- a7 24 2 The ee |
¥ a % . t2bS bees Se elaaminta
“ wo < “or ‘ oy3" 1 hele Vt ENG @ peta bed
‘ ees . ; F : Dy SO ( ela ham e beds
. meine i Ry ; : foe Pate pe gee sate
61086 prt | 6 Hw hai tie ; t 2 . , pbb asin dha Potten OF ete
7 ~ ie : k - ‘ Sow ferns e bei eke
’ Mee. mp eYety ies
m 5m Hivlondon ; ue Ab Se etek
Mies vin 4 eh ei iit fh Gk
‘ ” wae i ¢ 733 Scns
i bs i UL SGRAS DLS e 2 ae
; { Tet PtaM a HP OH Re ye Hel Beh ke fs
: f Tee kt ese hokage re
+; ‘
f " : ‘ é 2
t } neiehe “ct bheim whe aie
nis - f2%
eee ty
AUSTEN
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY
THE LIBRARY OF THE
UNIVERSITY OF
NORTH CAROLINA
AT CHAPEL HILL
ENDOWED BY THE
DIALECTIC AND PHILANTHROPIC
SOCIETIES
IVERSITY OF N.C. AT CHAPEL HILL
iid
10001720032
This book is due at the WALTER R. DAVIS LIBRARY on
the last date stamped under ‘“‘Date Due.” If not on hold it
may be renewed by bringing it to the library.
DATE
DUE
DATE
DUE RET.
=
Ss,
ram)
in
ws)
} ?
ene | :
eel
[ae
@’ t i
a
CH Se Gee Soe ecm ee ee EE ESE ee oe
aa
a
ea
&
“= —
ma A
—
Digitized by the Internet Archive
in 2023 with funding from
University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill
https://archive.org/details/sensesensibilityOOaust_6
New publishing, in Monthly Vols., Price 5s. bound io cloth, uniformly with the
: new Editions of Byron and Scott,
AN IMPROVED EDITION OF THE
PLAYS ann POEMS
OF
SHAKSPEARE,
WITH A LIFE, GLOSSARIAL NOTES,
AND ONE HUNDRED AND SEVENTY ILLUSTRATIONS
FROM THE PLATES IN
BOYDELL’S EDITION.
EDITED BY A. J. VALFY, M.A., LATE FELLOW OF PEMB. COLL., OXFORD.
The text of MALONE, as published in 1821, in 21 volumes
3vo, is adopted; GLOssARIAL NOTEs on all obsolete words
are given; and a brief HisroricaL DIGEST prefixed to
each Play.
In addition to the many advantages offered in the present
edition, it will be embellished with ONE HUNDRED AND
SEVENTY ILLUSTRATIONS, executed on steel in the first
style of outline engraving, designed from the Plates in
BoyDELL’s SHAKSPEARE, which was originally published
at £95, and large paper at £190.
The youthful reader will be directed to the mMosT
STRIKING AND BRILLIANT PASSAGES by an INDEx, to
be printed at the end of the work, which will form a com-
plete reference to the BEAUTIES OF SHAKSPEARE.
The number and excellence of the illustrations, the style
of the letter-press, the portability of the form, and the
moderate terms, will render the present edition superior to
any yet published.
_ Volume III. will be published on the ist of January, 1833, containing
Mercuant or Venice, Mipsummer Nicut’s Dream, and Love’s La-
BoR ’s Lost, with the following Eleven ILLustRarTIons.
MERCHANT OF VENICE.
Shylock, Jessica, and Launcelot, from a Painting by Smirke.
Bassanio, Portia, and Attendants.— Westall.
Shylock, Salanio, Antonio, and Jailer.— Ditto.
Lorenzo and J essica,—Hodges.
wip
ge . 2 = el
res |:
eal Ve
oo SHAKSPEARE,
MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM.
. A Wood. Puck.—Fuseli.
. Robin Goodfellow.—Reynolds.
. Titania, Bottom, Fairies, &c.—Fuseli.
. Oberon, Titania, Puck, Bottom, Fairies, &c.—Ditto.
COND
LOVE’S LABOR’S LOSI.
9. Princess, Rosaline, &c.— Hamilton.
10. Dull, Holofernes, Sir Nathaniel, and Jaquenetta.— Wheatley.
11. Princess and Ladies.—Ditto.
The Illustrations are printed on fine tinted paper, and may be had
separately at 4s. per Number.
Each volume will contain on the average eleven Plates, and the work
will be completed in fifteen volumes.
Printed and published by A. J. VaLtpy, Red Lion Court,
Fleet Street; and sold by all Booksellers.
OPINIONS.
‘ It is at once the most delightful and available form in which Shak-
speare has ever appeared.’— Morning Post.
‘ An admirable idea, and capitally put in execution. The outline en-
gravings abound, and are excellently done ; type good, size ‘convenient,
price next to nothing, the subject ‘ Shakspeare.’ If this combination do
not attract, there is neither taste nor patriotism in England.’—United
Service Journal.
“The volume contains a great number of illustrations, after many of
our celebrated artists, executed with fidelity and truth. The whole
work gives’ promise of a most. delightful. companion to every library,
where taste and beauty, combined with correctness of typography, form
a leading object with the reader.’—Satirist.
‘ Looking on the work as a whole, on the portrait and the thirteen
ovtlines, which really come for nothing, and yet stand for much, we
cannot deny that this work is worthy of its source, and we have not a
doubt that the public will appreciate the labor.’—Atlas.
* Mr. Valpy has conferred a great benefit by this cheap and graceful
edition of the works of the ‘world’s first wit.’ ‘Its: mechanical depart-
ment, such as paper, print, &c., is perfect, and the addition of Boydell’s
gear: renders it the most finished work of the sort we have.’
—Sun.
* The excellence of the illustrations, and the style of the letter-press,
are superior to any edition we have yet seen published ; and.the moderate
price at which it may be purchased will render the work a most desirable
and ornamental acquisition to the family library.’— Weekly. Times.
‘ This edition bids fair to be the most interesting of any yet published.
Those who recollect the Shakspeare Gallery in Pall Mall, or the splendid
SHAKSPEARE. 3
series of engravings published from those pictures by Alderman Boydell,
will rejoice to know that faithful outline copies of them will appear in
this new edition. We run no risk in saying that the engravings will be
worth the money charged for the whole work.’—New Entertaining Press.
‘ The immortal Bard of Avon never was introduced to the public in a
form more pleasing than in this edition. It is the most useful, orna-
mental, and economical edition of Shakspeare extant.’—Keene’s Bath
Journal.
‘ One of the chief attractions of Mr. Valpy’s edition is the illustrations,
executed in the best style of outline engraving, from the magnificent
Shakspeare of Boydell, the labor of a life, and the result ofan expenditure
which perhaps was never before or since laid out on one author.’—
Wolverhampton Chronicle.
‘ The book is got out exceedingly neat; the type and paper is every
_ thing which can be desired, and the plates are in keeping ; they are truly
embellishments of the text, produced in a spirited manner, in a first style
of outline engraving.’—Plymouth Heraid.
‘ Amongst the numerous works that have lately issued from the press,
none possesses a greater claim to public patronage than Valpy’s edition
of Shakspeare. The execution is most splendid, both in the typographical
department, and also in the beauty of the engravings. We have seldom
witnessed such a manifestation of talent and exertion as the first volume
contains.’— Northampton Free Press.
‘ This is the most desirable edition of Shakspeare that has yet been
launched into the literary world. It will be found an acquisition which
searcely leaves any room for improvement.’— Brighton Herald.
‘ What we admire above all things in this edition is, the absence of
those learned and tiresome commentaries which used to bore us so much
in Theobald and ‘the rest.’ In the place of vile pages of closely-printed
prose, we are every now and then-called to admire a.masterly etching,
which illustrates some beautiful passage, and gives ‘a local habitation
and a name’ to the floating fancies of the poet.’—Northumberland Ad-
vertiser.
‘There is a singularity in this publication which redeems it from
either identity or analogy of character with the countless editions which
have preceded it.’—Taunton Courier.
‘ The volume before us must be allowed to be ofa superior description :
the plates are beautiful specimens of art.— West Briton.
‘ Those who desire to possess an elegant, convenient, and cheap edition
of the works of Shakspeare, will do well to avail themselves of the
present opportunity.’—Bristol Gazette.
‘This beautiful edition reflects the highest credit on the publisher for
the very elegant manner in which the work is brought out. Without it,
no gentleman’s library can be perfect.’—Sussex Advertiser.
‘ Though there are numerous editions of Shakspeare extant, yet we
believe the present one, from its beauty and cheapness, will become a
favorite. Mr. Valpy has adopted the plan of the popular productions of
the day,—we mean the Waverley novels, Lord Byron’s works, and others,
with this exception, that his illustrations are more numerous, and equal
in graphic excellence.’—Bolton Chronicle.
‘We call the attention of our readers to this edition of Shakspeare,
perhaps the most complete that has ever appeared.’ —LHssex Independent.
Publishing Monthly, with a Biographical Sketch, a Portrait of each
Author, Notes, Maps, &c. Price 4s. 6d. Small 8vo, in cloth,
THE
FAMILY CLASSICAL LIBRARY
OF
ENGLISH TRANSLATIONS
OF THE
MOST VALUABLE GREEK AND LATIN CLASSICS.
EDITED, PRINTED, AND PUBLISHED, BY A.J. VALPY, M.A.
‘If you desire your son, though no great scholar, to read and reflect,
it is your duty to place into his hands the best Translations of the best
Classical Authors.’—Dr. Parr.
As the learned languages do not form part of the education
of Females, the only access which they have to the valuable
stores of antiquity is through the medium of correct translation ;
and the present Selection is intended to include those Authors
only, whose works may be read by the youth of both sexes.
Thirty-seven Numbers are already published, containing the fol-
lowing Authors; which may be purchased separately :
1. DEMOSTHENES. Letanp.
2. Completion of Do.; and SAL-
LUST, by Rose.
3, 4. XENOPHON’S Awnasasis
and Cyropmpi1a, by SPELMAN
and CoorER.
5—7. HERODOTUS. Betor.
8, 9. VIRGIL, by Wrancuam,
Soruesy, & Drypen.
10. PINDAR; by Wuer_wricur.
With ANACREON; a new
Translation, by Bourne.
11—15. TACITUS. Murpuy.
16. THEOPHRASTUS ; with 50
Characteristic Engravings.
17, 18. HORACE and PHA-
DRUS.
19. JUVENAL, by Dr. Bapuam;
and PERSIUS, by Sir W.
DrumMmonp.
20—22. THUCYDIDES. Smiru.
23—29. PLUTARCH’S LIVES;
with Engravings.
30. HESIOD, by C. Etrton,
Esa.; also the CASSANDRA of
LYCOPHRON, by Lord Roys-
TON: with BION, MOSCHUS,
MUSAUS, and SAPPHO.
) 31, 32. CASSAR’S COMMEN-
TARIES.
33. SOPHOCLES. Francxuin.
34—-36. EURIPIDES. Porter.
37—39. HOMER. Pore. In the
Press.
LONGINUS, OVID, &c. will
follow. :
Each Vol. is delivered monthly with the Magazines.
FAMILY CLASSICAL LIBRARY. 4)
OPINIONS.
‘ From a careful examination of the volumes now before the public, we
do not hesitate to declare our conviction that a more important or a more
interesting accession than this Library to our national literature has not
taken place in modern times. No serious or well-arranged plan has been
proposed, before this time, for placing the treasures of the classic writers
in the hands of readers who were unacquainted with the original lan-
guage in which they wrote. How easily such a plan could be accom-
plished—how admirably it could be executed—with what a well-founded
assurance it might be undertaken, of producing good of every kind—solid
instruction with the most ennobling delight—the volumes before us are
at once the example and the proof. We might praise the elegance and
accuracy of the work; but a feature of greater importance than is con-
nected with external merits demands our warmest approbation,—we
mean the exclusion of every thing offensive to virgin innocence. Thus,
for the first time in the course of ages, all the intellectual splendors of
Greece and Rome are opened to the modest contemplation of the gentler
sex; and a lady can acknowlege an acquaintance with the treasures. of
ancient poetry without the smallest compromise of her delicacy.’—
Monthly Review.
‘ We know of no periodical more richly deserving of patronage, and
we should esteem it a disgrace to any establishment for the education
of either sex, in the library of which, this beautiful edition of the most
approved translations of the ancients was not to be found.’—The Bee.
THEOPHRASTUS, with 50 Engravings.
‘ A better stage-coach companion, or one for a weary fireside on a wet
day, we could not recommend to those who delight in studying the vast
varieties of human character.’ —Atheneum.
PLUTARCH’S LIVES.
Menage says, if all the books in the world were in the fire, there is not
one which he would so eagerly snatch from the flames as Plutarch.
That author never tires him: he reads him often, and always finds new
beauties.
‘ Who, that reads at all, has not read Plutarch? and who, that has read
him, does not return to him again and again with renewed delight?
Plutarch is the idol of the school-boy, the pocket-companion of the
lonely shepherd on the hill-side, and the friend and monitor of the war-
rior and statesman ; and it is difficult to say which of these very dis-
similar classes of readers profits most largely by his perusal.’—Western
Luminary.
CAHSAR’S COMMENTARIES.
‘ Here begins one of the most interesting of all Roman Classics, whose
narrative has made many a warrior, whose facts throw so important @
light on the history of every European nation, and whose style is a model
for writers in all languages.’—Literary Gasetie.
SOPHOCLES.
‘It is executed with great spirit and fidelity. It is, ndeed, a version
worthy of a place in the Family Classical Library, and higher praise it
6 FAMILY CLASSICAL LIBRARY.
could scarcely receive ; for that series has been hitherto conducted with
so much spirit, taste, and judgment, that we are afraid of wearying our
readers by so often repeating our commendations and our hearty wishes
for its continued success.’ —Atheneum.
HORACE.
In No. XVIII. Translations of different parts of HORACE
are introduced from the pens of the following Poets:
Addison—Atterbury, Bp.—Badham, C.—Beattie, F.—Beaumont, Sir
J.—Bentley, Dr.— Bernal, R.—Byron, Lord—Carter, Elizabeth—Chat-
terton — Congreve, W.— Cowley — Cowper—Creech—Croly—Dryden—
Evelyn—Hastings, Warren—-Herbert, Hon. W.—Hobhouse, Sir J. Cam
—Hunt, Leigh—Johnson, Dr.—Jonson, Ben—Joy, H. Hall—Lyttleton,
Lord — Merivale, J.— Milton— Montgomery, Robert—Otway--Pope—
Porson—Barry Cornwall— Roscommon, Earl of—Rowe, N.—Sidney, Sir
P.—Switt, Dean — Wakefield, Gilbert— Warton, J.— Warton, T.—
Wrangham, &c. &c.
Early in January, 1833, will be published, in 1 vol. 8vo. 16s.
SKELETONS OR SUMMARIES
OF THE SERMONS AND DISCOURSES
OF THE FOLLOWING EMIMENT -DIVINES:
SHERLOCK, OGDEN,
Barrow, Powe Lt,
Jeremy TaYLor, Fawcett.
By the Rev. T. S. HUGHES, B.D.
Of Emmanuel College ; Chaplain to the Bishop of Peterborough, and late
Christian Advocate at Cambridge.
These Summaries will be found highly useful to the Clergy, and well
calculated to assist the young Divine in composition.
The work will be printed in a size uniform with Mr. Simzon’s
SKELETONS,
SELF-ADVANCEMENT ;
Or, Extraordinary Transitions from Obscurity to Greatness ; exemplified
in the Lives and History of Adrian Fourth, the Emperor Basil, Rienzi
the Tribune, Alexander Fifth, Cardinal Ximenes, Adrian Sixth, Car-
dinal Wolsey, Thomas Lord Cromwell, Sixtus Fifth, Masaniello, Car-
dinal Alberoni, Doctor Franklin, and the King of Sweden.
By the Author of “ Practical Wisdom.” 12mo. 4s. 6d.
The above has been published with a view of exciting in the minds of
youth a spirit of emulation and laudable ambition.
‘ This is one of the best books for the reading of young people that has
yet been introduced into schools.’—Atlas.
ABRIDGMENTS.
Tn one vol. Small 8vo. 4s. 6d. bound in cloth, with a Portrait of the
Author, ‘
PALEY’S MORAL AND POLITICAL
PHILOSOPHY,
ABRIDGED BY A MASTER OF ARTS OF CAMBRIDGE,
In one vol. Small 8vo. 3s. 6d. bound in cloth, :
PALEY’S EVIDENCES OF CHRISTIANITY,
BY THE SAME.
‘Allthe arguments of the great philosopher are faithfully preserved,
and nothing omitted for which Paley’s. work is worth perusing. To a
considerable extent the language of the original is adhered to, and in
some instances the progress of the argument materially assisted.’—
Monthly Review.
‘ We only regret that we were born a generation too soon. This work,
with its portrait and very excellent biographical sketch, will be welcome
to many a freshman, either in or out of the Universities.’— Atheneum.
‘ A learned critic, in the life-time of Paley, expressed as his opinion
of the excellent work above named, that it would suffer no injury, but be
much improved, by a judicious abridgment : we look on this volume. as
a convincing proof of its truth.’— Bath Journal.
In one vol. Small 8vo. 5s. 6d. bound in cloth, with a Portrait,
LOCKE ON THE HUMAN UNDERSTANDING,
ABRIDGED BY A CLERGYMAN.
‘This condensation of Locke (a very delicate and difficult task) is
executed with great. skill.’—Maidstone Gazette.
ADDRESS from a CLERGYMAN to his
PARISHIONERS.
Sixth Ed. 4s. 6d. bds.
With a Mornine and Eveninc Prayer.) By R. VALPY, D.D.; F.A.S.
‘Contents :—Of God—The Son of God—The Holy Ghost—The Trinity
—Read the Scriptures—The Incarnation of Jesus Christ—The Doctrines
of Jesus Christ—The Resurrection—Redemption—J ustification—Faith
—Works—Works without Faith—Faith without Works—Union of Faith
and Works—Merit and Reward—Humility—The Influence of the Holy
Spirit—Repentance—Regeneration, Renewal, Conversion Delay of
Conversion—Our Endeavors—Predestination, Free Will—Of Prayer—
Public Worship—Family Prayer—The Sacrament of the Lord’s Supper—
Forgiveness of Injuries—Veneration to the Name of God—Relative
Duties—Exhortation to Piety—Prospect in Life—Use of Time—Death.
First of February, No. I. royal 8vo. 5s. 6d. sewn, of au
ABRIDGMENT OF THE
COMMENTARIES
ON THE
OLD AND NEW TESTAMENTS.
By tue Rev. T. S. HUGHES, B.D.
Of Emmanuel College ; Chaplain to the Bishop of Peterborough, and late
Christian Advocate at Cambridge.
AUTHORS TO BE CONDENSED :
The Assembly—R. Baxter—Burkitt—Campbell, Macknight, and Wood-
house—A. Clarke— Clarke and Pyle — Coke — Diodati — Doddridge—
D’Oyly and Mant, by Bishop Hobart — Gilpin—Guyse—Hammond—
Henry— Hewlett— Leigh —Archbp. Newcome —Job Orton — Patrick,
Lowth, Arnald, Whitby, and Lowman—M. Poole—Scott—Wilson.
PLAN.
14. The Work will contain the Notes of the above select and valuable
English Commentators, who have commented on the whole of the Old
or New Testament, or both; and these so condensed as to give the
substance briefly, but without “obscurity.
2. The Note of each Commentator will be in alphabetical order, chapter
by chapter; so that reference may be directly made to the opinions of
any favorite Author.
