Sense and best plush pillows for 2 year olds under 30 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