; and they were neither ofthem quite enough in love to think that three hundred and fifty pounds a-yearwould supply them with the comforts of life.

Edward was not entirely without hopes of some favourable change in his mothertowards him; and on thathe rested for the residue of their income. ButElinor had no such dependence; for since Edward would still be unable to marryMiss Morton, and his chusing herself had been spoken of in Mrs. Ferrars’sflattering language as only a lesser evil than his chusing Lucy Steele, shefeared that Robert’s offence would serve no other purpose than to enrichFanny.

About four days after Edward’s arrival Colonel Brandon appeared, tocomplete Mrs. Dashwood’s satisfaction, and to give her the dignity ofhaving, for the first time since her living at Barton, more company with herthan her house would hold. Edward was allowed to retain the privilege of firstcomer, and Colonel Brandon therefore walked every night to his old quarters atthe Park; from whence he usually returned in the morning, early enough tointerrupt the lovers’ first tête-à-tête before breakfast.

A three weeks’ residence at Delaford, where, in his evening hours atleast, he had little to do but to calculate the disproportion betweenthirty-six and seventeen, brought him to Barton in a temper of mind whichneeded all the improvement in Marianne’s looks, all the kindness of herwelcome, and all the encouragement of her mother’s language, to make itcheerful. Among such friends, however, and such flattery, he did revive. Norumour of Lucy’s marriage had yet reached him:—he knew nothing ofwhat had passed; and the first hours of his visit were consequently spent inhearing 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, sinceeventually it promoted the interest of Elinor.

It would be needless to say, that the gentlemen advanced in the good opinion ofeach other, as they advanced in each other’s acquaintance, for it couldnot be otherwise. Their resemblance in good principles and good sense, indisposition and manner of thinking, would probably have been sufficient tounite them in friendship, without any other attraction; but their being in lovewith two sisters, and two sisters fond of each other, made that mutual regardinevitable and immediate, which might otherwise have waited the effect of timeand judgment.

The letters from town, which a few days before would have made every nerve inElinor’s body thrill with transport, now arrived to be read with lessemotion than mirth. Mrs. Jennings wrote to tell the wonderful tale, to vent herhonest indignation against the jilting girl, and pour forth her compassiontowards poor Mr. Edward, who, she was sure, had quite doted upon the worthlesshussy, and was now, by all accounts, almost broken-hearted, at Oxford. “Ido think,” she continued, “nothing was ever carried on so sly; forit was but two days before Lucy called and sat a couple of hours with me. Not asoul suspected anything of the matter, not even Nancy, who, poor soul! camecrying to me the day after, in a great fright for fear of Mrs. Ferrars, as wellas not knowing how to get to Plymouth; for Lucy it seems borrowed all her moneybefore 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 giveher five guineas to take her down to Exeter, where she thinks of staying threeor four weeks with Mrs. Burgess, in hopes, as I tell her, to fall in with theDoctor again. And I must say that Lucy’s crossness not to take them alongwith them in the chaise is worse than all. Poor Mr. Edward! I cannot get himout of my head, but you must send for him to Barton, and Miss Marianne must tryto comfort him.”

Mr. Dashwood’s strains were more solemn. Mrs. Ferrars was the mostunfortunate of women—poor Fanny had suffered agonies ofsensibility—and he considered the existence of each, under such a blow,with grateful wonder. Robert’s offence was unpardonable, but Lucy’swas 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, hiswife should never be acknowledged as her daughter, nor be permitted to appearin her presence. The secrecy with which everything had been carried on betweenthem, was rationally treated as enormously heightening the crime, because, hadany suspicion of it occurred to the others, proper measures would have beentaken to prevent the marriage; and he called on Elinor to join with him inregretting that Lucy’s engagement with Edward had not rather beenfulfilled, than that she should thus be the means of spreading misery fartherin the family. He thus continued:—

“Mrs. Ferrars has never yet mentioned Edward’s name, which does notsurprise us; but, to our great astonishment, not a line has been received fromhim on the occasion. Perhaps, however, he is kept silent by his fear ofoffending, and I shall, therefore, give him a hint, by a line to Oxford, thathis sister and I both think a letter of proper submission from him, addressedperhaps to Fanny, and by her shown to her mother, might not be taken amiss; forwe all know the tenderness of Mrs. Ferrars’s heart, and that she wishesfor 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 mannerpointed out by their brother and sister.