5. At the end of the work will be given a list of the most pelebratad
ancient and modern published Sermons, adapted to the same Texts, both
in the Old and New Testament.
4. The work will commence with the New Testament, printed in royal
octavo, double columns, in Monthly Numbers, averaging 180 pages, 5s. 6d.
each, and it is presumed the whole will form about 40 parts. The
New Testament will be complete in itself, to suit any who may wish to
discontinue the work before the whole Bible is finished.
Printed and published by A. J. Valpy, Red Lion Court, Fleet Street ;
and sold by a Booksellers.
4
NOVELS.
N° XXIII.
** No kind of literature is so generally attractive as Fiction. Pictures of
life and manners, and Stories of adventure, are more eagerly received by
the many than graver productions, however important these latter may be.
APULEIUS is better remembered by his fable of Cupid and Psyche than by
his abstruser Platonic writings; and the Decameron of Boccaccio has out-
lived the Latin Treatises, and other learned works of that author,” £
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
BY JANE AUSTEN.
COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME.
LONDON:
RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET,
(LATE COLBURN AND BENTLEY): |
BELL AND BRADFUTE, EDINBURGH;
CUMMING, DUBLIN; AND
GALIGNANI, PARIS. s
1833.
The next Number of “The Standard Novels,’ to be published on the
Ist of February, will contain a new translation, by Miss IsabeL Hit, of
MADAME DE STAEL’S celebrated Romance,
CORINNE; or, ITALY,
complete in One Volume, with metrical versions of the ‘ Chants,” or Odes,
by Miss Lanpon; and graphic illustrations, consisting of an engraving from
the well known picture of Gerard, and a view of Coppet (the residence of
Madame de Stael) from the pencil of Fielding.
LonpDon:
Printed by A. & R. Spottiswoode, ;
'_ New-Street-Square. 4
\
Ret ’ S
NS S
(a IWIN SS
=a »
5 xX S y
A 8 Woe 3
NNON: XS ‘8 me
~ \D
5 \ \ S
NANI S
Yd \N x
iW VN S ~
\ Ss
eS ee .
= Q 2
Ir ~e NW A 8
MK Loa w X
Zz Ins Ww 8 9s
= SS NG ~
Mananne, Balle nly arated by BOWE’
4 s A Z a
aocdental Ptwnae A7U Che prortide, POAIAEL
pad tit: CY Bef aad witty feve tsp Av Ml rrvedd ,
4
Z “
5 TS,
cited 00 Ji PRATT COUN Ye?
A
LONDON:
RICHARD BENTLEY,
{LATE COLBURN & BENTLEY.
CUMMING, DUBLIN- BELL & BRADFUTE, El INBU
GALIGNANT, PARIS.
linc ro tee les
SENSE
AND
SENSIBILITY:
A NOVEL.
pe aN EA UST EN,
LONDON:
RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET,
(LATE COLBURN AND BENTLEY):
BELL AND BRADFUTE, EDINBURGH;
CUMMING, DUBLIN; AND
GALIGNANI, PARIS,
1833.
t
‘ean PALER Foes ey De Fare aid ‘- ,
; se ae AE a apie bal Mike Ny Ph ta ate
W ae oe,
C yairaas dak wauasad,
MEMOIR
OF
MISS AUSTEN.
JANE AvSTEN was born on the 16th of December,
1775, at Steventon, in the county of Hants. Her
father was rector of that parish upwards of forty
years. There he resided in the conscientious and un-
assisted discharge of his ministerial duties until he was
turned of seventy years. Then he retired with his
wife, our authoress, and her sister, to Bath, for the
remainder of his life, a period of about four years.
Being not only a profound scholar, but possessing a
most exquisite taste in every species of literature, it is
not wonderful that his daughter Jane should, at a very
early age, have become sensible to the charms of style,
and enthusiastic in the cultivation of her own language.
On ‘the death of her father, she removed, with her
mother and sister, for a short time, to Southampton ;
and finally, in 1809, to the pleasant village of Chawton
in the same county. From this place she sent her
novels into the world. Some of them had been the
gradual performances of her previous life; for though
in composition she was equally rapid and correct, yet
A 3
vi MEMOIR OF MISS AUSTEN.
an invincible distrust of her own judgment induced
her to withhold her works from the public, till time
and many perusals had satisfied her that the charm of
recent composition was dissolved. The natural con-
stitution, the regular habits, the quiet and happy occu-
pations of our authoress, seemed to promise a long
succession of amusement to the public, and a gradual
increase of reputation to herself. But the symp-
toms of a decay, deep and incurable, began to show
themselves in the commencement of 1816. Her
decline was at first deceitfully slow ; but in the month
of May, 1817, it was found advisable that she should
be removed to Winchester for the benefit of constant
medical aid, which none, even then, dared to hope
would be permanently beneficial. She supported, dur-
ing two months, all the varying pain, irksomeness, and
tedium, attendant on decaying nature, with more than
resignation — with a truly elastic cheerfulness. She
retained her faculties, her memory, her fancy, her
temper, and her affections, warm, clear, and unim-
paired, to the last. Her last voluntary speech con-
veyed thanks to her medical attendant; and to the
final question asked of her, purporting to know her
wants, she replied, “ I want nothing but death.” She
expired shortly after, on Friday, the 18th of July, 1817, |
in the arms of her sister; and was buried, on the 24th
of the same month, in the cathedral church of Win-
chester.
Of personal attractions she possessed a consider-
able share; her stature rather exceeded the middle
height; her carriage and deportment were quiet, but
eraceful; her features were separately good; their as-
semblage produced an unrivalled expression of that
MEMOIR: OF MISS AUSTEN. Vil
cheerfulness, sensibility, and benevolence, which were
her real characteristics; her complexion was of the
finest texture — it might with truth be said, that her
eloquent blood spoke through her modest cheek; her
voice was sweet ; she delivered herself with fluency and
precision ; indeed, she was formed for elegant and ra-
tional society, excelling in conversation as much as in
composition. In the present age it is hazardous to
mention accomplishments; our authoress would pro-
bably have been inferior to few in such acquire-
ments, had she not been so superior to most, in higher
things.
It remains to make a few observations on that which
her friends deemed more important, on those en-
dowments which sweetened every hour of their lives.
If there be an opinion current in the world that a per-
fectly amiable temper is not reconcilable to a lively
imagination, and a keen relish for wit, such an opinion
will be rejected for ever by those who had the happi-
ness of knowing the authoress! of the following work.
Though the frailties, foibles, and follies of others, could
not escape her immediate detection, yet even on their
vices did she never trust herself to comment with
unkindness. The affectation of candour is not un-
common, but she had no affectation. Faultless herself,
as nearly as human nature can be, she always sought,
in the faults of others, something to excuse, to forgive,
or forget. Where extenuation was impossible, she
had a sure refuge in silence. She never uttered either
a hasty, a silly, or a severe expression. In short, her
temper was as polished as her wit; and no one could
be often in her company without feeling a strong desire
of obtaining her friendship, and cherishing a hope of
A 4
Vill MEMOIR OF MISS AUSTEN.
having obtained it. She became an authoress entirely
from taste and inclination. Neither the hope of fame
nor profit mixed with her early motives. It was with
extreme difficulty that her friends, whose partiality she
suspected, whilst she honoured their judgment, could
persuade her to publish her first work. Nay, so per-
suaded was she that the sale would not repay the ex-
pense of publication, that she actually made a reserve
from her moderate income to meet the expected loss.
She could scarcely believe what she termed her great
good fortune, when “ Sense and Sensibility ” produceda
clear profit of about 150/. Fewso gifted were so truly un-
pretending. She regarded the above sum as a prodigious
recompense for that which had cost her nothing. Her
readers, perhaps, will wonder that such a work pro-
duced so little, at a time when some authors have
received more guineas than they have written lines.
But the public has not been unjust; and our authoress
was far from thinking it so. Most gratifying to her
was the applause which from time to time reached her
ears from those who were competent to discriminate.
When. “ Pride and Prejudice” made its appearance,
a gentleman, celebrated for his literary attamments,
advised a friend of the authoress to read it, adding, with
more point.than gallantry, “ I should like to know who
is the author, for it is much too clever to have been
written by a woman.” — Still, in spite of such applause,
so much did she shrink from notoriety, that no increase
of fame would have induced her, had she lived, to affix
her name to any productions of her pen. In the bosom
of her family she talked of them freely ; thankful for
praise, open to remark, and submissive to criticism. But
in public she turned away from any allusion to the cha-
MEMOIR OF MISS AUSTEN. 1x
racter of an authoress. In proof of this, the following
circumstance, otherwise unimportant, is stated. Miss
Austen was on a visit in London soon after the publi-
cation of Mansfield Park: a nobleman, personally
unknown to her, but who had good reasons for con-
sidermg her to be the authoress of that work, was
desirous of her joining a literary circle at his house. He
communicated his wish in the politest manner, through
a mutual friend, adding, what his Lordship doubtless
thought would be an irresistible inducement, that the
celebrated Madame de Staél would be of the party.
Miss Austen immediately declined the invitation To
her truly delicate mind such a display would have given
pain instead of pleasure.
Her power of inventing characters seems to have
been intuitive, and almost unlimited. She drew from
nature ; but, whatever may have been surmised to the
contrary, never from individuals. The style of her fa-
miliar correspondence was in all respects the same as
that of her novels. Every thing came finished from
her pen; for on all subjects she had ideas as clear as
her expressions were well chosen. It is not too much
to say that she never despatched a note or letter un-
worthy of publication. The following few short extracts
from her private correspondence are submitted to the
public without apology, as being more truly descriptive
of her temper, taste, and feelings, than any thing which
the pen of a biographer can produce. The first is a
playful defence of herself from a mock charge of
having pilfered the manuscripts of a young relation.
« What should I do, my dearest E., with your manly,
vigorous sketches, so full of life and spirit ? How could
I possibly join them on to a little bit of ivory, two
x MEMOIR OF MISS AUSTEN.
inches wide, on which I work with a brush so-fine, as
to produce little effect after much labour?” The re-
maining extracts are from a letter written a few weeks
before her death. “ My medical attendant is encourag-
ing, and talks of making me quite well. I live chiefly
on the sofa, but am allowed to walk from one room to
the other. I have been out once in a sedan chair, and
am to repeat it, and be promoted to a wheel-chair as
the weather serves. On this subject I will only say
farther, that my dearest sister, my tender, watchful, in-
defatigible nurse, has not been made ill by her exer-
tions. As to what I owe to her, and to the anxious
affection of all my beloved family on this occasion, I
can only cry over it, and pray to God to bless them
more and more.” She next touches with just and gen-
tle animadversion on a subject of domestic disappoint-
ment. Of this, the particulars. do not concern the
public. Yet, in justice to her characteristic sweetness
and resignation, the concluding observation of our au-
thoress thereon must not be suppressed. “ But I-am
getting “too near complaint. It has been the appoint-
ment of God, however secondary causes may have
operated.”
The above brief biographical sketch has. been, in
substance, already published with Miss Austen’s post-
humous novels. . It is a matter of deep regret to the
writer, that materials for a more detailed account of so
talented a-woman cannot be obtained; therefore, as a
tribute due to her memory, he subjoins the following
MEMOIR OF. MISS AUSTEN. XI
extracts from a critical journal of the highest reput-
ation :—
“Unlike that of many writers, Miss Austen’s fame has
grown fastest since she died: there was no éclat about
her first appearance: the public took time to make up
its mind ; and she, not having staked her hopes of hap-
piness on success or failure, was content to wait for the
decision of her claims. Those claims have long been
established beyond a question; but the merit of first
recognising them belongs less to reviewers than to
general readers. So retired, so unmarked by literary
notoriety, was the life Miss Austen led, that if any
likeness was ever taken of her, none has ever been
engraved.* With regard to her genius, we must ad-
venture a fewremarks. She herself compares her pro-
ductions to a little bit of ivory, two inches wide, worked
upon with a brush so fine, that little effect is produced
after much labour. It is so: her portraits are perfect
likenesses, admirably finished, many of them gems, but
it is all miniature painting; and, satisfied with being in-
imitable in one line, she never essayed canvass and oils;
never tried her hand at a majestic daub. Her “two
inches of ivory” just describes her preparations for a
tale of three volumes. A village — two families con-
nected together — three or four interlopers, out of
whom are to spring a little tracasserie;— and by means
of village or country town visiting and gossiping a real
plot shall thicken, and its “rear of darkness” never be
scattered till six pages off finis. The plots are simple
" * No likeness ever was taken of Miss Austen ; which the editor
much laments, as he is thereby precluded from the gratification
of prefixing her portrait to this edition.
Xi MEMOIR OF MISS AUSTEN.
in construction, and yet intricate in developement ; —
the main characters, those that the reader feels sure are
to love, marry, and make mischief, are introduced in the
first or second chapter ; the work is all done by half a
dozen people ; no person, scene, or sentence, is ever in-
troduced needless to the matter in hand : — no catas-
trophes, or discoveries, or surprises of a grand nature,
are allowed — neither children nor fortunes are lost or
found by accident —the mind is never taken off the
level surface of life——the reader breakfasts, dines,
walks, and gossips, with the various worthies, till a pro-
cess of transmutation takes place in him, and he abso-
lutely fancies himself one of the company. Yet the
winding up of the plot involves a surprise: a few inci-
dents are entangled at the beginning in the most simple
and natural manner, and till the close one never feels
quite sure how they are to be disentangled. Disen-
tangled, however, they are, and that in a most satisfac-
tory manner. The secret is, Miss Austen was a thorough
mistress in the knowledge of human character ; how it
is acted upon by education and circumstance; and how,
when once formed, it shows itself through every hour
of every day, and in every speech to every person.
Her conversations would be tiresome but for this; and
her personages, the fellows to whom may be met in the
streets, or drank tea with at half an hour’s ‘notice,
would excite no interest; but in Miss Austen’s hands
we see into their hearts and hopes, their motives, their:
struggles within themselves; and a sympathy is induced,
which, if extended to daily life, and the world at large,
would make the reader a more amiable person; and we
must think it that reader’s own fault who does not
close her pages with more charity in his heart towards
“ MEMOIR OF MISS AUSTEN. “xill
unpretending, if prosing, worth; with a higher esti-
mation of simple kindness, and sincere good-will ; with
a quickened sense of the duty of bearing and ferbear-
ing, in domestic intercourse, and of the pleasure of
adding to the little comforts even of persons who are
neither wits nor beauties, — who, in a word, does not
feel more disposed to be benevolent. In the last post-
humous tale (‘ Persuasion ’) there isa strain of a higher
mood; there is still the exquisite delineation of common
life, such life as we hear, and see, and make part of,
with the addition of a finer, more poetic, yet equally
real tone of thought and actions in the principals. If
Miss Austen was sparing in her introduction of nobler
characters, it was because they are scattered sparingly
in life. Her death has made a-chasm in our light liter-
ature, — the domestic novel, with its home-born in-
cidents, its ‘familiar matter of to-day,’ its slight
array of names, and great cognisance of people and
things, its confinement. to country life, and total obli-
vion of costume, manners, the great world, and “ the
mirror of fashion.’ Every species of composition is,
when good, to be admired in its way ; but the revival
of the domestic novel.would make:a:pleasant interlude
to the showy, sketchy novels of high life. 7
“Miss Austen has the merit (in our judgment most
essential) of being evidentlya Christian writer: a
merit which is much enhanced, beth. on the score of
good taste and of practical utility, by her religion
being not at all obtrusive. She might defy the most
fastidious critic to call any of her novels (as Coelebs
was designated) a dramatic sermon. The subject is
rather alluded to, and that incidentally, than studiously
brought forward and dwelt upon. In fact, she is more
XiV MEMOIR OF MISS AUSTEN.
sparing of it than would be thought desirable by some
persons ; perhaps even by herself, had she consulted
merely her own sentiments; but she probably intro-
duced it as far as she thought would be generally pro-
fitable ; for when the purpose of inculcating a religious
principle is made too palpably prominent, many readers,
if they do not throw aside the book with disgust, are
apt to fortify themselves with that respectful kind of
apathy with which they undergo a regular sermon,
and prepare themselves as they do to swallow a dose
of medicine, endeavouring to get it down in large
culps, without tasting it more than is necessary.”
* * * * * * * |
Perhaps these volumes may be perused by some
readers who will feel a solicitude respecting the author-
ess, extending beyond the perishable qualities of tem-
per, manners, taste, and talents.— We can assure all such
(and the being able so to do gratifies us more than the
loudest voice of human praise) that Jane Austen’s
hopes of immortality were built upon the Rock of ages.
That she deeply felt, and devoutly acknowledged, the
insignificance of all worldly attainments, and the worth-
lessness of all human services, in the eyes of her
heavenly Father. That she had no other hope of
mercy, pardon, and peace, but through the merits sn
sufferings of her Redeemer. |
October 5. 1832.
MEMOIR OF MISS AUSTEN. XV
The Editor of “The Standard Novels” feels happy
in being able to state, that arrangements have been
made for including several other of the works of Miss
Austen in this collection. Miss Austen is the founder
of a school of novelists ; and her followers are not con-
fined to her own sex; but comprise in their number
some male writers of considerable merit. The au-
thoress of “ Sense and Sensibility” had for her con-
temporaries several female novelists, whose works
attained instant popularity Madame D’Arblay, Miss
Edgeworth, Mrs. Opie, Miss Porter, and others, most of
whose novels preceded hers in order of time: but,
notwithstanding the temptation which nearly all writers
are under (especially at the commencement of their
vocation) to imitate that which has commanded dis-
tinguished success, Miss Austen at once freed herself
from such influence, and, with combined boldness and
modesty, struck into a path of her own, of which she
remains, to this day, the undisputed mistress. The
truth, spirit, ease, and refined humour of her con-
versations have rarely been equalled. She is, em-
phatically, the novelist of home. One of the most
remarkable traits of her genius may be found in the
power by which, without in the slightest degree violat-
ing the truth of portraiture, she is able to make the
veriest every-day person a character of great interest.
This is, indeed, turning lead into gold; but it would
be difficult to detect the secret of the process.
CT cae Ee
gegen (osu alana Aihoadisi oe aaa i \
heed orush ataoaacyiati, MB, Lana sf
WARY, Lox adscniaosiglts “ty, 224k ‘ ‘aca, yous 5k, ap :
eocseoi, 90d, ab ays gni a ani ey th 0 wild i
IAB Gh Gore nf, ROR gash May i hava i, a lance Ve oe :
“a fits" old, re Ca a Sy an awe 4
ry ‘onl. Ainaaity, Helton ap |
ons iis tot, bail, NgHicliasing, hes. “qed
phan 9 oaciihy... styl! ignat, olgitigt fia: AP a
Wel, BEN: Sith Frage Pade ctifolic 4, Jel Dstt:
| “a diong aatte B rae tal xo rE eel Ae aie fa anhit Pre
dh 2 el A. tation, ah wiait ‘Babing ih atts andi
aS gaits, lakh masa sh fish amiiakyecad, aid ye
thanlby ke Agusaoanenausy, 9 in $e: Slain Fr
pai, isbon: tere, ‘pal doidba. surkt, SHINE 9 |
Moray ban 9 acity. 10 Gite. A 240%, singers
Ss
: Sk, aR ablnd hanidinag Fithi ie; aj? 44 t yah AT aha es ti ait
aty, clay ig, i, tug) ih Heer Ak eit 14 wha HO vat
ee iotuwaida, ht, wal, re Ode ¢
RO) abicnh cide Xe saomath, baatigs hi. caus. inks Ny
We. Spies deh sft bollanpa ‘ vate tte ioiianies,
Rear ages" ‘a = 1) ‘aniok Fa. ile a we gs ‘Teg?