“A letter of proper submission!” repeated he; “would theyhave me beg my mother’s pardon for Robert’s ingratitude toher, and breach of honour to me?I can make no submission. I amgrown neither humble nor penitent by what has passed. I am grown very happy;but that would not interest. I know of no submission that isproper forme to make.”

“You may certainly ask to be forgiven,” said Elinor, “becauseyou have offended;—and I should think you might nowventure so faras to profess some concern for having ever formed the engagement which drew onyou your mother’s anger.”

He agreed that he might.

“And when she has forgiven you, perhaps a little humility may beconvenient while acknowledging a second engagement, almost as imprudent inhereyes as the first.”

He had nothing to urge against it, but still resisted the idea of a letter ofproper submission; and therefore, to make it easier to him, as he declared amuch greater willingness to make mean concessions by word of mouth than onpaper, it was resolved that, instead of writing to Fanny, he should go toLondon, and personally intreat her good offices in his favour. “And ifthey really dointerest themselves,” said Marianne, in her newcharacter of candour, “in bringing about a reconciliation, I shall thinkthat even John and Fanny are not entirely without merit.”

After a visit on Colonel Brandon’s side of only three or four days, thetwo gentlemen quitted Barton together. They were to go immediately to Delaford,that Edward might have some personal knowledge of his future home, and assisthis patron and friend in deciding on what improvements were needed to it; andfrom thence, after staying there a couple of nights, he was to proceed on hisjourney to town.

CHAPTER L.

After a proper resistance on the part of Mrs. Ferrars, just so violent and sosteady as to preserve her from that reproach which she always seemed fearful ofincurring, the reproach of being too amiable, Edward was admitted to herpresence, and pronounced to be again her son.

Her family had of late been exceedingly fluctuating. For many years of her lifeshe 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 afortnight without any; and now, by the resuscitation of Edward, she had oneagain.

In spite of his being allowed once more to live, however, he did not feel thecontinuance of his existence secure, till he had revealed his presentengagement; for the publication of that circumstance, he feared, might give asudden turn to his constitution, and carry him off as rapidly as before. Withapprehensive caution therefore it was revealed, and he was listened to withunexpected calmness. Mrs. Ferrars at first reasonably endeavoured to dissuadehim from marrying Miss Dashwood, by every argument in her power;—toldhim, that in Miss Morton he would have a woman of higher rank and largerfortune;—and enforced the assertion, by observing that Miss Morton wasthe daughter of a nobleman with thirty thousand pounds, while Miss Dashwood wasonly the daughter of a private gentleman with no more than three;butwhen she found that, though perfectly admitting the truth of herrepresentation, he was by no means inclined to be guided by it, she judged itwisest, from the experience of the past, to submit—and therefore, aftersuch an ungracious delay as she owed to her own dignity, and as served toprevent every suspicion of good-will, she issued her decree of consent to themarriage of Edward and Elinor.

What she would engage to do towards augmenting their income was next to beconsidered; and here it plainly appeared, that though Edward was now her onlyson, he was by no means her eldest; for while Robert was inevitably endowedwith a thousand pounds a-year, not the smallest objection was made againstEdward’s taking orders for the sake of two hundred and fifty at theutmost; nor was anything promised either for the present or in future, beyondthe ten thousand pounds, which had been given with Fanny.

It was as much, however, as was desired, and more than was expected, by Edwardand Elinor; and Mrs. Ferrars herself, by her shuffling excuses, seemed the onlyperson surprised at her not giving more.

With an income quite sufficient to their wants thus secured to them, they hadnothing to wait for after Edward was in possession of the living, but thereadiness of the house, to which Colonel Brandon, with an eager desire for theaccommodation of Elinor, was making considerable improvements; and afterwaiting some time for their completion, after experiencing, as usual, athousand disappointments and delays from the unaccountable dilatoriness of theworkmen, Elinor, as usual, broke through the first positive resolution of notmarrying till every thing was ready, and the ceremony took place in Bartonchurch early in the autumn.

The first month after their marriage was spent with their friend at theMansion-house; from whence they could superintend the progress of theParsonage, and direct every thing as they liked on the spot;—could chusepapers, project shrubberies, and invent a sweep. Mrs. Jennings’sprophecies, though rather jumbled together, were chiefly fulfilled; for she wasable to visit Edward and his wife in their Parsonage by Michaelmas, and shefound in Elinor and her husband, as she really believed, one of the happiestcouples in the world. They had in fact nothing to wish for, but the marriage ofColonel Brandon and Marianne, and rather better pasturage for their cows.

They were visited on their first settling by almost all their relations andfriends. Mrs. Ferrars came to inspect the happiness which she was almostashamed of having authorised; and even the Dashwoods were at the expense of ajourney 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,“thatwould be saying too much, for certainly you have been one ofthe most fortunate young women in the world, as it is. But, I confess, it wouldgive me great pleasure to call Colonel Brandon brother. His property here, hisplace, his house, every thing is in such respectable and excellent condition!And his woods,—I have not seen such timber any where in Dorsetshire, asthere is now standing in Delaford Hanger! And though, perhaps, Marianne may notseem exactly the person to attract him, yet I think it would altogether beadvisable for you to have them now frequently staying with you, for as ColonelBrandon seems a great deal at home, nobody can tell what may happen; for, whenpeople are much thrown together, and see little of anybody else,—and itwill always be in your power to set her off to advantage, and so forth. Inshort, you may as well give her a chance: you understand me.”

But though Mrs. Ferrars didcome to see them, and always treated themwith the make-believe of decent affection, they were never insulted by her realfavour and preference. Thatwas due to the folly of Robert, and thecunning of his wife; and it was earned by them before many months had passedaway. The selfish sagacity of the latter, which had at first drawn Robert intothe scrape, was the principal instrument of his deliverance from it; for herrespectful humility, assiduous attentions, and endless flatteries, as soon asthe smallest opening was given for their exercise, reconciled Mrs. Ferrars tohis choice, and re-established him completely in her favour.

The whole of Lucy’s behaviour in the affair, and the prosperity whichcrowned it, therefore, may be held forth as a most encouraging instance of whatan earnest, an unceasing attention to self-interest, however its progress maybe apparently obstructed, will do in securing every advantage of fortune, withno other sacrifice than that of time and conscience. When Robert first soughther acquaintance, and privately visited her in Bartlett’s Buildings, itwas only with the view imputed to him by his brother. He merely meant topersuade her to give up the engagement; and as there could be nothing toovercome but the affection of both, he naturally expected that one or twointerviews would settle the matter. In that point, however, and that only, heerred; for though Lucy soon gave him hopes that his eloquence would convinceher in time, another visit, another conversation, was always wanted toproduce this conviction. Some doubts always lingered in her mind when theyparted, which could only be removed by another half hour’s discourse withhimself. His attendance was by this means secured, and the rest followed incourse. Instead of talking of Edward, they came gradually to talk only ofRobert,—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 hisbrother. He was proud of his conquest, proud of tricking Edward, and very proudof marrying privately without his mother’s consent. What immediatelyfollowed is known. They passed some months in great happiness at Dawlish; forshe had many relations and old acquaintances to cut—and he drew severalplans 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 hismother no duty and therefore could have transgressed none, still remained someweeks longer unpardoned. But perseverance in humility of conduct and messages,in self-condemnation for Robert’s offence, and gratitude for theunkindness she was treated with, procured her in time the haughty notice whichovercame her by its graciousness, and led soon afterwards, by rapid degrees, tothe highest state of affection and influence. Lucy became as necessary to Mrs.Ferrars, as either Robert or Fanny; and while Edward was never cordiallyforgiven for having once intended to marry her, and Elinor, though superior toher in fortune and birth, was spoken of as an intruder, shewas in everything considered, and always openly acknowledged, to be a favourite child. Theysettled in town, received very liberal assistance from Mrs. Ferrars, were onthe best terms imaginable with the Dashwoods; and setting aside the jealousiesand ill-will continually subsisting between Fanny and Lucy, in which theirhusbands of course took a part, as well as the frequent domestic disagreementsbetween Robert and Lucy themselves, nothing could exceed the harmony in whichthey all lived together.