JF
| fii PHS, od gaat aM Li M3, ‘a i
, ae aoe Pip als atk eae or * uy
4 o n Sid Hoy 44 ‘tos On TS ify 7 pene ag ene es
ne a ysl; i blog. dgak Has) if Senet we 99h a,
ogous ed! 46, me gilt | iB ot
ia Git Y ee bik bi (f2)\ Pats
\ ee eee
AS re ys as
fe ST ll v} foe. ‘i Bis
MSE A hi. ai ahs Ps atl ek
By 0h Bs Gay isis iy abt AL
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
VOLUME THE FIRST.
CHAPTER I.
Tax family of Dashwood had been long settled in Sus-
sex. Their estate was large, and their residence was at
Norland Park, in the centre of their property, where, for
many generations, they had lived in so respectable a
manner as to engage the general good opinion of their sur.
rounding acquaintance. The late owner of this estate was
a single man, who lived to a very advanced age, and who,
for many years of his life, had a constant companion and
housekeeper in his sister. But her death, which happened
ten years before his own, produced a great alteration in his
home ; for to supply her loss, he invited and received into
his house the family of his nephew Mr. Henry Dashwood,
the legal inheritor of the Norland estate, and the person to
whom he intended to bequeath it. In the society of his
nephew and niece, and their children, the old gentleman’s
‘days were comfortably spent. His attachment to them all
increased. The constant attention of Mr. and Mrs. Henry
Dashwood to his wishes, which proceeded not merely from
interest, but from goodness of heart, gave him every degree
of solid comfort which his age could receive ; and the cheer-
fulness of the children added a relish to his existence.
By a former marriage, Mr. Henry Dashwood had one
son: by his present lady three daughters. The son, a
steady respectable young man, was amply provided for by
the fortune of his mother, which had been large, and half
B
2 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
of which devolved on him on his coming of age. By his
own marriage, likewise, which happened soon afterwards,
he added to his wealth. To him, therefore, the succession
to the Norland estate was not so really important as to his
sisters ; for their fortune, independent of what might arise
to them from their father’s inheriting that property, could
be but small. Their mother had nothing, and their father
only seven thousand pounds in his own disposal ; for the
remaining moiety of his first wife’s fortune was also se-
cured to her child, and he had only a life-interest in it.
The old gentleman died: his will was read ; and, like
almost every other will, gave as much disappointment as
pleasure. He was neither so unjust, nor so ungrateful, as
to leave his estate from his nephew ; but he left it to him
on such terms as destroyed half the value of the bequest.
Mr. Dashwood had wished for it more for the sake of his
wife and daughters than for himself or his son: but to his
son, and his son’s son, a child of four years old, it was
secured, in such a way, as to leave to himself no power of
providing for those who were most dear to him, and who
most needed a provision by any charge on the estate, or by
any sale of its valuable woods. The whole was tied up
for the benefit of this child, who, in occasional visits with
his father and mother at Norland, had so far gained on the
affections of his uncle, by such attractions as are by no means
unusual in children of two or three years old, — an imper-
fect articulation, an earnest desire of having his own way,
many cunning tricks, and a great deal of noise, — as to out-
weigh all the value of all the attention which, for years, he
had received from his niece and her daughters. He
meant not to be unkind, however, and, as a mark of his
affection for the three girls, he left them a thousand
pounds apiece.
Mr. Dashwood’s disappointment was, at. first, severe ;
but his temper was cheerful and sanguine ; and he might
reasonably hope to live many years, and by living econo-
mically, lay by a considerable sum from the produce of an
estate already large, and capable of almost immediate im-
provement. But the fortune, which had been so tardy in
“oming, was his only one twelvemonth. He survived his
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 2
uncle no longer; and ten thousand pounds, including the late
legacies, was all that remained for his widow and daughters.
His son was sent for as soon as his danger was known,
and to him Mr. Dashwood recommended, with all the
strength and urgency which illness could command, the in-
terest of his mother-in-law and sisters.
Mr. John Dashwood had not the strong feelings of
the rest of the family ; but he was affected by a recom-
mendation of such a nature at such a time, and he pro-
mised to do every thing in his power to make them
comfortable. His father was rendered easy by such an
assurance, and Mr. John Dashwood had then leisure to
consider how much there might prudently be in his power
to do for them.
He was not an ill-disposed young man, unless to be
rather cold-hearted and rather selfish is to be ill-disposed :
but he was, in general, well respected ; for he conducted
himself with propriety in the discharge of his ordinary
duties. Had he married a more amiable woman, he might
have been made still more respectable than he was: he
might even have been made amiable himself; for he was
very young when he married, and very fond of his wife.
But Mrs. John Dashwood was a strong caricature of him-
self ; more narrow-minded and selfish.
When he gave his promise to his father, he meditated
within himself to increase the fortunes of his sisters by the
present of a thousand pounds apiece. He then really
thought himself equal to it. The prospect of four thousand
a year, in addition to his present income, besides the re-
maining half of his own mother’s fortune, warmed his
heart, and made him feel capable of generosity. “‘ Yes,
he would give them three thousand pounds: it would be
liberal and handsome! It would be enough to make them
completely easy. Three thousand pounds! he could spare
so considerable a sum with little inconvenience.” He thought
of it all day long, and for many days successively, and he
did not repent.
No sooner was his father’s funeral over, than Mrs. John
Dashwood, without sending any notice:of her intention to
her mother-in-law, arrived with her child and their attend-
B 2
Au SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
ants. No one could dispute her right to come; the house
was her husband’s from the moment of his father’s de-
cease ; but the indelicacy of her conduct was so much the
greater, and to a woman in Mrs. Dashwood’s situation,
with only common feelings, must have been highly un-
pleasing ; but in her mind there was a sense of honour so
keen, a generosity so romantic, that any offence of the kind,
by whomsoever given or received, was to her a source of
immovable disgust. Mrs. John Dashwood had never been
a favourite with any of her husband’s family ; but she had
had no opportunity, till the present, of showing them with
how little attention to the comfort of other people she could
act when occasion required it. .
So acutely did Mrs. Dashwood feel this ungracious be-
haviour, and so earnestly did she despise her daughter-in-
law for it, that, on the arrival of the latter, she would have
quitted the house for ever, had not the entreaty of her eldest
girl induced her first to reflect on the propriety of going,
and her own tender love for all her three children determined
her afterwards to stay, and for their sakes avoid a breach
with their brother.
Elinor, this eldest daughter whose advice was so effec-
tual, possessed a strength of understanding, and coolness of
judgment, which qualified her, though only nineteen, to be
the counsellor of her mother, and enabled her frequently to
counteract, to the advantage of them all, that eagerness of
mind in Mrs. Dashwood which must generally have led to
imprudence. She had an excellent heart ; — her disposition
was affectionate, and her feelings were strong; but she
knew how to govern them: it was a knowledge which her
mother had yet to learn, and which one of her sisters had
resolved never to be taught.
Marianne’s abilities were, in many respects, quite equal
to Elinor’s. She was sensible and clever; but eager in
every thing: her sorrows, her joys, could have no moder-
ation. She was generous, amiable, interesting: she was
every thing but prudent. The resemblance between her
and her mother was strikingly great.
Elinor saw, with concern, the excess of her sister’s sen-
sibility ; but by Mrs. Dashwood it was valued and cher-
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. ; bs)
ished. They encouraged each other now in the violence of
their affliction. The agony of grief which overpowered
them at first was voluntarily renewed, was sought for, was
created again and again. ‘They gave themselves up wholly
to their sorrow, seeking increase of wretchedness in every
reflection that could afford it, and resolved against ever ad-
mitting consolation in future. Elinor, too, was deeply af-
flicted ; but still she could struggle, she could exert. herself.
She could consult with her brother, could receive her sister-
in-law on her arrival, and treat her with proper attention ;
and could strive to rouse her mother to similar exertion,
and encourage her to similar forbearance.
Margaret, the other sister, was a good-humoured, well-
disposed girl; but as she had already imbibed a good deal
of Marianne’s romance, without having much of her sense,
she did not, at thirteen, bid fair to equal her sisters at a
more advanced period of life.
CHAPTER II.
Mrs. ‘Jonn Dasnwoop now installed herself mistress of
Norland; and her mother and sisters-in-law were degraded
to the condition of visiters. As such, however, they were
treated by her with quiet civility; and by her husband
with as much kindness as he could feel towards any body
beyond himself, his wife, and their child. He really pressed
them, with some earnestness, to consider Norland as their
home ; and, as no plan appeared so eligible to Mrs. Dash-
wood as remaining there till she could accommodate her-
self with a house in the neighbourhood, his invitation was
accepted.
A continuance in a place where every thing reminded.
her of former delight was exactly what suited her mind.
In seasons of cheerfulness, no temper could be more cheer-
ful than hers, or possess, in a greater degree, that sanguine
expectation of happiness which is happiness itself. But in
. B 3
6 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
sorrow she must be equally carried away by her fancy, and
as far beyond consolation as in pleasure she was beyond alloy.
Mrs. John Dashwood did not at all approve of what her
husband intended to do for his sisters. To take three
thousand pounds from the fortune of their dear little boy
would be impoverishing him to the most dreadful degree.
She begged him to think again on the subject. How could
he answer it to himself to rob his child, and his only child
too, of so large a sum? And what possible claim could
the Miss Dashwoods, who were related to him only by half
blood, which she considered as no relationship at all, have
on his generosity to so large an amount? It was very well
known that no affection was ever supposed to exist between
the children of any man by different marriages ; and why
was he to ruin himself, and their poor little Harry, by
giving away all his money to his half sisters P
“It was my father’s last request to me,” replied her
husband, “ that I should assist his widow and daughters.”
** He did not know what he was talking off, I dare say ;
ten to one but he was light-headed at the time. Had he
been in his right senses, he could not have thought of such
a thing as begging you to give away half your fortune from
your own child.”
‘* He did not stipulate for any particular sum, my dear
Fanny ; he only requested me, in general terms, to assist
them, and make their situation more comfortable than it
was in his power to do. Perhaps it would have been as
well if he had left it wholly to myself. He could hardly
suppose I should neglect them. But as he required the
promise, I could not do less than give it: at least I thought
so at the time. The promise, therefore, was given, and
must be performed. Something must be done for them
whenever they leave Norland and settle in a new home.”
** Well, then, /e¢ something be done for them ; but that
something need not be three thousand pounds. Consider,”
she added, “ that when the money is once parted with, it
never can return. Your sisters will marry, and it will be
gone for ever. If, indeed, it could ever be restored to our
‘poor little boy i
** Why, to be sure,” said her husband, very gravely,
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. y
*‘ that would make a great difference. The time may
come when Harry will regret that so large a sum was
parted with. If he should have a numerous family, for
instance, it would be a very convenient addition.”
** To be sure it would.”
** Perhaps, then, it would be better for all_parties, if the
sum were diminished one half. Five hundred pounds
would be a prodigious increase to their fortunes !”
* Oh! beyond any thing great! What brother on
earth would do half so much for his sisters, even if really
his sisters! And as it is—only half blood !— But you
have such a generous spirit !”
* I would not wish to do any thing mean,” he replied.
** One had rather, on such occasions, do too much than too
little. No one, at least, can think I have not done enough
for them: even themselves, they can hardly expect more.”
“* There is no knowing what they may expect,” said the
lady, “‘ but we are not to think of their expectations: the
question is, what you can afford to do.”
** Certainly ; and I think I may afford to give them
five hundred pounds apiece. As it is, without any addi-
tion of mine, they will each have above three thousand
pounds on their mother’s death—a very comfortable
fortune for any young woman.”
** To be sure it is; and, indeed, it strikes me that they
can want no addition at all. They will have ten thousand
pounds divided amongst them. If they marry, they will
be sure of doing well, and if they do not, they may all live
very comfortably together on the interest of ten thousand
pounds.”
“That is very true, and, therefore, I do not know
whether, upon the whole, it would not be more advisable
to do something for their mother while she lives, rather
than for them—something of tne annuity kind I mean.
My sisters would feel the good effects of it as well as her-
self. A hundred a year would make them all perfectly
comfortable.”
His wife hesitated a little, however, in giving her consent
to this plan.
_ To be sure,” said she, “ it is better than parting with
B 4
8 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
fifteen hundred pounds at once. But, then, if Mrs. Dash-
wood should live fifteen years, we shall be completely
taken in.”
* Fifteen. years! my dear oe her life cannot be
worth half that purchase.”
“* Certainly not; but if you observe, people always live
for ever when there is any annuity to be paid them; and
she is very.stout and healthy, and hardly forty. An an-
nuity is a very serious business; it comes over and over
every year, and there is no getting rid of it. You are not
aware of what you are doing. I have known a great deal
of the trouble of annuities; for my mother was clogged
with the payment of three to old superannuated servants by
my father’s will, and it is amazing how disagreeable she
found it. Twice every year these annuities were to be
paid ; and then there was the trouble of getting it to them ;
and then one of them was said to have died, and afterwards
it turned out to be no such thing. My mother was quite
sick of it. Her income was not her own, she said, with
such perpetual claims on it ; and it was the more unkind in
my father, because, otherwise, the money would have been
entirely at my mother’s disposal, without any restriction
whatever. It has given me such an abhorrence of annui-
ties, that I am sure I would not pin myself down to the
payment of one for all the world.”
‘* It is certainly an unpleasant thing,” replied Mr. Dash-
wood, ‘ to have those kind of yearly drains on one’s in-
come. One's fortune, as your mother justly says, is not
one’s own. To be tied down to the regular payment of
such a sum, on every rent-day, is by no means desirable:
it takes away one’s independence.”
** Undoubtedly ; and, after all, you have no thanks for
it. ‘They think themselves secure ; you do no more than
what is expected, and it raises no gratitude at all. If I
were you, whatever I did should be done at my own dis-
cretion entirely: I would not bind myself to allow them
any thing yearly. It may be very inconvenient some years
to spare a hundred, or even fifty pounds from our own ex-
penses.”
* I believe you are right, my love ; it will be better that
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 9
there should be no annuity in the case: whatever I may
give them occasionally will be of far greater assistance than
a yearly allowance, because they would only enlarge their
style of living if they felt sure of a larger income, and would
not be sixpence the richer for it at the end of the year. It
will certainly be much the best way.
continued
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 93
now caught by the drawings which hung round the room,
She got up to examine them.
“Oh dear, how beautiful these are! Well, how de.
lightful! Do but look, mamma, how sweet! I declare
they are quite charming ; I could look at them for ever.”
And then sitting down again, she very soon forgot that
there were any such things in the room.
When Lady Middleton rose to go away, Mr. Palmer
rose also, laid down the newspaper, stretched himself, and
looked at them all around.
“ My love, have you been asleep?” said his wife,
laughing.
He made her no answer ; and only observed, after again
examining the room, that it was very low pitched, and
that the ceiling was crooked. He then made his bow, and
departed with the rest.
Sir John had been very urgent with them all to spend
the next day at the Park. Mrs. Dashwood, who did not
choose to dine with them oftener than they dined at the
cottage, absolutely refused on her own account; her
daughters might do as they pleased. But they had no
curiosity to see how Mr. and Mrs. Palmer ate their dinner,
and no expectation of pleasure from them in any other
way. ‘They attempted, therefore, likewise to excuse them-
selves ; the weather was uncertain, and not likely to be
good. But Sir John would not be satisfied,— the carriage
should be sent for them, and they must come. Lady Mid-
dieton too, though she did not press their mother, pressed
them. Mrs. Jennings and Mrs. Palmer joined their en-
treaties, — all seemed equally anxious to avoid a family
party; and the young ladies were obliged to yield.
** Why should they ask us?” said Marianne, as soon as
they were gone. ‘ The rent of this cottage is said to be
low ; but we have it on very hard terms, if we are to dine
at the Park whenever any one is staying either with them
or with us.”
«“ They mean no less to be civil and kind to us now,”
said Elinor, “‘ by these frequent invitations than by those
which we received from them a few weeks ago. ‘The al-
Q4: SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
teration is not in them, if their parties are grown tedious
and dull. We must look for the change elsewhere.”
CHAPTER XX.
As the Miss Dashwoods entered the drawing-room of the
Park the next day, at one door, Mrs. Palmer came running
in at the other, looking as good humoured and merry as
before. She took them all most affectionately by the hand,
and expressed great delight in seeing them again.
~ Tam so glad to see you!” said she, seating herself
between Elinor and Marianne ; “ for it is so bad a day I was
afraid you might not come, which would be a shocking
thing, as we go away again to-morrow. We must go, for
the. Westons come to us next week, you know. It was
quite a sudden thing our coming at all; and I knew
nothing of it till the carriage was coming to the door,
and then Mr. Palmer asked me if I would go with him
to Barton. He is so droll! He never tells me any thing!
I am so sorry we cannot stay longer; however we shall
meet again in town very soon, I hope.”
They were obliged to put an end to such an expec-
tation.
“€ Not go to town!” cried Mrs. Palmer, with a laugh;
“<1 shall be quite disappointed if you do not. I could get
the nicest house in the world for you, next door to ours in
Hanover Square. You must come, indeed. I am sure I
shall be very happy to chaperon you at any time till am
confined, if Mrs. Dashwood should not like to go into
public.”
They thanked her; but were obliged to resist all her
entreaties.
“Oh, my love,” cried Mrs. Palmer to her husband, who
just then entered the room, “ you must help me to per-
-suade the Miss Dashwoods to go to town this winter.’
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 95
Her love made no answer; and after slightly bowing
to the ladies, began complaining of the weather.
“How horrid all this is!” said he. ‘Such weather
makes every thing and every body disgusting. Dulness is
as much produced within doors as without, by rain. It
makes one detest all one’s acquaintance. What the devil
does Sir John mean by not having a billiard room in his
house? How few people know what comfort is! Sir
John is as stupid as the weather.”
The rest of the company soon dropt in.
““T am afraid, Miss Marianne,” said Sir John, “you
have not been able to take your usual walk to Allenham
to-day.”
Marianne looked very grave, and said nothing.
**Qh, don’t be so sly before us,” said Mrs. Palmer ; “ for
we know all about it, I assure you ; and I admire your
taste very much, for I think he is extremely handsome.
‘We do not live a great way from him i in the country, you
know. Not above ten miles, I dare say.’
** Much nearer thirty,” ond her husband.
* “Ah, well! there is not much difference. I never
was at his house; but they say it is a sweet pretty
place.”
“As vile a spot as I ever saw in my life,” said Mr.
Palmer.
Marianne remained perfectly silent, though her coun-
tenance betrayed her interest in what was said.
“Is it very ugly?” continued Mrs. Palmer ;— “ ttten
it must be some other place that is so pretty, I suppose.”
When they were seated in the dining-room, Sir John
observed with regret that they were only eight all together.
“My dear,” said he to his lady, “it is very provoking
that we should be so few. Why did not you ask the
Gilberts to come to us to-day?”
** Pid not I tell you, Sir John, when you spoke to me
about it before, that it could not be done? They dined
with us last.” :
“You and\I, Sir John,” said Mrs. Jennings, “ should
not stand upon such ceremony.”
Then you would be very ill-bred,” cried Mr. Palmer.
96 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
“My love, you contradict every body,” said his wife
with her usual laugh. ‘‘ Do you know that you are quite
rude? ”
“T did not know I contradicted any body in calling
your mother ill-bred.”
«Ay, you may abuse me as you please,” said the good-
natured old lady; ‘ you have taken Charlotte off my hands,
and cannot give her back again. So there I have the whip
hand of you.”
Charlotte laughed heartily to think that her husband
could not get rid of her; and exultingly said, she did not
care how cross he was to her, as they must live together.
It was impossible for any one to be more thoroughly good-
natured, or more determined to be happy, than Mrs. Pal.
mer. The studied indifference, insolence, and discontent
of her husband gave her no pain; and when he scolded or
abused her, she was highly diverted.
«*Mr. Palmer is so droll!” said she, in a whisper, to
Elinor. ‘ He is always out of humour.”
Elinor was not inclined, after a little observation, to
give him credit for being so genuinely and unaffectedly
ill-natured or ill-bred as he wished to appear. His temper
might perhaps be a little soured by finding, like many
others of his sex, that through some unaccountable bias in
favour of beauty, he was the husband of a very silly
woman, — but she knew that this kind of blunder was too
common for any sensible man to be lastingly hurt by it.
It was rather a wish of distinction, she believed, which
produced his contemptuous treatment of every body, and
his general abuse of every thing before him. It was the
desire of appearing superior to other people. The motive
was too common to be wondered at; but the means,
however they might succeed by establishing his. superiority
in ill-breeding, were not likely to attach any one to him
except his wife.
“Oh, my dear Miss Dashwood,” said Mrs. Palmer soon
afterwards, “I have got such a favour to ask of you and
your sister. Will you come and spend some time at Cleve-
land this Christmas? Now, pray do,—and come while the
Westons are with us. You cannot think how happy I shall
“SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 97
be! It will be quite delightful !— My love,” applying to
her husband, “ don’t you long to have the Miss Dashwoods
come to Cleveland : i
** Certainly,” he replied, with a sneer; ‘‘ I came into
Devonshire with no other view.”
** There now,” said his lady, “ you see Mr. Palmer ex-
pects you ; so you: cannot refuse to come.”
They both eagerly and resolutely declined her invitation.
** But indeed you must and shall come. I am sure you
will like it of all things. The Westons will be with us,
and it will be quite delightful. You cannot think what a
sweet place Cleveland is; and we are so gay now, for
Mr. Palmer is always going about the country canvassing
against the election; and so many people come to dine with
us that I never saw before, it is quite charming! But, poor
fellow! it is very fatiguing to him, for he is forced to
make every body like him.”
Elinor could hardly keep her countenance as she assented
to the hardship of such an obligation.
** How charming it will be,” said Charlotte, “ when he
is in Parliament !—- won’t it? How I shall laugh! It will
be so ridiculous to see all his letters directed to him with an
M. P.— But do you know, he says, he will never frank for
me? Hedeclares he won’t. Don’t you, Mr. Palmer?”
Mr. Palmer took no notice of her.
** He cannot bear writing, you know,” she continued ;
*“ he says it is quite shocking.”
“No,” said he, “ I never said any thing so irrational.
Don’t palm all your abuses of language upon me.”
“There now ; you see how droll he is. This is always
the way with him! Sometimes he won’t speak to me for
half a day together, and then he comes out with something
so droll —all about any thing in the world.”
She surprised Elinor very much as they returned into
the drawing-room, by asking her whether she did not like
Mr. Palmer excessively.
** Certainly,” said Elinor ; ‘ he seems very agreeable.”
* Well, I am so glad you do. I thought you would,
he is so pleasant ; and Mr. Palmer is excessively pleased
with you and your sisters, I can tell you; and you can't
H
98 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
think how disappointed he will be if you don’t come to
Cleveland. I can’t imagine why you should object to it.”
Elinor was again obliged to decline her invitation ; and,
by changing the subject, put a stop to her entreaties. She
thought it probable that as they lived in the same county
Mrs. Palmer might be able to give some more particular
account of Willoughby’s general character than could be
gathered from the Middletons’ partial acquaintance with
him ; and she was eager to gain from any one such a con-
firmation of his merits as might remove the possibility of
fear from Marianne. She began by enquiring if they saw
much of Mr. Willoughby at Cleveland, and whether they
were intimately acquainted with him.
“* Oh dear, yes; I know him extremely well,” replied
Mrs. Palmer ;—“ not that I ever spoke to him, indeed; but
I have seen him for ever in town. Some how or other I
never happened to be staying at Barton while he was at
Allenham. Mamma saw him here once before ; but I was
with my uncle at Weymouth. However, I dare say we
should have seen a great deal of him in Somersetshire, if it
had not happened very unluckily that we should never have
been in the country together. He is very little at Combe,
I believe ; but if he were ever so much there, I do not
think Mr. Palmer would visit him, for he is in the oppo-
sition, you know, and besides it is such a way off. I know
why you enquire about him, very well; your sister is to
marry him. Iam monstrous glad of it, for then I shall
have her for a neighbour, you know.”
‘“ Upon my word,” replied Elinor, “ you know much
more of the matter than I do, if you have any reason to
expect such a match.”
“‘ Don’t pretend to deny it, because you know it is what
every body talks of. I assure you I heard of it in my way
through town.”
«© My dear Mrs. Palmer !”
“ Upon my honour I did. I met Colonel Brandon
Monday morning in Bond Street, just before we left town,
and he told me of it directly.”
“* You surprise me very much. Colonel Brandon tell
you of it! Surely you must be mistaken. To give such
M SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 99
intelligence to a person who could not be interested in it,
even if it were true, is not what I should expect Colonel
Brandon to do.”
* But I do assure you it was so, for all that, and I will
tell you how it happened. When we met him, he turned
back and walked with us ; and so we began talking of my
brother and sister, and one thing and another, and I said to
him, ‘ So, Colonel, there is a new family come to Barton
cottage, I hear, and mamma sends me word they are very
pretty, and that one of them is going to be married to
Mr. Willoughby of Combe Magna. Is it true, pray? for
of course you must know, as you have been in Devonshire
so lately.’ ”
** And what did the Colonel say ?”
“Oh, he did not say much; but he looked as if he
knew it to be true, so from that moment I set it down as
certain. It will be quite delightful, I declare. When is it
to take place ?”’
«* Mr. Brandon was very well, I hope?”
* Oh, yes, quite well; and so full of your praises, he
did nothing but say fine things of you.”
“JT am flattered by his commendation. He seems an
excellent man; and I think him uncommonly pleasing.”
“So dolI. He is such a charming man, that it is quite
a pity he should be so grave and so dull. Mamma says he
was in love with your sister too. I assure you it wasa
great compliment if he was, for he hardly ever falls in love
with any body.” |
“ Is Mr. Willoughby much known in your part of
Somersetshire ?”’ said Elinor.
“Oh, yes, extremely well; that is, I do not believe
many people are acquainted with him, because Combe
Magna is so far off; but they all think him extremely
agreeable, I assure you. Nobody is more liked than Mr.
Willoughby wherever he goes, and so you may tell your
sister. She is a monstrous lucky girl to get him, upon my
honour ; not but that he is much more lucky in getting
her, because she is so very handsome and agreeable, that
nothing can be good enough for her. However, I don’t
think her hardly at all handsomer than you, I assure you;
H 2
100 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
for I think you both excessively pretty, and so does Mr.-
Palmer too, I am sure, though we conle not get him to own
it last night.”
Mrs. Palmer’s information respecting Willoughby was
not very material ; but any testimony in his favour, how-
ever small, was pleasing to her.
“< T am so glad we are got acquainted at last,” continued
Charlotte. ‘ And now I hope we shall always be great
friends. You can’t think how much I longed to see you.
It is so delightful that you should live at the cottage.
Nothing can be like it, to be sure. And I am so glad your
sister is going to be well married. I hope you will be,a
great deal at Combe Magna. It is a sweet place, by all
accounts.”
“© You have been long acquainted with Colonel Brandon,
have not you?”
““ Yes, a great while; ever since my sister married.
He was a particular friend of Sir John’s. I believe,” she
added, in a low voice, ‘‘ he-would have been very glad to
have had me, if he could. Sir John and Lady Middleton
wished it very much. But mamma did not think the match
good enough for me, otherwise Sir John would have men-
tioned it to the Colonel, and we should have been married
immediately.”
«* Did not Colonel Brandon know of Sir John’s proposal
to your mother before it was made? Had he never owned
his affection to yourself ?”
“ Oh, no; but if mamma had not objected to it, I dare
say he would have liked it of all things. He had not seen
me then above twice, for it was before I left school. How.
ever, I am much happier as 1 am. Mr. Palmer is just the
‘ind of man I like.”
CHAPTER XXI.
Tue Palmers returned to Cleveland the next day, and the
two families at Barton were again left to entertain each
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 101
other. But this did not last long; Elinor had hardly got
their last visiters out of her head, —had hardly-done won-'
dering at Charlotte’s being so happy without a cause, at
Mr. Palmer’s acting so simply, with good abilities, and at
the strange unsuitableness which often existed between
husband and wife,—before Sir John’s and Mrs. Jennings’s
active zeal in the cause of society procured her some other
new acquaintance to see and observe.
In a morning’s excursion to Exeter, they had met with
two young ladies, whom Mrs. Jennings had the satisfaction
of discovering to be her relations, and this was enough for
Sir John to invite them directly to the Park, as soon as
their present engagements at Exeter were over. Their en-
gagements at Exeter instantly gave way before such an
invitation ; and Lady Middleton was thrown into no little
alarm, on the return of Sir John, by hearing that she was
very soon to receive a visit from two girls whom she had
never seen in her life, and of whose elegance — whose
tolerable gentility even—she could have no proof; for the
assurances of her husband and mother on that subject went
for nothing at all. Their being her relations, too, made
it so much the worse; and Mrs. Jennings’s attempts at con-
solation were, therefore, unfortunately founded, when she
advised her daughter not to care about their being so
fashionable ; because they were all cousins, and must put
up with one another. As it was impossible, however, now
to prevent their coming, Lady Middleton resigned herself
to the idea of it with all the philosophy of a well-bred
woman, contenting herself with merely giving her husband
a gentle reprimand on the subject five or six times every
day.
The young ladies arrived: their appearance was by no
means ungenteel or unfashionable. Their dress was very
smart, their manners very civil: they were delighted with
the house, and in raptures with the furniture; and they
happened to-be so doatingly fond of children, that Lady
Middleton’s good opinion was engaged in their favour before
they had been an hour at the Park. She declared them to
be very agreeable girls indeed, which, for her Ladyship,
was enthusiastic admiration. Sir John’s confidence in his
H 3
102 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
own judgment rose with this animated praise, and he set off
directly for the cottage, to tell the Miss Dashwoods of
the Miss Steeles’ arrival, and to assure them of their being
the sweetest girls in the world. From such commendation
as this, however, there was not much to be learned: Elinor
well knew that the sweetest girls in the world were to be
met with in every part of England, under every possible
variation of form, face, temper, and understanding. Sir
John wanted the whole family to walk to the Park directly
and look at his guests. Benevolent, philanthropic man !
It was painful to him even to keep a third cousin to himself.
“Do come now,” said he—‘“‘ pray come—you must
come—TI declare you shall come. You can’t think how’
you will like them. Lucy is monstrous pretty, and so good
humoured and agreeable! The children are all hanging
about her already, as if she was an old acquaintance.
And they both long to see you of all things; for they have
heard at Exeter that you are the most beautiful creatures in
the world; and I have told them it is all very true, and a
great deal more. You will be delighted with them, I am
sure. They have brought the whole coach full of playthings
for the children. How can you be so cross as not to come P
Why they are your cousins, you know, after a fashion.
You are my cousins, and they are my wife's; so you must
be related.”
But Sir John could not prevail: he could only obtain a
promise of their calling at the Park within a day or two,
and then left them in amazement at their indifference, to
walk home and boast anew of their attractions to the Miss
Steeles, as he had been already boasting of the Miss Steeles
to them.
When their promised visit to the Park, and consequent
introduction to these young ladies, took place, they found in
the appearance of the eldest, who was nearly thirty, with a
very plain and not a sensible face, nothing to admire; but
in the other, who was not more than two or three and
twenty, they acknowledged considerable beauty: her fea-
tures were pretty, and she had a sharp quick eye, and a
smartness of air, which, though it did not give actual
elegance or grace, gave distinction to her person. ‘Their
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 103
manners were particularly civil, and Elinor soon allowed
them credit for some kind of sense, when she saw with
what constant and judicious attentions they were making
themselves agreeable to Lady Middleton. With her children
they were in continual raptures, extolling their beauty,
courting their notice, and humouring all their whims ; and
such of their time as could be spared from the importunate
demands which this politeness made on it was spent in ad-
miration of whatever her Ladyship was doing, if she hap-
pened to be doing any thing, or in taking patterns of some
elegant new dress, in which her appearance the day before
had thrown them into unceasing delight. Fortunately for
those who pay their court through such foibles, a fond
mother, though, in pursuit of praise for her children, the
most rapacious of human beings, is likewise the most
credulous: her demands are exorbitant; but she will swallow
any thing; and the excessive affection and endurance of
the Miss Steeles towards her offspring were viewed, there-
fore, by Lady Middleton without the smallest surprise or
distrust. She saw with maternal complacency all the im-
pertinent encroachments and mischievous tricks to which
her cousins submitted. She saw their sashes untied, their
hair pulled about their ears, their work-bags searched, and
their knives and scissors stolen away, and felt no doubt of
its being a reciprocal enjoyment. It suggested no other
surprise than that Elinor and Marianne should sit so com-
posedly by, without claiming a share in what was passing.
** John is in such spirits to-day !” said she, on his taking
Miss Steele’s pocket handkerchief, and throwing it out of
window — “ he is full of monkey tricks.”
And soon afterwards, on the second boy’s violently pinch-
ing one of the same lady’s fingers, she fondly observed,
<< How playful William is!’
«* And here is my sweet little Anna-maria,” she added,
tenderly caressing a little girl of three years old, who had
not made a noise for the. last two minutes; “‘ and she is
always so gentle and quiet. Never was there such a usa
little thing !”
But anfortindtely in bestowing these embraces, a pin in
her Ladyship’s head-dress slightly scratching the child’s
H 4
104 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
neck, produced from this pattern of gentleness such violent
screams, as could hardly be outdone by any creature pro-
fessedly noisy. The mother’s consternation was excessive ;
but it could not surpass the alarm of the Miss Steeles, and
every thing was done by all three, in so critical an emer-
gency, which affection could suggest, as likely to assuage
the agonies of the little sufferer. She was seated in her
mother’s lap, covered with kisses, her wound bathed with
lavender-water, by one of the Miss Steeles, who was on her
knees to attend her, and her mouth stuffed with sugar
plums by the other. With such a reward for her tears,
the child was too wise to cease crying. She still screamed
and sobbed lustily, kicked her two brothers for offering to
touch her ; and all their united soothings were ineffectual, till
Lady Middleton luckily remembering that in a scene of
similar distress last week some apricot marmalade had
been successfully applied for a bruised temple, the same
remedy was eagerly proposed for this unfortunate scratch,
and a slight intermission of screams in the young lady on
hearing it gave them reason to hope that it would not be
rejected. She was carried out of the room, therefore, in
her mother’s arms, in quest of this medicine; and as the
two boys chose to follow, though earnestly entreated by
their mother to stay behind, the four young ladies were
left in a quietness which the room had not known for many
hours.
“ Poor little creature !” said Miss Steele, as soon as they
were gone ; “‘ it might have been a very sad accident.”
“« Yet I hardly know how,” cried Marianne, “ unless it
had been under totally different circumstances. But this
is the usual way of heightening alarm, where there is no-
thing to be alarmed at in reality.”
“‘ What a sweet woman Lady Middleton is !” said Lucy
Steele.
Marianne was silent ; it was impossible for her to say
what she did not feel, however trivial the occasion ; and
upon Elinor, therefore, the whole task of telling lies, when
politeness required it, always fell. She did her best when
thus called on, by speaking of Lady Middleton with more
warmth than she felt, though with far less than Miss Lucy.
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. ~ 105
« And Sir John, too,” cried the elder sister, “ what a
charming man he is!”
Here, too, Miss Dashwood’s commendation, being only
simple and just, came in without any eclat. She merely
observed that he was perfectly good humoured and friendly.
«* And what a charming little family they have! I never
saw such fine children in my life. I declare I quite doat
upon them already, and indeed I am always distractedly
fond of children.”
** T should guess so,” said Elinor, with a smile, “ from
what I have witnessed this morning.”
“ T have a notion,” said Lucy, “ you think the little
Middletons rather too much indulged ; perhaps they may
be the outside of enough ; but it is so natural in Lady Mid-
dleton ; and for my part I love to see children full of life
and spirits ; I cannot bear them if they are tame and quiet.”
“ T confess,” replied Elinor, “ that while I am at Barton
Park I never think of tame and quiet children with any
abhorrence.”
A short pause succeeded this speech, which was first
broken by Miss Steele, who seemed very much disposed
for conversation, and who now said, rather abruptly, ““ And
how do you like Devonshire, Miss Dashwood? I suppose
you were very sorry to leave Sussex.”
In some surprise at the familiarity of this question, or
at least of the manner in which it was spoken, Elinor re-
plied that she was.
“ Norland is a prodigious beautiful place, is not it?”
added Miss Steele.
_ We have heard Sir John admire it excessively,” said
Lucy, who seemed to think some apology necessary for the
freedom of her sister.
“I think every one must admire it,” replied Elinor,
“* who ever saw the place; though it is not to be supposed
that any one can estimate its beauties as we do.”
“And had you a great many smart beaux there? I
suppose you have not so many in this part of the world.
For my part, I think they are a vast addition always.”
«* But why should you think,” said Lucy, looking
’
3?
106 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
ashamed of her sister, “‘ that there are not as many genteel
young men in Devonshire as Sussex P”
“Nay, my dear, I’m sure I don’t pretend to say that
there an’t. I’m sure there’s a vast many smart beaux in
Exeter ; but you know, how could I tell what smart beaux
there might be about Norland; and I was only afraid
the Miss Dashwoods might find it dull at Barton, if they
had not so many as they used to have. But perhaps you
young ladies may not care about the beaux, and had as
lief be without them as with them. For my part, I think
they are vastly agreeable, provided they dress smart and
behave civil. But I can’t bear to see them dirty and nasty.
Now there’s Mr. Rose at Exeter, a prodigious smart young
man, quite a beau, clerk to Mr. Simpson, you know, and yet
if you do but meet him of a morning, he is not fit to be
seen. I suppose your brother was quite a beau, Miss
Dashwood, before be married, as he was so rich ?”
“Upon my word,” replied Elinor, “‘ I cannot tell you,
for I do not perfectly comprehend the meaning of the word.
But this I can say, that if he ever was a beau before he
married, he is one still, for there is not the smallest alter-
ation in him.”
“Oh, dear! one never thinks of married men’s being
beaux — they have something else to do.”
* Lord! Anne,” cried her sister, “ you can talk of no-
thing but beaux; you will make Miss Dashwood believe
you think of nothing else.” And then, to turn the discourse,
she began admiring the house and the furniture.
This specimen of the Miss Steeles was enough. The
vulgar freedom and folly of the eldest left her no recom-
mendation ; and as Elinor was not blinded by the beauty,
or the shrewd look of the youngest, to her want of real
elegance and artlessness, she left the house without any
wish of knowing them better.
Not so the Miss Steeles. They came from Exeter
well provided with admiration for the use of Sir John
» Middleton, his family, and all his relations ; and no nig-
gardly proportion was now dealt out to his fair cousins,
whom they declared to be the most beautiful, elegant, ac-
complished, and agreeable girls they had ever beheld, and
dy
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 107
with whom they were particularly anxious to be better ac-
quainted. And to be better acquainted, therefore, Elinor
soon found was their inevitable lot; for as Sir John was
entirely on the side of the Miss Steeles, their party would
be too strong for opposition, and that kind of intimacy
must be submitted to, which consists of sittingan hour or
two together in the same room almost every day. Sir
John could do no more; but he did not know that any
more was required: to be together was, in his opinion, to
be intimate; and while his continual schemes for their
meeting were effectual, he had not a doubt of their being
established friends.