What Edward had done to forfeit the right of eldest son, might have puzzledmany people to find out; and what Robert had done to succeed to it, might havepuzzled them still more. It was an arrangement, however, justified in itseffects, if not in its cause; for nothing ever appeared in Robert’s styleof living or of talking to give a suspicion of his regretting the extent of hisincome, as either leaving his brother too little, or bringing himself toomuch;—and if Edward might be judged from the ready discharge of hisduties in every particular, from an increasing attachment to his wife and hishome, and from the regular cheerfulness of his spirits, he might be supposed noless 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 becontrived, without rendering the cottage at Barton entirely useless, for hermother and sisters spent much more than half their time with her. Mrs. Dashwoodwas acting on motives of policy as well as pleasure in the frequency of hervisits at Delaford; for her wish of bringing Marianne and Colonel Brandontogether was hardly less earnest, though rather more liberal than what John hadexpressed. It was now her darling object. Precious as was the company of herdaughter to her, she desired nothing so much as to give up its constantenjoyment to her valued friend; and to see Marianne settled at themansion-house was equally the wish of Edward and Elinor. They each felt hissorrows, and their own obligations, and Marianne, by general consent, was to bethe reward of all.

With such a confederacy against her—with a knowledge so intimate of hisgoodness—with a conviction of his fond attachment to herself, which atlast, though long after it was observable to everybody else—burst onher—what could she do?

Marianne Dashwood was born to an extraordinary fate. She was born to discoverthe falsehood of her own opinions, and to counteract, by her conduct, her mostfavourite maxims. She was born to overcome an affection formed so late in lifeas at seventeen, and with no sentiment superior to strong esteem and livelyfriendship, voluntarily to give her hand to another!—and thatother, a man who had suffered no less than herself under the event of a formerattachment, whom, two years before, she had considered too old to bemarried,—and who still sought the constitutional safeguard of a flannelwaistcoat!

But so it was. Instead of falling a sacrifice to an irresistible passion, asonce she had fondly flattered herself with expecting,—instead ofremaining even for ever with her mother, and finding her only pleasures inretirement and study, as afterwards in her more calm and sober judgment she haddetermined on,—she found herself at nineteen, submitting to newattachments, entering on new duties, placed in a new home, a wife, the mistressof a family, and the patroness of a village.

Colonel Brandon was now as happy, as all those who best loved him, believed hedeserved to be;—in Marianne he was consoled for every pastaffliction;—her regard and her society restored his mind to animation,and his spirits to cheerfulness; and that Marianne found her own happiness informing his, was equally the persuasion and delight of each observing friend.Marianne could never love by halves; and her whole heart became, in time, asmuch devoted to her husband, as it had once been to Willoughby.

Willoughby could not hear of her marriage without a pang; and his punishmentwas soon afterwards complete in the voluntary forgiveness of Mrs. Smith, who,by stating his marriage with a woman of character, as the source of herclemency, gave him reason for believing that had he behaved with honour towardsMarianne, he might at once have been happy and rich. That his repentance ofmisconduct, which thus brought its own punishment, was sincere, need not bedoubted;—nor that he long thought of Colonel Brandon with envy, and ofMarianne with regret. But that he was for ever inconsolable, that he fled fromsociety, 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, andfrequently to enjoy himself. His wife was not always out of humour, nor hishome always uncomfortable; and in his breed of horses and dogs, and in sportingof every kind, he found no inconsiderable degree of domestic felicity.

For Marianne, however, in spite of his incivility in surviving her loss, healways retained that decided regard which interested him in every thing thatbefell her, and made her his secret standard of perfection in woman; and many arising beauty would be slighted by him in after-days as bearing no comparisonwith Mrs. Brandon.

Mrs. Dashwood was prudent enough to remain at the cottage, without attempting aremoval to Delaford; and fortunately for Sir John and Mrs. Jennings, whenMarianne was taken from them, Margaret had reached an age highly suitable fordancing, and not very ineligible for being supposed to have a lover.

Between Barton and Delaford, there was that constant communication which strongfamily affection would naturally dictate; and among the merits and thehappiness of Elinor and Marianne, let it not be ranked as the leastconsiderable, that though sisters, and living almost within sight of eachother, they could live without disagreement between themselves, or producingcoolness between their husbands.

THE END

Related articles