To do him justice, he did every thing in his power to
promote their unreserve, by making the Miss Steeles ac-
quainted with whatever he knew or supposed of his cousins’
situations in the most delicate particulars; and Elinor
had. not seen them more than twice, before the eldest of
them wished her joy on her sister’s having been so lucky
as to make a conquest of a very smart beau since she came
to Barton.
“** T will be a fine thing to have her married so young,
to be sure,” said she, “‘ and I hear he is quite a beau, and
prodigious handsome. And I hope you may have as good
luck yourself soon; but, perhaps, you may have a friend
in the corner already.”
Elinor could not suppose that Sir John would be more
nice in proclaiming his supicions of her regard for Edward,
than he had been with respect to Marianne ; indeed it was
rather his favourite joke of the two, as being somewhat
newer and more conjectural ; and since Edward’s visit, they
had never dined together without his drinking to her best
affections with so much significancy and so many nods and
winks, as to excite general attention. The letter F had been
likewise invariably brought forward, and found productive of
such countless jokes, that its character, as the wittiest letter
in the alphabet, had been long established with Elinor.
The Miss Steeles, as she expected, had now all thee
benefit of these jokes ; and in the eldest of them they raised
a curiosity to know the name of the gentleman alluded to,
which, though often impertinently expressed, was perfectly
108 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
of a piece with her general inquisitiveness into the concerns
of their family. But Sir John did not sport long with the
curiosity which he delighted to raise, for he had at least as
much pleasure in telling the name, as Miss Steele had in
hearing it.
“* His name is Ferrars,’”’ said he, in a very audible whis-
per; “ but pray do not tell it, for it’s a great secret.”
“* Ferrars!” repeated Miss Steele ; “ Mr. Ferrars is the
happy man, is he? What! your sister-in-law’s brother,
Miss Dashwood? a very agreeable young man to be sure ;
I know him very well.”
“* How can you say so, Anne?” cried Lucy, who gene-
rally made an amendment to all her sister’s assertions.
“‘ Though we have seen him once or twice at my uncle’s,
it is rather too much to pretend to know him very well.”
Elinor heard all this with attention and surprise. ‘‘ And
who was this uncle? Where did he live? How came they
acquainted P’’ She wished very much to have the subject
continued, though she did not choose to join in it herself ;
but nothing more of it was said, and, for the first time in her
life, she thought Mrs. Jennings deficient either in curiosity
after petty information, or in a disposition to communicate
it. The manner in which Miss Steele had spoken of Ed-
ward increased her curiosity ; for it struck her as being
rather ill-natured, and suggested the suspicion of that lady’s
knowing, or fancying herself to know, something to his dis-
advantage. But her curiosity was unavailing ; for no far-
ther notice was taken of Mr. Ferrars’s name by Miss Steele
when alluded to, or even openly mentioned by Sir John.
CHAPTER XXII.
*Marranne, who had never much toleration for any thing
like impertinence, vulgarity, inferiority of parts, or even
difference of taste from herself, was at this time particularly
ill-disposed, from the state of her spirits, to be pleased with
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 109
the Miss Steeles, or to encourage their advances; and to
the invariable coldness of her behaviour towards them,
which checked every endeavour at intimacy on their side,
Elinor principally attributed that preference of herself
which soon became evident in the manners of both, but
especially of Lucy, who missed no opportunity of engaging
her in conversation, or of striving to improve their ac-
quaintance by, an easy and frank communication of her sen-
timents.
Lucy was naturally clever ; her remarks were often just
and amusing ; and as a companion for half an hour Elinor
frequently found her agreeable; but her powers had re-
ceived no aid from education: she was ignorant and illite-
rate; and her deficiency of all mental improvement, her want
of information in the most common particulars, could not
be concealed from Miss Dashwood, in spite of her constant
endeavour to appear to advantage. Elinor saw, and pitied
her for, the neglect of abilities which education might have
rendered so respectable ; but she saw, with less tenderness
of feeling, the thorough want of delicacy, of rectitude, and
integrity of mind, which her attentions, her assiduities, her
flatteries at the Park betrayed ; and she could have no last-
ing satisfaction in the company of a person who joined
insincerity with ignorance ; whose want of instruction pre-
vented their meeting in conversation on terms of equality,
and whose conduct towards others made every show of at-
tention and deference towards herself perfectly valueless.
** You will think my question an odd one, I dare say,”
said Lucy to her one day, as they were walking together
from the Park to the cottage; “ but, pray, are you person-
ally acquainted with your sister-in-law’ mother, . Mrs.
Ferrars?”
Elinor did think the question a very odd one, and her
countenance expressed it, as she answered that she had
never seen Mrs. Ferrars.
“© Indeed !” replied Lucy ; “I wonder at that, for I
thought you must have seen her at Norland sometimes.
Then, perhaps, you cannot it me what sort of a woman
she is?” ‘
“No,” returned Elinor, cautious of giving her real
110 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
opinion of Edward’s mother, and not very desirous of satis-
fying, what seemed impertinent curiosity; “ J know no-
thing of her.”
«I am sure you think me very strange, for enquiring
about her in such a way,” said Lucy, eyeing Elinor atten-
tively as she spoke ; “‘ but perhaps there may be reasons —
I wish I might venture ; but, however, I hope you will do
me the justice of believing that I do not mean to be im-
pertinent.’
Elinor made her a civil reply, and they walked on for a few
minutes in silence. It was broken by Lucy, who renewed
the subject again by saying, with some hesitation, —
“J cannot bear to have you think me impertinently
curious. I am sure I would rather do any thing in the
world than be thought so by a person whose good opinion
is so well worth having as yours. And I am sure I should
not have the smallest fear of trusting you ; indeed, I should
be very glad of your advice how to manage in such an un«
comfortable situation as I am; but, however, there is no
occasion to trouble you. J am sorry you do not happen to
know Mrs. Ferrars.”
“Tam sorry I do not,” said Elinor, in great astonish-
ment, “if it could be of any use to you to know my opinion
f her. But really I never understood that you were at
all connected with that family, and therefore I am a little
surprised, I confess, at so serious an cathe oh into her cha~«
racter.’
“* J dare say you are, and [ am sure I do not at all wonder
atit. But if I dared tell you all, you would not be so much
surprised. Mrs. Ferrars is certainly nothing to me at pre-«
sent; but the time may come — how soon it will come
must depend upon herself — when we may be very inti-
mately connected,”
She looked down as she said this, amiably bashful, with
only one side glance at her companion to observe its effect
on her.
** Good heavens !” cried Elinor, “ what do you mean?
Are you acquainted with Mr. Robert Ferrars? Can you
be?” And she did not feel much delighted with the idea
of such a sister-in-law.
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 111
«* No,” replied Lucy, “ not to Mr. Robert Ferrars — I
never saw him in my life; but,” fixing her eyes upon
Elinor, “ to his elder brother.”
What felt Elinor at that moment? Astonishment, that
would have been as painful as it was strong, had not an
immediate disbelief of the assertion attended it. She
turned towards Lucy in silent amazement, unable to divine
the reason or object of such a declaration ; and though her
complexion varied, she stood firm in incredulity, and felt
in no danger of an hysterical ft, or a swoon.
«You may well be surprised,” continued Lucy ; “ for
to be sure you could have had no idea of it before; for I
dare say he never dropped the smallest hint of it to you or
any of your family; because it was always meant to be a
great secret, and I am sure has been faithfully kept so by
me to this hour. Not a soul of all my relations know of it
but Anne, and I never should have mentioned it to you, if
I had not felt the greatest dependence in the world upon
your secrecy ; and I reaily thought my behaviour in asking
so many questions about Mrs. Ferrars must seem so
odd, that it ought to be explained. And I do not think
Mr. Ferrars can be displeased, when he knows I have
trusted you, because I know he has the highest opinion in
the world of all your family, and looks upon yourself and
the other Miss Dashwoods quite as his own sisters.” She
paused.
Elinor for a few moments remained silent. Her as-
tonishment at what she heard was at first too great for
words ; but at length forcing herself to speak, and to speak
cautiously, she said, with a calmness of manner which
tolerably well concealed her surprise and solicitude, —
“<< May I ask if your engagement is of long standing ?”
«< We have been engaged these four years.”
<¢ Four years!”
ies
Elinor, though greatly shocked, still felt unable to be-
lieve it.
» J did not know,” said she, ‘ that you were even ac-
quainted till the other day.”
“ Our acquaintance, however, is of many years’ date.
pa he SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
He was under my uncle’s care, you know, a considerable
while.”
« Your uncle!”
“ Yes; Mr. Pratt. Did you never hear him talk of
Mr. Pratt ?”
‘** T 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 Long-
staple, near Plymouth. It was’ there our acquaintance
begun, for my sister and me was often staying with my
uncle, and it was there our engagement was formed, though
not till a year after he had quitted as a pupil; but he was
almost always with us afterwards. I was very unwilling
to enter into it, as you may imagine, without the knowledge
and approbation of his mother; but I was too young, and
loved him too well, to be so prudent as I ought to have
been. Though you do not know him so well as me, Miss
Dashwood, you must have seen enough of him to be sen-
sible he is very capable of making a woman sincerely at-
tached to him.”
“* Certainly,” answered Elinor, without knowing what
she said; but, after a moment's reflection, she added, with
revived security of Edward’s honour and love, and her
companion’s falsehood, — ‘“ Engaged to Mr. Edward Fer-
rars !—-I confess myself so totally surprised at what you
tell me, that really — I beg your pardon ; but surely there
must be some mistake of person or name. We cannot
mean the same Mr. Ferrars.”
‘“* We can mean no other,” cried Lucy, smiling. ‘ Mr.
Edward Ferrars, the eldest son of Mrs. Ferrars of Park
Street, and brother of your sister-in-law, Mrs. John Dash-
wood, is the person I mean; you must allow that J am
not likely to be deceived as to the name of the man on
whom all my happiness depends.”
“* It is strange,” replied Elinor, in a most painful per-
plexity, “ that I should never have heard him even mention
your name.” .
“No; considering our situation, it was not strange.
Our first care has been to keep the matter secret. You
knew nothing of me, or my family, and, therefore, there
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 113
could be no occasion for ever mentioning my name to you ;
and, as he was always particularly afraid of his sister’s sus-
pecting any thing, that was reason enough for his not men-
tioning it.”
She was silent. Elinor’s security sunk; but her self-
command did not sink with it.
** Four years you have been engaged,” said she, with a
firm voice.
** Yes; and heaven knows how much longer we may
have to with, Poor Edward! It puts him quite out
of heart.” Then taking a small miniature. from her pocket,
she added, “ To prevent the possibility of mistake, be so
good as to look at this face. It does not do him justice, to
be sure, but yet I think you cannot be deceived as to the
person it was drew for. I have had it above these three
years.”
She put it into her hands as she spoke; and when Elinor
saw the painting, whatever other doubts her fear of a too
hasty decision, or her wish of detecting falsehood, might
suffer to linger in her-mind, she, eid have none of its
being Edward’s face. She re turned it almost instantly, ac-
Eas edging the likeness.
“J have never been able,” continued Lucy, “ to give
him my picture in return, which I am very much vexed at,
for he has been always so anxious to get it! But I am
determined to sit for it the very first opportunity.”
“« You are quite in the right,” replied Elinor, calmly.
They then proceeded a few paces in silence. Lucy spoke
first.
«IT am sure,” said she, “ I have no doubt in the world
of your faithfully keeping this secret, because you must
know of what importance it is to us, not to have it reach
his mother ; for she would never approve of it, I dare say.
I shall have no fortune, and I fancy she is an exceeding
proud woman.”
“ T certainly did not seek your confidence,” said Elinor ;
** but you do me no more than justice in imagining that I
may be depended on. Your secret is safe with me; but
pardon me if I express some surprise at so unnecessary a
I
‘
114 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
communication. You must at least have felt that my
being acquainted with it could not add to its safety.”
As she said this, she looked earnestly at Lucy, hoping
to discover something in her countenance; perhaps the
falsehood of the greatest part of what she had been saying ;
but Lucy’s countenance suffered no change.
“I was afraid you would think I was taking a great
liberty with you,” said she, “ in telling you all this. I
have not known you long, to be sure, personally at least,
but I have known you and all your family by description a
great while ; and as soon as I saw you, I felt almost as if
you was an old acquaintance. Besides, in the present case,
I really thought some explanation was due to you, after my
making such particular enquiries about Edward’s mother ;
and I am so unfortunate, that I have not 4 creature whose
advice I can ask. Anne is the only person that knows of
it, and she has no judgment at all; indeed, she does me a
great deal more harm than good, for I am in constant fear
of her betraying me. She does not know how to hold her
tongue, as you must perceive ; and I am sure I was in the
greatest fright in the world t’ other day, when Edward’s
name was mentioned by Sir John, lest she should out with
it all. You can’t think how much I go through in my
mind from it altogether. I only wonder that I am alive,
after what I have suffered for Edward's sake these last four
years. Every thing in such suspense and uncertainty ;
and seeing him so seldom— we can hardly meet above
twice a year. I am sure I wonder my heart is not quite
broke.” .
Here she took out her handkerchief; but Elinor did
not feel very compassionate.
“‘ Sometimes,” continued Lucy, after wiping her eyes,
“* T think whether it would not be better for us both to
break off the matter entirely.’ As she said this, she looked
directly at her companion. ‘* But then, at other times,‘ I
have not resolution enough for it. I cannot bear the
thoughts of making him so miserable, as I know the very
mention of such a thing would do, And on my own ac-
count too — so dear as he is to me — I don’t think I could
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. TES
be equal to it. What would you advise me to do in such
a case, Miss Dashwood? What would you do yourself?”
** Pardon me,” replied Elinor, startled by the question ;
“‘ but I can give you no advice under such circumstances,
Your own judgment must direct you.”
“To be sure,’ continued Lucy, after a few minutes’
silence on both sides, “ his mother must provide for him
some time or other ; but poor Edward is so cast down about
it! Did not you think him dreadful low-spirited when he
was at Barton? He was so miserable when he left us at
Longstaple, to go to you, that I was afraid you would
think him quite ill.”
“ Did he come from your uncle’s, then, when he visited
us P”
* Oh, yes; he had been staying a fortnight with us.
Did you think he came directly from town?”
** No,” replied Elinor, most feelingly sensible of every
fresh circumstance in favour of Lucy’s veracity; “I re.
member he told us, that he had been staying a fortnight
with some friends near Plymouth.” She remembered, too,
her own surprise at the time, at his mentioning nothing
farther of those friends, at his total silence with respect
even to their names.
“* Did not you think him sadly out of spirits?” repeated:
Lucy.
“ We did, indeed, particularly so when he first arrived.”
™ ©T begged him to exert himself for fear you should
suspect what was the matter; but it made him so me-
lancholy, not being able to stay more than a fortnight
with us, and seeing me so much affected. Poor fellow!
I am afraid it is just the same with him now; for he
writes in’wretched spirits. I heard from him just before
I left Exeter ;” taking a letter from her pocket, and care-
lessly showing the direction to Elinor. ‘ You know his
hand, I dare say,—a charming one it is; but that is not
written so well as usual. He was tired, I dare say, for
he had just filled the sheet to me as full as possible.”
Elinor saw that it was his hand, and she could doubt no
longer. The picture, she had allowed herself to believe,
might have been accidentally obtained ; it might not have
12
116 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.-
been Edward’s gift ; but a correspondence between them. by
letter could subsist only under a positive engagement,
could be authorised by nothing else: for a few moments
she was almost overcome — her heart sunk within her,
and she could hardly stand ; but exertion was indispensably
necessary ; and she struggled so resolutely against the op-
pression of her feelings, that her success was ly ge and
for the time complete.
“Writing to each other,” said Lucy, returning the
letter into her pocket, “is the only comfort we have in
such long separations. Yes, £ have one other comfort in
his picture; but poor Edward has not even that. If he
had but my picture, he says he should be easy. I gave
him a lock of my hair set in a ring when he was at Long-
staple last, and that was some comfort to him, he said, but
not equal to a picture, Perhaps you might notice the ring
when you saw him?”
**T did,” said Elinor, with a composure of voice, un-
der which was concealed an emotion and distress beyond
any thing she had ever felt before. She was mortified,
shocked, confounded. a
Fortunately for her, they had now reached the cottage,
and the conversation could be continued no farther. After
sitting with them a few minutes, the Miss Steeles returned
to the Park, and Elinor was then at liberty to think and
be wretched.
END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 117
VOLUME THE SECOND.
CHAPTER I.
However small Elinor’s general dependence on Lucy’s
veracity might be, it was impossible for her, on serious
reflection, to suspect it in the present case, where no tempt-
ation could be answerable to the folly of inventing a false-
hood of such a description.. What Lucy had asserted to
be true, therefore, Elinor could not, dared not, longer
doubt ; supported as it was, too, on every side by such pro-
babilities and proofs, and contradicted by nothing but her
own wishes. Their opportunity of acquaintance in the
house of Mr. Pratt was a foundation for the rest, at
once indisputable and alarming; and Edward's visit near
Plymouth, his melancholy state of mind, his dissatis-
faction at his own prospects, his uncertain behaviour to-
wards herself, the intimate knowledge of the Miss Steeles
as to Norland and their family connections, which had often
surprised her, the picture, the letter, the ring, formed alto-
gether such a body of evidence as overcame every fear of
condemning him unfairly, and established as a fact, which
no partiality could set aside, his ill-treatment of herself.
Her resentment of such behaviour, her indignation at
having been its dupe, for a short time made her feel only
for herself ; but other ideas, other considerations soon arose.
‘Had Edward been intentionally deceiving her? Had he
feigned a regard for her which he did not feel? . Was his
engagement to Lucy an engagement of the heartP No;
whatever it might once have been, she could not believe it
such at present. His affection was all her own. She
could not be deceived in that. Her mother, sisters,
I 3
118 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
Fanny, all had been conscious of his regard for her at
Norland ; it was not an illusion of her own vanity. He
certainly loved her. What a softener of the heart was this
persuasion! How much could it not tempt her to forgive !
He had been blamable, highly blamable, in remaining at
Norland after he first felt her influence over him to be more
than it ought to be. In that, he could not be defended ;
but if he had injured her, how much more had he injured
himself ; if her case were pitiable, his was hopeless. His
imprudence had made her miserable for a while ; but it
seemed to have deprived himself of all chance of ever
being otherwise. She might in time regain tranquillity ;
but he, what had he to look forward to? Could he ever
be tolerably happy with Lucy Steele ; could he, were his
affection for herself out of the question, with his integrity,
his delicacy, and well-informed mind, be satisfied with a
wife like her — illiterate, artful, and selfish ?
The youthful infatuation of nineteen would naturally
blind him to every thing but her beauty and good nature ;
but the four succeeding years — years which, if rationally
spent, give such improvement to the understanding — must
have opened his eyes to her defects of education, while the
same period of time, spent on her side in inferior society
and more frivolous pursuits, had perhaps robbed her of
that simplicity which might once have given an interesting
character to her beauty.
If in the supposition of his seeking to marry herself,
his difficulties from his mother had seemed great, how
much greater were they now likely to be when the object of
his engagement was undoubtedly inferior in connections,
and probably inferior in fortune to herself. These diffi-
culties, indeed, with a heart so alienated from Lucy,
might not press very hard upon his patience ; but melan-
choly was the state of the person by whom the expectation
of family opposition and unkindness could be felt as a
relief !
As these considerations occurred to her in painful suc- —
cession, she wept for him more than for herself. Supported
by the conviction of having done nothing to merit her pre-
sent unhappiness, and consoled by the belief that Edward
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 119
had done nothing to forfeit her esteem, she thought she
could even now, under the first smart of the heavy blow,
command herself enough to guard every suspicion of the
truth from her mother and sisters. And so well was she
able to answer her own expectations, that when she joined
them at dinner, only two hours after she had first suffered
the extinction of all her dearest hopes, no one would have
supposed, from the appearance of the sisters, that Elinor
Was mourning in secret over obstacles which must divide
her for ever from the object of her love, and that Marianne
was internally dwelling on the perfections of a man, of
whose whole heart she felt thoroughly possessed, and
whom she expected to see in every carriage which drove
near their house.
The necessity of concealing from her mother and Mari-
anne what had been intrusted in confidence to herself,
though it obliged her to unceasing exertion, was no aggra-
vation of Elinor’s distress. On the contrary, it was a
relief to her, to be spared the communication of what would
give such affliction to them, and to be saved likewise from
hearing that condemnation of Edward, which would pro-
bably flow from the excess of their partial affection for her-
self, and which was more than she felt equal to support.
From their counsel, or their conversation, she knew she
could receive no assistance; their tenderness and sorrow
must add to her distress, while her self-command would
neither receive encouragement from their example nor from
their praise. She was stronger alone; and her own good
sense so well supported her, that her firmness was as un-
shaken, her appearance of cheerfulness as invariable, as,
with regrets so poignant and so fresh, it was possible for
them to be.
Much as she had suffered from her first conversation
with Lucy on the subject, she soon felt an earnest wish of
renewing it; and this for more reasons than one. She
wanted to hear many particulars of their engagement re-
peated again ; she wanted more clearly to understand what
Lucy really felt for Edward, whether there were any sin-
cerity in her declaration of tender regard for him; and
she particularly wanted to convince Lucy, by her readiness
I 4
120 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
to enter on the matter again, and her calmness in con-
versing on it, that she was no otherwise interested in it
than as a friend, which she very much feared her invo-
luntary agitation, in their morning discourse, must have
left at least doubtful. That Lucy was disposed to be
jealous of her appeared very probable: it was plain that
Edward had always spoken highly in her praise, not merely
from Lucy’s assertion, but from her venturing to trust her
on so short a personal acquaintance with a secret so cone
fessedly and evidently important. And even Sir John’s
joking intelligence must have had some weight. But, in-
deed, while Elinor remained so well assured within herself
of being really beloved by Edward, it required no other
consideration of probabilities to make it natural that. Lucy
should be jealous ; and that she was so, her very confidence
was a proof. What other reason for the disclosure of the
affair could there be, but that Elinor might be informed
by it of Lucy’s superior claims on Edward, and be taught
to avoid him in future? She had little difficulty in un-
derstanding thus much of her rival’s intentions ; and while
she was firmly resolved to act by her as every principle of
honour and honesty directed, to combat her own affection
for Edward, and to see him as little as possible, she could
not deny herself the comfort of endeavouring to convince
Lucy that her heart was unwounded. And as she could
now have nothing more painful to hear on the subject than
had already been told, she did not mistrust her own ability
of going through a repetition of particulars with composure.
But it was not immediately that an opportunity of doing
so could be commanded, though Lucy was as well disposed
as herself to take advantage of any that occurred ; for the
weather was not often fine enough to allow of their joining
in a walk, where they might most easily separate them-
selves from the others ; and though they met at least every
other evening either at the Park or cottage, and chiefly at
the former, they could not be supposed to meet for the
sake of conversation. Such a thought would never enter
either Sir John or Lady Middleton’s head ; and therefore
very little leisure was ever given for general chat, and
none at all for particular discourse. They met for the
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 121.
sake of eating, drinking, and laughing together, playing at
cards, or consequences, or any other game that was sufii-
ciently noisy. :
One or two meetings of this kind had taken place, without
affording Elinor any chance of engaging Lucy in. private,
when Sir John called at the cottage one morning, to beg,
in the name of charity, that they would all dine with Lady
Middleton that day, as he was obliged to attend the club
at Exeter, and she would otherwise be quite alone, except
her mother and the two Miss Steeles. Elinor, who fore-
saw_a fairer opening for the point she had in view, in such
a party as this was likely to be, more at liberty among
themselves under the tranquil and well-bred direction of
Lady Middleton than when her husband united them to-
gether in one noisy purpose, immediately accepted the
invitation ; Margaret, with her mother’s permission, was
equally compliant ; and Marianne, though always unwilling
to join any of their parties, was persuaded by her mother,
who could not bear to have her seclude herself from any
chance of amusement, to go likewise.
The young ladies went, and Lady Middleton was happily
preserved from the frightful solitude which had threatened
her. The insipidity of the meeting was exactly such as
Elinor had expected ; it produced not one novelty of thought
or expression ; and nothing could be less interesting than
the whole of their discourse both in the dining parlour and
drawing room: to the latter, the children accompanied
them ; and while they remained there, she was too well
convinced of the impossibility of engaging Lucy’s attention
to attempt it. They quitted it only with the removal of
the tea-things. The card-table was then placed; and Elinor
began to wonder at herself for having ever. entertained a
hope of finding time for conversation at the Park. They
all rose up in preparation for a round game.
“Tam glad,” said Lady Middleton to Lucy, “ you are
not going to finish poor little Anna-maria’s basket this even-
ing ; for I am sure it must hurt your eyes to work filigree
by candlelight. And we will make the dear little love
‘some amends for her disappointment to-morrow, and then
I hope she will not much mind it.”’
129 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
This hint was enough, Lucy recollected herself instantly,
and replied, ‘‘ Indeed you are very much mistaken, Lady
Middleton ; I am only waiting to know whether you can
make your ‘party without me, or I should have been at my
filigree already. I would not disappoint the little angel
for all the world ; and if you want me at the card-table
now, I am resolved to finish the basket after supper.”
** You are very g good, —I hope it won't hurt your eyes:
— will you ring the bell for some working candles? My
poor little girl would be sadly disappointed, I know, if the
basket was not finished to-morrow ; for though I told her
it certainly would not, I am sure she depends upon having
it done.”
Lucy directly drew her work-table near her, and re-
seated herself with an alacrity and cheerfulness, which
seemed to infer, that she could taste no greater delight
than in making a filigree basket for a spoilt child.
Lady Middleton proposed a rubber of Cassino to the
others. No one made any objection but Marianne, who,
with her usual inattention to the forms of general civility,
exclaimed, ‘* Your Ladyship will have the goodness to ex-
cuse me— you know I detest cards. I shall go to the
piano-forte ; I have not touched it since it was tuned.”
And, without farther ceremony, she turned away and walked
to the instrument.
Lady Middleton looked as if she thanked Heaven that
. she had never made so rude a speech.
** Marianne can never keep long from that instrument,
you know, ma’am,” said Elinor, endeavouring to smooth
away the offence ; “ and I do not much wonder at it; for
it is the very best toned piano-forte I ever heard.”
The remaining five were now to draw their cards.
** Perhaps,” continued Elinor, “ if I should happen to
cut out, I may be of some use to Miss Lucy Steele, in
rolling her papers for her; and there is so much still to
be done to the basket, that it must be impossible, I think,
for her labour, singly, to finish it this evening. I should
like the work exceedingly, if she would allow me a share
in it.”
* Indeed I shall be very much obliged to you for your
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 123
help,” cried Lucy, “ for I find there is more to be done to
it than I thought there was ; and it would be a shocking
thing to disappotnt dear Anna-maria after all.”’
“Oh, that would be terrible, indeed,” said Miss Steele.
** Dear little soul, how I do love her !”
** You are very kind,” said Lady Middleton to Elinor}
** and as you really like the work, perhaps you will be as
well pleased not to cut in till another rubber, or will you
take your chance now ?”
Elinor joyfully profited by the first of these proposals,
and thus, by a little of that address, which Marianne could
never condeséend to practise, gained her own end, and
pleased Lady Middleton at the same time. Lucy made
room for her with ready attention ; and the two fair rivals
were thus seated, side by side, at the same table, and with
the utmost harmony, engaged in forwarding the same work.
The piano-forte, at which Marianne, wrapped up in her
own music and her own thoughts, had by this time forgot-
ten that any body was in the room besides herself, was
luckily so near them, that Miss Dashwood now judged she
might safely, under the shelter of its noise, introduce the
interesting subject, without any risk of being heard at the
card-table.
CHAPTER II.
In a firm, though cautious tone, Elinor thus began : —
“ T should be undeserving of the confidence you have
honoured me with, if I felt no desire for its continuance,
or no farther curiosity on its subject. I will not apologise,
therefore, for bringing it forward again.”
«© Thank you,” cried Lucy, warmly, “ for breaking the
ice: you have set my heart at ease by it; for I was,
somehow or other, afraid I had offended you by what I
told you that Monday.”
** Offended me! How could you suppose so? Believe
124 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
me,” and Elinor spoke it with the truest sincerity, ‘* no-
thing could be farther from my intention than to give you
such an idea. Could you have a motive for the trust,
that was not honourable and flattering to me?”
«* And yet, I do assure you,’ replied Lucy, her little
sharp eyes full of meaning, “‘ there seemed to me to be a
coldness and displeasure in your manner, that made me
quite uncomfortable. I felt sure that you was angry with
me; and have been quarrelling with myself ever since, for
having took such a liberty as to trouble you with my affairs.
But I am very glad to find it was only my own fancy, and
that you do not really blame me. If you knew what a
consolation it was to me to relieve my heart, by speaking to
you of what I am always thinking of every moment of my
life, your compassion would make you overlook every thing
else, I am sure.”
“* Indeed, I can easily believe that it was a very great
relief to you, to acknowledge your situation to me, and be
assured that you shall never have reason to repent it.
Your case is a very unfortunate one; you seem to me to
be surrounded with difficulties ; and you will have need of
all your mutual affection to support you under them.
Mr. Ferrars, I believe, is entirely dependent on his mother.”
** He has only two thousand pounds of his own: it would
be madness to marry upon that ; though, for my own part,
I could give up every prospect of more without a sigh. I
have been always used to a very small income, and could
struggle with any poverty for him; but I love him too
well to be the selfish means of robbing him, perhaps, of all
that his mother might give him, if he married to please
her. -We must wait, it may be for many years. With
almost every other man in the world, it would be an alarm-
ing prospect; but Edward’s affection and constancy no-
thing can deprive me of, I know.” |
** That conviction must be every thing to you ; and he
is, undoubtedly, supported by the same trust in yours.
If the strength of your reciprocal attachment had failed, as
‘between many people, and under many circumstances, it
naturally would, during a four years’ engagement, your
situation would have been pitiable indeed.”
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 125
Lucy here looked up ; but Elinor was careful in guard-
ing her countenance from every expression that could give
her words a suspicious tendency.
‘* Edward's love for me,” said Lucy, “ has been pretty
well put to the test, by our long, very long absence, since
we were first engaged, and it has stood the trial so well,
that I should be unpardonable to doubt it now. I can
safely say that he has never gave me one moment’s alarm
on that account from the first.”’
Elinor hardly knew whether to smile or sigh at this as-
sertion.
Lucy went on. ‘“ I am rather of a jealous temper, too,
by nature; and from our different situations in life, from
his being so much more in the world than me, and our
continual separation, I was enough inclined for suspicion,
to have found out the truth in an instant, if there had been
the slightest alteration in his behaviour to me when we met,
or any lowness of spirits that I could not account for, or if
he had talked more of one lady than another, or seemed in
any respect less happy at Longstaple than he used to be. I
do not mean to say that I am particularly observant or
quick-sighted in general, but in such a case I am sure I
could not be deceived.”
« All this,” thought Elinor, “is very pretty ; but it can
impose upon neither of us.”
“* But what,” said she, after a short silence, “are your
views? or have you none but that of waiting for Mrs.
Ferrars's death, which is a melancholy and shocking ex-
tremity ? . Is her son determined to submit to this, and to
all the tediousness of the many years of suspense in which
it may involve you, rather than run the risk of her dis-
pleasure for a while by owning the truth?” .
“If we could be certain that it would be only for.a
while! But Mrs. Ferrars is a very headstrong proud wo-
man, and in her first fit of anger upon hearing it would
very likely secure every thing to Robert; and the idea of
that, for Edward’s sake, frightens away all my inclination
for hasty measures.”
** And for your own sake too, or you are carrying your
disinterestedness beyond reason.”
126 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
Lucy looked at Elinor again, and was silent.
«© Do you know Mr. Robert Ferrars?” asked Elinor.
“* Not at all — I never saw him ; but I fancy he is very
unlike his brother — silly, and a great coxcomb.”
« A great coxcomb!” repeated Miss Steele, whose ear
had caught those words by a sudden pause in Marianne’s
music. Oh, they are talking of their favourite beaux,
I dare say.”
““ No, sister,’ cried Lucy, ‘* you are mistaken there, —
our favourite beaux are not great coxcombs.”
“ T can answer for it that Miss Dashwood’s is not,” said
Mrs. Jennings, laughing heartily ; “ for he is one of the
modestest, prettiest behaved young men I ever saw ; but
as for Lucy, she is such a sly little erenHAne, there ig no
finding out who she likes.”
“ Oh,” cried Miss Steele, looking significantly round
at them, ** J dare say Lucy’s beau is quite as modest and
pretty behaved as Miss Dashwood’s.”
Elinor blushed in spite of herself. Lucy bit her lip, and
looked angrily at her sister. A mutual silence took place
for some time. Lucy first put an end to it by saying, in a
lower tone, though Marianne was then giving them the
powerful protection of a very magnificent concerto,—
““ T will honestly tell you of one scheme which has lately
come into my head for bringing matters to bear ; indeed I
am bound to let you into the secret, for you are a party
concerned. I dare say you have seen enough of Edward to
know that he would prefer the church to every other profes-
sion ; now my plan is, that he should take orders as soon
as he can; and then, through your interest, which I am
sure you would be kind enough to use out of ‘friendship for
him, and I hope out of some regard to me, your brother
might be persuaded to give him Norland lianas which I
understand is a very good one, and the present incumbent
not likely to live a great while. That would be enough for
us to marry upon, and we might trust to time and chance
for the rest.”
“‘ T should be always happy,” replied Elinor, “ to show
any mark of my esteem and friendship for Mr. Ferrars ;
but do not you perceive that my interest on such an occa~-
>
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 127
sion would be perfectly unnecessary? He is brother to
Mrs. John Dashwood — that must be recommendation
enough to her husband.”
<* But Mrs. John Dashwood would not much approve of
Edward’s going into orders.”
*“* Then I rather suspect that my interest would do very
little.”
They were again silent for many minutes. At length
Lucy exclaimed, with a deep sigh, —
** I believe it would be the wisest way to put an end to
the business at once by dissolving the engagement. We
seem so beset with difficulties on every side, that though it
would make us miserable for a time, we should be happier
perhaps in the end. But you will not give me your advice,
Miss Dashwood ?”
“No,” answered Elinor, with a smile, which concealed
very agitated feelings; ““ on such a subject I certainly will
not. You know very well that my opinion would have no
weight with you, unless it were on the side of your wishes.”
“< Indeed you wrong me,” replied Lucy, with great solem-
nity ; “I know nobody of whose judgment I think so
highly as I do of yours; and I do really believe, that if
you was to say to me, ‘ I advise you by all means to put
an end to your engagement with Edward Ferrars, it will be
more for the happiness of both of you, I should resolve
upon doing it immediately.”
Elinor blushed for the insincerity of Edward’s future
wife, and replied, “ This compliment would effectually
frighten me from giving any opinion on the subject, had I
formed one. It raises my influence much too high: the
power of dividing two people so tenderly attached is too
much for an indifferent person.”
** Tis because you are an indifferent person,” said Lucy,
with some pique, and laying a particular stress on those
words, “ that your judgment might justly have such weight
with me. If you could be supposed to be biassed in any
respect by your own feelings, your opinion would not be
worth having.”
Elinor thought it wisest to make no answer to this, lest
they might provoke each other to an unsuitable increase of
128 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
ease and unreserve ; and was even partly determined never
to mention the subject again. Another pause, therefore, of
many minutes duration, succeeded this speech, and Lucy
was still the first to end it.
“‘ Shall you be in town this winter, Miss Dashwood ?”
said. she, with all her accustomary complacency.
** Certainly not.”
** I am sorry for that,’ returned the other, while her
eyes brightened at the information ; ‘‘ it would have gave
me such pleasure to meet you there! But I dare say you
will go for all that. To be sure, your brother and sister
will ask you to come to them.”
“It will not be in my power to accept their invitation
if they do.”
“‘ How unlucky that is! JI had quite depended upon
meeting you there. Anne and me are to go the latter end
of January to some relations who have been wanting us to
visit them these several years. But I only go for the sake
of seeing Edward. He will be there in February, other-
wise London would have no charms for me; I have not
spirits for it.”
Elinor was soon called to the card-table by the conclu.
sion of the first rubber, and the confidential discourse of
the two ladies was therefore at an end; to which both of
them submitted without any reluctance, for nothing had
been said on either side to make them dislike each other
less than they had done before ; and Elinor sat down to
the card-table with the melancholy persuasion that Edward
was not only without affection for the person who was to
be his wife, but that he had not even the chance of being
tolerably happy in marriage, which sincere affection on her
side would have given ; for self-interest alone could induce
@ woman to keep a man to an engagement, of which she
seemed so thoroughly aware that he was weary.
From this time the subject was never revived by Elinor ;
and when entered on by Lucy, who seldom missed an
opportunity of introducing it, and was particularly careful
to inform her confidant of her happiness whenever she
received a letter from Edward, it was treated by the former
with calmness and caution, and dismissed as soon as civility
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 129
would allow; for she felt such conversations to be an
indulgence which Lucy did not deserve, and which were
dangerous to herself.
The visit of the Miss Steeles at Barton Park was
lengthened far beyond what the first invitation implied.
Their favour increased ; they could not be spared ; Sir John
would not hear of their going ; and in spite of their numer-
ous and long arranged engagements in Exeter, in spite of
the absolute necessity of their returning to fulfil them
immediately, which was in full force at the end of every
week, they were prevailed on to stay nearly two months at
the Park, and to assist in the due celebration of that fes-
tival which requires a more than ordinary share of private
balls and large dinners to proclaim its importance.
CHAPTER III.
Tuoven Mrs. Jennings was in the habit of spending a
large portion of the year at the houses of her children
and friends, she was not without a settled habitation of her
own. Since the death of her husband, who had traded
with success in a less elegant part of the town, she had
resided every winter in a house in one of the streets near
Portman Square. Towards this home she began, on the
approach of January, to turn her thoughts ; and thither she
one day abruptly, and very unexpectedly by them, asked
the elder Miss Dashwoods to accompany her. Elinor,
without observing the varying complexion of her sister, and
the animated look which spoke no indifference to the plan,
immediately gave a grateful but absolute denial for both, in
which she believed herself to be speaking their united
inclinations. The reason alleged was their determined
resolution of not leaving their mother at that time of the
year. Mrs. Jennings received the refusal with some sur-
prise, and repeated her invitation immediately.
“Oh, Lord! I am sure your mother can spare you
K
130 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
very well, and I do beg you will favour me with your
company, for I’ve quite set my heart upon it. Don’t
fancy that you will be any inconvenience to me, for I
shan’t put myself at all out of my way for you. It will
only be sending Betty by the coach, and I hope I can
afford that. We three shall be able to go very well in my
chaise ; and when we are in town, if you do not like to go
wherever I do, well and good, you may always go with
one of my daughters. I am sure your mother will not ob-
ject to it; for I have had such good luck in getting my
own children off my hands that she will think me a very
fit person to have the charge of you ; and if I don’t get one
of you at least well married before I have done with you it
shall not be my fault. I shall speak a good word for you
to all the young men, you may depend upon it.”
“‘ T have a notion,” said Sir John, “ that Miss Marianne
would not object to such a scheme if her elder sister would
come into it. It is very hard, indeed, that she should not
have a little pleasure, because Miss Dashwood does not
wish it. So I would advise you two to set off for town,
when you are tired of Barton, without saying a word to
Miss Dashwood about it.”
<< Nay,” cried Mrs. Jennings, “ I am sure J shall be
monstrous glad of Miss Marianne’s company, whether Miss
Dashwood will go or not, only the more the merrier say I,
and I thought it would be more comfortable for them to be
together ; because if they got tired of me they might talk to
one another, and laugh at my odd ways behind my back.
But one or the other, if not both of them, I must have.
Lord bless me! how do you think I can live poking by
myself, I who have been always used, till this winter, to
have Charlotte with me. Come, Miss Marianne, let us
‘strike hands upon the bargain, and if Miss Dashwood will
change her mind by and by, why, so much the better.”
“| thank you, ma’am, sincerely thank you,” said Ma-
rianne, with warmth: ‘ your invitation has insured my
gratitude for ever; and it would give me such happiness,
yes, almost the greatest happiness I am capable of, to be
able to accept it. But my mother, my dearest, kindest
mother — I feel the justice of what Elinor has urged, and
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 131
if she were to be made less happy, less comfortable by our
absence — oh, no, nothing should tempt me to leave her.
It should not, must not be a struggle.”
Mrs. Jennings repeated her assurance that Mrs. Dash-
wood could spare them perfectly well; and Elinor, who
now understood her sister, and saw to what indifference
to almost every thing else she was carried by her eagerness
to be with Willoughby again, made no farther direct oppo-
sition to the plan, and merely referred it to her mother’s
decision, from whom, however, she scarcely expected to re~
ceive any support in her endeavour to prevent a visit
which she could not approve of for Marianne, and which,
on her own account, she had particular reasons to avoid.
Whatever Marianne was desirous of, her mother would be
eager to promote: — she could not expect to influence the
latter to cautiousness of conduct in an affair respecting
which she had never been able to inspire her with distrust ;
and she dared not explain the motive of her own disinclin-
ation for going to London. That Marianne, fastidious as
she was, thoroughly acquainted with Mrs. Jennings’s
manners, and invariably disgusted by them, should over-
look every inconvenience of that kind, should disregard
whatever must be most wounding to her irritable feelings,
in her pursuit of one object, was such a proof, so strong, so
full of the importance of that object to her, as Elinor,. in
spite of all that had passed, was not prepared to witness.
On being informed of the invitation, Mrs. Dashwood,
persuaded that such an excursion would be productive of
much amusement to both her daughters, and perceiving,
through all her affectionate attention to herself, how much
the heart of Marianne was in it, would not hear of their
declining the offer upon her account; insisted on their both
accepting it directly; and then began to foresee, with her
usual cheerfulness, a variety of advantages that would ac-
crue to tliem all from this separation.
** J am delighted with the plan,” she cried; “‘ it is ex=
actly what I could wish. Margaret and I shall be as much
benefited by it as yourselves. When you and the Middle-
tons are gone, we shall go on so quietly and happily toge-
ther with our books and our music! You will find
K 2 :
1382 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
Margaret so improved when you come back again! And I
have a little plan of alteration for your bedrooms too, which
may now be performed without inconvenience to any one.
It is very right that you should go to town; I would have
every young woman of your condition in life acquainted
with the manners and amusements of London. You will
' be under the care of a motherly good sort of woman, of
whose kindness to you I can have no doubt. And in all
probability you will see your brother ; and whatever may be
his faults, or the faults of his wife, when I consider whose
son he is, I cannot bear to have you so wholly estranged
from each other.”
‘* Though with your usual anxiety for our happiness,”
said Elinor, “‘ you have been obviating every impediment
to the present scheme which occurred to you, there is still
one objection which, in my opinion, cannot be so easily
removed.”
Marianne’s countenance sunk.
«* And what,” said Mrs. Dashwood, “ is my dear, pru-
dent Elinor going to suggest? What formidable obstacle
is she now to bring forward? Do not let me hear a word
about the expense of it.”
“ My objection is this: though I think very well of
Mrs. Jennings’s heart, she is not a woman whose society
can afford us pleasure, or whose protection will give us
consequence.”
«* That is very true,” replied her mother; “ but of her
society, separately from that of other people, you will
scarcely have any thing at all, and you will almost always
appear in public with Lady Middleton.”
*‘ If Elinor is frightened away by her dislike of Mrs.
Jennings,” said Marianne, ‘ at least it need not prevent
my accepting her invitation. I have no such scruples ; and
T am sure I could put up with every unpleasantness. of
that kind with very little effort.”
Elinor could not help smiling at this display of indiffer-
ence towards the manners of a person, to whom she had
often had difficulty in persuading Marianne to behave with
tolerable politeness ; and resolved within herself, that if
her sister persisted in going, she would go likewise, as she
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 138
did not think it proper that Marianne should be left to the
sole guidance of her own judgment, or that Mrs. Jennings
should be abandoned to the mercy of Marianne, for all the
comfort of her domestic hours. To this determination she
was the more easily reconciled, by recollecting, that Edward
Ferrars, by Lucy’s account, was not to be in town before
February ; and that their visit, without any unreasonable
abridgement, might be previously finished.
** I will have you both go,” said Mrs. Dashwood ;
“‘ these objections are nonsensical. You will have much
pleasure in being in London, and especially in being toge-
ther ; and if Elinor would ever condescend to anticipate
enjoyment, she would foresee it there from a variety of
sources ; she would, perhaps, expect some from improving
her acquaintance with her sister-in-law’s family.”
Elinor had often wished for an opportunity of attempt
ing to weaken her mother’s dependence on the attachment
of Edward and herself, that the shock might be the less
when the whole truth were revealed ; and now, on this at-
tack, though almost hopeless of success, she forced herself
to begin her design, by saying, as calmly as she could, “ I
like Edward Ferrars very much, and shall always be glad
to see him ; but as to the rest of the family, it is a matter
of perfect indifference to me, whether I am ever known to
them or not.”
Mrs. Dashwood smiled, and said nothing. Marianne
lifted up her eyes in astonishment, and Elinor conjectured
that she might as well have held her tongue.
After very little farther discourse, it was finally settled
that the invitation should be fully accepted. Mrs. Jennings
received the information with a great deal of joy, and many’ -
assurances of kindness and care ; nor was it a matter of
pleasure merely to her, Sir John was delighted ; for to a
man, whose prevailing anxiety was the dread of being
alone, the acquisition of two, to the number of inhabitants
in London, was something. Even Lady Middleton took
the trouble of being delighted, which was putting herself
rather out of her way ; and as for the Miss Steeles, espe-
cially Lucy, they had never been so happy in their lives as
this intelligence made them. :
K 3
134 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
Elinor submitted to the arrangement which counteracted
her wishes with less reluctance than she had expected to
feel. With regard to herself, it was now a matter of un-
concern whether she went to town or not; and when she
saw her mother so thoroughly ‘pleased with the plan, and
her sister exhilarated by it in look, voice, and manner,
restored to all her usual animation, and elevated to more
than her usual gaiety, she could not be dissatisfied with the
cause, and would hardly allow herself to distrust the con-
sequence.
Marianne’s joy was almost a degree beyond happiness,
so great was the perturbation of her spirits, and her impa-
tience to be gone. Her unwillingness to quit her mother
was her only restorative to calmness ; and at the moment
of parting her grief on that score was excessive. Her
mother’s affliction was hardly less; and Elinor was the only
one of the three who seemed to consider the separation as
any thing short of eternal.
Their departure took place in the first week in January.
The Middletons were to follow in about a week. The Miss
Steeles kept their station at the Park, and were to quit it
only with the rest of the family.
CHAPTER IV.
Evryor could not find herself in the carriage with Mrs.
Jennings, and beginning a journey to London under her
protection, and as her guest, without wondering at her own
situation, so short had their acquaintance with that lady
been, so wholly unsuited were they in age and disposition,
and so many had been her objections against such a mea-
sure only a few days before! But these objections had all,
with that happy ardour of youth which Marianne and her
mother equally shared, been overcome or overlooked ; and
Elinor, in spite of every occasional doubt of Willoughby’s
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY: 135
constancy, could not witness the rapture of delightful ex-
pectation which filled the whole soul and beamed in the
eyes of Marianne, without feeling how blank was her own
prospect, how cheerless her own state of mind in the com-
parison, and how gladly she would engage in the solicitude
of Marianne’s situation to have the same animating object
in view, the same possibility of hope. A short, a very
short time, however, must now decide what Willoughby’s
intentions were ; in all probability he was already in town:
Marianne’s eagerness to be gone declared her dependence
on finding him there; and Elinor was resolved not only
upon gaining every new light as to his character which her
own observation, or the intelligence of others could give
her, but likewise upon watching his behaviour to her sister
with such zealous attention, as to ascertain what he was,
and what he meant, before many meetings had taken place.
Should the result of her observations be unfavourable, she
was determined, at all events, to open the eyes of her sister ;
should it be otherwise, her exertions would be of a different
nature ;— she must then learn to avoid every selfish com-
parison, and banish every regret which might lessen her
satisfaction in the happiness of Marianne.
They were three days on their journey, and Marianne’s
behaviour, as they travelled, was a happy specimen of what
her future complaisance and companionableness to Mrs.
Jennings might be expected to be. She sat in silence al-
. most all the way, wrapt in her own meditations, and scarcely
ever voluntarily speaking, except when any object of pic-
turesque beauty within their view drew from her an excla-
mation of delight exclusively addressed to her sister. To
atone for this conduct, therefore, Elinor took immediate
possession of the post of civility which she had assigned
herself, behaved with the greatest attention to Mrs. Jen-
nings, talked with her, laughed with her, and listened to
her whenever she could; and Mrs. Jennings, on her side,
treated them both with all possible kindness, was solicitous
on every occasion for their ease and enjoyment, and only’
disturbed that she could not make them choose their own
dinners at the inn, nor extort a confession of their prefer-
ring salmon to cod, or boiled fowls to veal cutlets. They’
K 4 i
136 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY:
reached town by three o’clock the third day, glad to be re-
leased, after such a journey, from the confinement of a car-
riage, and ready to enjoy all the luxury of a good fire.
The house was handsome and handsomely fitted up; and
the young ladies were immediately put in possession of a
very comfortable apartment. It had formerly been Char-
lotte’s; and over the mantel-piece still hung a landscape in
coloured silks of her performance, in proof of her having
spent seven years at a great school in town to some effect.
As dinner was not to be ready in less than two hours
from their arrival, Elinor determined to employ the interval
in writing to her mother, and sat down for that purpose.
In a few moments Marianne did the same. ‘‘ J am writ-
ing home, Marianne,” said Elinor; ‘‘ had not you better
defer your letter for a day or two?”
“
But I have no right, and I could have no chance of suc-
ceeding. Excuse me, Miss Dashwood. I believe I have
been wrong in saying so much, but I hardly know what to
do, and on your prudence I have the strongest dependence.
Tell me that it is all absolutety resolved on, that any at-
tempt, that in short concealment, if concealment be possible,
is all that remains.”
These words, which conveyed to Elinor a direct avowal
of his love for her sister, affected her very much. She was
not immediately able to say any thing; and even when her
spirits were recovered, she debated for a short time on the
answer it would be most proper to give. The real state of
things between Willoughby and her sister was so little
known to herself, that, in endeavouring to explain it, she
L 2
148 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
might be as liable to say too much as too little. Yet, as she
was convinced that Marianne’s affection for Willoughby
could leave no hope of Colonel Brandon’s success, whatever
the event of that affection might be, and at the same time
wished to shield her conduct from censure, she thought it
most prudent and kind, after some consideration, to say
more than she really knew.or believed. She acknowledged,
therefore, that though she had never been informed by
themselves of the terms on which they stood with each
other, of their mutual affection she had no doubt, and of
their correspondence she was not astonished to hear.
He listened to her with silent attention; and on her ceas-
ing to speak, rose directly from his seat, and after saying,
in a voice of emotion, “‘ To your sister I wish all imagin-
able happiness ; to Willoughby that he may endeavour to
deserve her,”—took leave, and went away.
Elinor derived no comfortable feelings from this convers- .
ation to lessen the uneasiness of her mind on other points;
she was left, on the contrary, with a melancholy impression
of Colonel Brandon’s unhappiness, and was prevented even
from wishing it removed, by her anxiety for the very event
that must confirm it.
CHAPTER VI.
Noruine-occurred during the next three or four days to
make Elinor regret what she had done, in applying to her
mother ; for Willoughby neither came nor wrote. They
were engaged about the end of that time to attend Lady
Middleton to a party, from which Mrs. Jennings was kept
away by the indisposition of her youngest daughter ; and
for this party Marianne, wholly dispirited, careless of her
appearance, and seeming equally indifferent whether she
went or stayed, prepared, without one look of hope, or one
expression of pleasure. She sat by the drawing-room fire
after tea till the moment of Lady Middleton’s arrival,
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 149
without once stirring from her seat, or altering her attitude,
lost in her own thoughts, and insensible of her sister’s pre-
sence ; and when at last they were told that Lady Middle-
ton waited for them at the door, she started as if she had
forgotten that any one was expected. °
They arrived in due time at the place of destination ;
and as soon as the string of carriages before them would
allow, alighted, ascended the stairs, heard their names an-
nounced from one landing-place to another in an audible
voice, and entered a room splendidly lit up, quite full of
company, and insufferably hot. When they had paid their
tribute of politeness by courtesying to the lady of the house, :
they were permitted to mingle in the crowd, and take their
share of the heat and inconvenience to which their arrival
must necessarily add. After some time spent in saying little
and doing less, Lady Middleton sat down to Cassino; and
as Marianne was not in spirits for moving about, she and
Elinor luckily succeeding to chairs placed themselves at no
great distance from the table.
They had not remained in this manner long, before Eli-
nor perceived Willoughby, standing within a few yards of
them, in earnest conversation with a very fashionable look-
ing young woman. She soon caught his eye, and he imme-
diately bowed, but without attempting to speak to her, or
to approach Marianne, though he could not but see her ;
and then continued his discourse with the same lady. Elinor
turned involuntarily to Marianne, to see whether it could
be unobserved by her. At that moment she first perceived
him; and her whole countenance glowing with sudden de-
light, she would have moved towards him instantly, had
not her sister caught hold of her.
** Good heavens!”’ she exclaimed, ‘ he is there—he is
there ! — Oh, why does he not look at me? Why cannot
I speak to him ?”
“* Pray, pray be composed,” cried Elinor, ‘‘ and do not
betray what you feel to every body present. Perhaps he
has not observed you yet.”
This, however, was more than she could believe herself ;
and to be composed at such a moment was not only beyond
L 3
150 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
the reach of Marianne, it was beyond her wish. She sat
in an agony of impatience which affected every feature.
At Jast he turned round again, and regarded them both:
she started up, and pronouncing his name in a tone of af-
fection, held out her hand to him. He approached ; and
addressing himself rather to Elinor than Marianne, as if
wishing to avoid her eye, and determined not to observe her
attitude, enquired, in a hurried manner, after Mrs. Dash-
wood,'and asked how long they had been in town. Elinor was
robbed of all presence of mind by-such an address, and was
unable to say a word. But the feelings of her sister were
instantly expressed. Her face was crimsoned over, and she
exclaimed, in a voice of the greatest emotion, “‘ Good God!
Willoughby, what is the meaning of this? Have you not
received my letters ? Will you not shake hands with me?”
He could not then avoid it; but her touch seemed painful
to him, and he held her hand only for a moment. During
all this time he was evidently struggling for composure.
Elinor watched his countenance and saw its expression be-
coming more tranquil. After a moment’s pause, he spoke
with calmness.
** I did myself the honour of calling in Berkeley Street
last Tuesday, and very much regretted that I was not for-
tunate enough to find yourselves and Mrs. Jennings at
home. My card was not lost, I hope.”
** But have you not received my notes?” cried Marianne
in the wildest anxiety. ‘“‘ Here is some mistake, I am sure
— some dreadful mistake. What can be the meaning of
it? Tell me, Willoughby ; for Heaven’s sake tell me; what
is the matter ?”
He made no reply: his complexion changed, and all his.
embarrassment returned ; but as if, on catching the eye of
the young lady with whom he had been previously talking,
he felt the necessity of instant exertion, he recovered him-
self again, and after saying, “ Yes, I had the pleasure of
receiving the information of your arrival in town, which
you were so good as to send me,” turned hastily away with
a slight bow, and joined his friend.
Marianne, now looking dreadfully white, and unable to
stand, sunk into her chair; and Elinor, expecting every mo-=
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 151
ment to see her faint, tried to screen her from the observ-
ation of others, while reviving her with lavender water.
“Go to him, Elinor,” she cried, as soon as she could
speak, ‘“‘ and force him to come tome. ‘Tell him I must
see him again — must speak to him instantly. I cannot
rest — I shall not have a moment’s peace till this is ex-
plained — some dreadful misapprehension or other. Oh,
go to him this moment.”
** How can that be done?’ No, my dearest Marianne,
you must wait. This is not a place for explanations. Wait
only till to-morrow.”
With difficulty, however, could she prevent her from fol-
lowing him herself ; and to persuade her to check her agi-
tation, to wait, at least, with the appearance of composure,
till she might speak to him with more privacy and more
effect, was impossible, for Marianne continued incessantly
to give way in a low voice to the misery of her feelings, by
exclamations of wretchedness. In a short time Elinor saw
Willoughby quit the room by the door towards the stair-
¢ase; and telling Marianne that he was gone, urged the im-
possibility of speaking to him again that evening, as a fresh
argument for her to be calm. She instantly begged her
sister would entreat Lady Middleton to take them home,
as she was too miserable to stay a minute longer. |
Lady Middleton, though in the middle of a rubber, on
being informed that Marianne was unwell, was too polite
to object for a moment to her wish of going away, and
making over her cards to a friend, they departed as soon as
the carriage could be found. Scarcely a word was spoken
during their return to Berkeley Street. Marianne was in a
silent agony, too much oppressed even for tears; but as
Mrs. Jennings was luckily not come home, they could go di-
rectly to their own room, where hartshorn restored her a
little to herself. She was soon undressed and in bed ; and
as she seemed desirous of being alone, her sister then left
her, and while she waited the return of Mrs, Jennings, had
leisure enough for thinking over the past.
That some kind of engagement had subsisted between
Willoughby and Marianne she could not doubt, and that
Willoughby was weary of it, seemed equally clear ; for how-
L 4
152 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
ever Marianne might still feed her own wishes, she could not
attribute such behaviour to mistake or misapprehension of
any kind. Nothing but a thorough change of sentiment
could account for it. Her indignation would have been still
stronger than it was, had she not witnessed that embarrass-
ment which seemed to speak a consciousness of his own
misconduct, and prevented her from believing him so un-
principled as to have been sporting with the affections of
her sister from the first, without any design that would bear
investigation. Absence might have weakened his regard,
and convenience might have determined him to overcome
it; but that such a regard had formerly existed she could
not bring herself to doubt.
As for Marianne, on the pangs which so unhappy a
meeting must already have given her, and on those still
more severe which might await her in its probable conse-
quence, she could not reflect without the deepest concern.
Her own situation gained in the comparison ; for while.
she could esteem Edward as much as ever, however they
might be divided in future, her mind might be always sup-
ported. But every circumstance that could embitter such
an evil seemed uniting to heighten the misery of Marianne
in a final separation from Willoughby — in an immediate
and irreconcilable rupture with him.
CHAPTER VII.
Berore the housemaid had lit their fire the next day, or
the sun gained any power over a cold, gloomy morning in
January, Marianne, only half dressed, was kneeling against
one of the window-seats for the sake of all the little light
she could command from it, and writing as fast as a conti-
nual flow of tears would permit her. In this situation,
Elinor, roused from sleep by her agitation and sobs, first
perceived her ; and after observing her for a few moments
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 158
with silent anxiety, said, in a tone of the most considerate
gentleness, —
“< Marianne, may I ask B
*“ No, Elinor,” she replied, “ ask nothing; you will
soon know all.”
The sort of desperate calmness with which this was
said lasted no longer than while she spoke, and was imme.
diately followed by a return of the same excessive affliction.
It was some minutes before she could go on with her
letter; and the frequent bursts of grief which still obliged
her, at intervals, to withhold her pen, were proofs enough
of her feeling how more than probable it was that she was
writing for the last time to Willoughby.
Elinor paid her every quiet and unobtrusive attention in
her power ; and she would have tried to soothe and tran-
quillise her still more, had not Marianne entreated her, with
all the eagerness of the most nervous irritability, not to
speak to her for the world. In such circumstances it was
better for both that they should not be long together ; and
the restless state of Marianne’s mind not only prevented
her from remaining in the room a moment after she was
dressed, but requiring at once solitude and continual change
of place, made her wander about the house till breakfast-
time, avoiding the sight of every body.
At breakfast she neither ate nor attempted to eat any
thing ; and Elinor’s attention was then all employed, not
in urging her, not in pitying her, nor in appearing to re-
gard her, but in endeavouring to engage Mrs. Jennings’s
notice entirely to herself.
As this was a favourite meal with Mrs. Jennings
it lasted a considerable time; and they were just setting
themselves after it round the common working table, when
a letter was delivered to Marianne, which she eagerly
caught from the servant, and, turning of a death-like pale-
ness, instantly ran out of the room. Elinor, who saw as
plainly by this as if she had seen the direction that it
must come from Willoughby, felt immediately such a
sickness at heart as made her hardly able to hold up her
head, and sat in such a general tremour as made her fear it
impossible to escape Mrs. Jennings’s notice. That good
154 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
lady, however, saw only that’ Marianne had received a
letter from Willoughby, which appeared to her a very
good joke, and which she treated accordingly, by hoping,
with a laugh, that she would find it to her liking. Of
Elinor’s distress she was too busily employed in mea-
suring lengths of worsted for her rug to see any thing at
all; and calmly continuing her talk as soon as Marianne
disappeared, she said, —
** Upon my word, I never saw a young woman so desper-
ately in love in my life! My girls were nothing to her,
and yet they used to be foolish enough ; but as for Miss
Marianne she is quite an altered creature. I hope, from
the bottom of my heart, he won’t keep her waiting much
longer, for it is quite grievous to see her look so ill and
forlorn. Pray, when are they to be married ?”
Elinor, though never less disposed to speak than at that
moment, obliged herself to answer such an attack as this,
and, therefore, trying to smile, replied, “ And have you
really, ma’am, talked yourself into a persuasion of my sis-
ter’s being engaged to Mr. Willoughby ? I thought it had
been only a joke, but so serious a question seems to imply
more ; and I must beg, therefore, that you will not deceive
yourself any longer. I do assure you that nothing would
surprise me more than to hear of their being going to be
married.”
‘“* For shame, for shame, Miss Dashwood ! how can you
talk so? Don’t we all know that it must be a match, —that
they were over head and ears in love with each other from
the first moment they met? Did not I see them together
in Devonshire every day, and all day long; and did not I
know that your sister came to town with me on purpose to
buy wedding clothes? Come, come, this won't do. Be-
cause you are so sly about it yourself, you think nobody
else has any senses ; but it is no such thing, I can tell you,
for it has been known all over town this ever so long. I
tell every body of it, and so does Charlotte.”
** Indeed, ma’am,” said Elinor very seriously, “‘ you are
mistaken. Indeed, you are doing a very unkind thing in
spreading the report ; and you will find that you have,
though you will not believe me now.”
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 155
Mrs. Jennings laughed again, but Elinor had not spirits
to say more; and eager, at all events, to know what Wil.
loughby had written, hurried away to their room, where,
on opening the door, she saw Marianne stretched on the
bed, almost choked by grief, one letter in her hand, and
two or three others lying by her. Elinor drew near, but
without saying a word; and seating herself on the bed,
took her hand, kissed her affectionately several times, and
then gave way to a burst of tears, which at first was
scarcely less violent than Marianne’s. The latter, though
unable to speak, seemed to feel all the tenderness of this
behaviour ; and, after some time thus spent in joint affliction,
she put all the letters into Elinor’s hands, and then cover-
ing her face with her handkerchief, almost screamed with
agony. Elinor, who knew that such grief, shocking as it
was to witness it, must have its course, watched by her till
this excess of suffering had somewhat spent itself, and then
turning eagerly to Willoughby’s letter, read as follows : —
“ Bond Street, January.
«« My dear Madam,
**T have just had the honour of receiving your letter,
for which I beg to return my sincere acknowledgments. I
am much concerned to find there was any thing in my
behaviour last night that did not meet your approbation ;
and though I am quite at a loss to discover in what point
I could be so unfortunate as to offend you, I entreat your
forgiveness of what I can assure you to have been perfectly
unintentional. I shall never reflect-on my former ac-
quaintance with your family in Devonshire without the
most grateful pleasure, and flatter myself it will not be
broken by any mistake or misapprehension of my actions.
My esteem for your whole family is very sincere ; but if I
have been so unfortunate as to give rise to a belief of more
than I felt, or meant to express, I shall reproach myself
for not having been more guarded in my professions of
that esteem. That I should ever have meant’ more, you
will allow to be impossible, when you understand that my
affections have been long engaged elsewhere, and it will
not be many weeks, I believe, before this engagement is
156 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
fulfilled. It is with great regret that I obey your com-
mands of returning the letters with which I have been
honoured from you, and the lock of hair which you so
obligingly bestowed on me.
“* T am, dear Madam,
«“ Your most obedient
“* humble servant,
“ Joun WiLLovGHBY.’
With what indignation such a letter as this must be
read by Miss Dashwood may be imagined. Though aware,
before she began it, that it must bring a confession of his
inconstancy, and confirm their separation for ever, she was
not aware that such language could be suffered to announce
it; nor could she have supposed Willoughby capable of
departing so far from the appearance of every honourable
and delicate feeling — so far from the common decorum
of a gentleman—as to send a letter so impudently cruel: a
letter which, instead of bringing with his desire of a release
any professions of regret, acknowledged no breach of faith,
denied all peculiar affection whatever ;— a letter of which
every line was an insult, and which proclaimed its writer
to be deep in hardened villany.
She paused over it for some time with indignant aston-
ishment ; then read it again and again; but every perusal
only served. to increase her abhorrence of the man; and so
bitter were her feelings against him, that she dared not
trust herself to speak, lest she might wound Marianne still
deeper, by treating their disengagement, not as a loss to her
of any possible good, but as an escape from the worst and
most irremediable of all evils, —a connection for life with
an unprincipled man, as a deliverance the most real, a
blessing the most important.
_In her earnest meditations on the contents of the letter,
on the depravity of that mind which could dictate it, and,
probably, on the very different mind of a very different
person who had no other connection whatever with the
affair than what her heart gave him with every thing that
passed, Elinor forgot the immediate distress of her sister,
forgot that she had three letters on her lap yet unread, and:
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 157
so entirely forgot how long she had been in the room, that
when, on hearing a carriage drive up to the door, she went
to the window to see who could be coming so unreasonably
early, she was all astonishment to perceive Mrs. Jennings’s
chariot, which she knew had not been ordered till one.
Determined not to quit Marianne, though hopeless of con-
tributing, at present, to her ease, she hurried away to ex-
cuse herself from attending Mrs. Jennings, on account of
her sister being indisposed. Mrs. Jennings, with a tho-
roughly good-humoured concern for its cause, admitted the
excuse most readily ; and Elinor, after seeing her safe off;
returned to Marianne, whom she found attempting to rise
from the bed, and whom she reached just in time to prevent
her from falling on the floor, faint and giddy from a long
want of proper rest and food ; for it was many days since
she had any appetite, and many nights since she had really
slept ; and now, when her mind was no longer supported
by the fever of suspense, the consequence of all this was felt
in an aching head, a weakened stomach, and a general ner-
vous faintness. A glass of wine, which Elinor procured for
her directly, made her more comfortable, and she was at
last able to express some sense of her kindness, by saying,
** Poor Elinor ! how unhappy I make you !”
“I only wish,” replied her sister, ‘there were any
thing I could do, which might be of comfort to you.”
This, as every thing else would have been, was too much
for Marianne, who could only exclaim, in the anguish of
her heart, “Oh, Elinor, I am miserable indeed,” before
her voice was entirely lost in sobs.
Elinor could no longer witness this torrent of unresisted
grief in silence.
« Exert yourself, dear Marianne,” she cried, “if you
would not kill yourself and all who love you. Think of
your mother ; think of her misery while you suffer ; for her
sake you must exert yourself.”
«TI cannot, I cannot,” cried Marianne ; “leave me, leave
me, if I distress you; leave me, hate me, forget me! but
do not torture me so. Oh, how easy for those who have
no sorrow of their own to talk of exertion! Happy, happy
Elinor, you cannot have an idea of what I suffer.”
158 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
*° Do you call me happy, Marianne? Ah, if you knew!
And can you believe me to be so, while I see you so
wretched ?”’
‘“Forgive me, forgive me,” throwing her arms round
her sister’s neck; “ I know you feel forme; I know what
a heart you have; but yet you are—you must be happy ;
Edward loves you——-what, oh what, can do away such
happiness as that ?”
“* Many, many circumstances,” said Elinor, solemnly.
“No, no, no,” cried Marianne, wildly: ‘ he loves you,
and only you. You can have no grief.”
* T can have no pleasure while I see you in this state.”
** And you will never see me otherwise. Mine is a
misery which nothing can do away.”
“You must not talk so, Marianne. Have you no com-
forts? no friends? Is your loss such as leaves no opening
for consolation? Much as you suffer now, think of what
you would have suffered, if the discovery of his character
had been delayed to a later period; —if your engagement
had been carried on for months and months, as it might
have been, before he chose to put an end to it. Every ad-
ditional day of unhappy confidence, on your side, would
have made the blow more dreadful.”
“ Engagement!” cried Marianne, “ there has been no
engagement.”
‘© No engagement !”
“No, he is not so unworthy as you believe him. He
has broken no faith with me.”
** But he told you that he loved you.”
** Yes—no-—never absolutely. It was every day im-
plied, but never professedly declared. Sometimes I thought
it had-been, but it never was.”
“ Yet you wrote to him?”
“Yes: could that be wrong, after all that had passed?
But I cannot talk.”
Elinor said no more, and turning again to the three
letters which now raised a much stronger curiosity than
before, directly ran over the contents of all. The first,
which was what her sister had sent him on their arrival in
town, was to this effect : —
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 159
‘“« Berkeley Street, January. ’
‘«* How surprised you will be, Willoughby, on receiving
this; and I think you will feel something more than
surprise, when you know that I am in town. An opportu-
nity of coming hither, though with Mrs. Jennings, was a
temptation we could not resist. I wish you may receive
this in time to come here to-night, but I will not depend
on it.. At any rate I shall expect you to-morrow. For
the present, adieu.
cOMy D.”
Her second note, which had been written on the morn-
ing after the dance at the Middletons’, was in these words: —
** T cannot express my disappointment in having missed
you the day before yesterday, nor my astonishment at not
having received any answer to a note which I sent you
above a week ago. I have been expecting to hear from
you, and still more to see you, every hour of the day.
Pray call again as soon as possible, and explain the reason
of my having expected this in vain. You had better come
earlier another time, because we are generally out by one.
We were last night at Lady Middleton’s, where there was
adance. I have been told that you were asked to be of the
party. But could it be sop You must be very much
altered, indeed, since we parted, if that could be the case,
and you not there. But I will not suppose this possible,
and I hope very soon to receive your personal assurance of
its being otherwise.
vile i By
The contents of her last note to him were these: —-
© What am I to imagine, Willoughby, by your be-
haviour last night? Again I demand an explanation of it.
I was prepared to meet you with the pleasure which our
separation naturally preduced,—with the familiarity which
our intimacy at Barton appeared to me to justify. I was
repulsed indeed! I have passed a wretched night in en-
deavouring to excuse a conduct which can scarcely be
called less than insulting ; but though I have not yet been
able to form any reasonable apology for your behaviour, I
160 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
am perfectly ready to hear your justification of -it. You
have perhaps been misinformed, or purposely deceived, in
something concerning me, which may have lowered me in
your opinion. Tell me what it is; explain the grounds
on which you acted, and I shall be satisfied, in being able
to satisfy you. It would grieve me, indeed, to be obliged
to think ill of you ; but if I am to do it, if I am to learn
that you are not what we have hitherto believed you, that
your regard for us all was insincere, that your behaviour
to me was intended only to deceive, let it be told as soon
as possible. My feelings are at present in a state of dread-
ful indecision; I wish to acquit you, but certainty on
either side will be ease to what I now suffer. If your
sentiments are no longer what they were, you will return
my notes, and the lock of my hair which is in your pos-
session.
(<4 M D >?
That such letters, so full of affection and confidence,
could have been so answered, Elinor, for Willoughby’s
sake, would have been unwilling to believe. But her con-
demnation of him did not blind her to the impropriety of
their having been written at all; and she was silently
grieving over the imprudence which had hazarded such
unsolicited proofs of tenderness, not warranted by any
thing preceding, and most severely condemned by the event,
when Marianne, perceiving that she had finished the letters,
observed to her that they contained nothing but what any
one would have written in the same situation.
«I felt myself,” she added, “to be as solemnly engaged
to him as if the strictest legal covenant had bound us
to each other.”
“© T can believe it,” said Elinor; “ but unfortunately he
did not feel the same.”
** He did feel the same, Elinor — for weeks and weeks
he felt it. I know he did. Whatever may have changed
him now (and nothing but the blackest art employed
against me can have done it), I was once as dear to him
as my own soul could wish. This lock of hair, which now
he can so readily give up, was begged of me with the most
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 161
earnest supplication. Had you seen his look, his manner,
had you heard his voice at that moment! Have you for-
got the last evening of our being together at Barton? The
morning that we parted too! When he told me that it
might be many weeks before we met again — his distress
' —can I ever forget his distress ?”’ :
For a moment or two she could say no more ; but when
this emotion had passed away,she added, in a firmer tone, —
** Elinor, I have been cruelly used ; but not by Wil-
loughby.”
“‘ Dearest Marianne, who but himself? By whom can
he have been instigated ?”’
* By all the world, rather than by his own heart.. I
could rather believe every creature of my acquaintance
leagued together to ruin me in his opinion, than believe
his nature capable of such cruelty. This woman of whom
he writes — whoever she be — or any one, in short, but
your own dear self, mamma, and Edward, may have been so
barbarous to belie me. Beyond you three, is there a crea-
ture in the world whom I would not rather suspect of evil
than Willoughby, whose heart I know so well ?”’
Elinor would not contend, and only replied, “‘ Whoever
may have been so detestably your enemy, let them .be
cheated of their malignant triumph, my dear sister, by
seeing how nobly the consciousness of your own innocence
and good intentions supports your spirits. It is a reasons
_ able and laudable pride which resists such malevolence.”
““ No, no,” cried Marianne, “‘ misery such as mine has
no pride. I care not who knows that I am wretched. The
triumph of seeing me so may be open to all the world.
Elinor, Elinor, they who suffer little may be proud and
independent as they like — may resist insult, or return
mortification — but I cannot. I must feel—I must’ be
wretched — and they are welcome to enjoy the conscious.
ness of it that can.
“* But for my mother’s sake and mine vied
“I would do more than for my own. But to.appear
happy when I am so miserable oh, who can require
it?” : ;
Again they were both silent. Elinor was: employed in
M
3?
162 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
walking thoughtfully from the fire to the window, from
the window to the fire, without knowing that she received
warmth from one, or discerning objects through the other ;
and Marianne, seated at the foot of the bed, with her
head leaning against one of its posts, again took up Wil-
loughby’s letter, and, after shuddering over every sentence,
exclaimed, —
“It is too much! Oh, Willoughby, Willeughby, could
this be yours? Cruel, cruel — nothing can acquit you.
Elinor, nothing can. Whatever he might have heard against
me, ought he not to have suspended his, belief? ought
he not to have told me of it, to have given me the power
of clearing myself? ‘The lock of hair (repeating it from
the letter) which you so obligingly bestowed on me’ —
that is unpardonable. Willoughby, where was your heart
when you wrote those words? Oh, barbarously insolent!
— Elinor, can he be justified ?”
“* No, Marianne, in no possible way.”
‘© And yet this woman—who knows what her art may
have been ?>—how long it may have been premeditated, and
how deeply contrived by her !-—— Who is she p— Who can
she be? — Whom did I ever hear him talk of as young
and attractive among his female acquaintance ? — Oh, no
one, no one: —he talked to me only of myself.”
Another pause ensued ; Marianne was greatly agitated,
and it ended thus :—
“ Elinor, I must go home. I must go and comfort
mamma. Cannot we be gone to-morrow ? ”
<* To-morrow, Marianne!”
“Yes; why should J stay here? I came only for Wil-
loughby’s sake — and now who cares for me? Who
regards me?”
“It would be impossible to go to-morrow. We owe
Mrs. Jennings much more than civility ; and civility of the
commonest kind must prevent snch a hasty removal as
that.”
** Well then, another day or two, perhaps; but I can-
not stay here long; I cannot stay to endure the questions
and remarks of all these people. The Middletons and
Palmers—how am I to bear their pity? The pity of such
he
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 163
‘a woman as Lady Middleton! Oh, what would he say to
that?” |
Elinor advised her to lie down again, and for a moment
she did so; but no attitude could give her ease ; and in
restless pain of mind and body she moved from one posture
to another, till, growing more and more hysterical, her sister
could with difficulty keep her on the bed*at all, and for
some time was fearful of being constrained to call for
assistance. Some lavender drops, however, which she was
at length persuaded to take, were of use; and from that
time till Mrs. Jennings returned she continued on the bed
quiet and motionless.
CHAPTER VIII.
Mrs. JENNINGS came immediately to their room on her
return, and without waiting to have her request of ‘ad-
mittance answered, opened the door and walked in with a
look of real concern.
“ How do you do, my dear?” said she, in a voice of
great compassion to Marianne, who turned away her face
without attempting to answer.
** How is she, Miss Dashwood? Poor thing! she
looks very bad. No wonder. Ay, it is but too true.
He is to be married very soon—a good-for-nothing fellow!
I have no patience with him. Mrs. Taylor told me of it
half an hour ago, and she was told it by a particular friend
of Miss Grey herself, else I am sure I should not have
believed it; and I was almost ready to sink as it was.
Well, said I, all I can say is, that if it is true, he has
used a young lady of my acquaintance abominably ill, and
I wish with all my soul his wife may plague his heart out.
And so I shall always say, my dear, you may depend on it.
I have no notion of men’s going on in this way ; and if
eyer I meet him again, I will give him such a dressing as
he has not had this many a day. . But there is one com-.
M 2
| 64 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
fort, my dear Miss Marianne — he is not the only young
man in the world worth having; and with your pretty
face you will never want admirers. Well, poor thing! I
won't disturb her any longer, for she had better have her
cry out at once and have done with it. The Parrys and
Sandersons luckily are coming to-night, you know, and
that will amuse her.”
She then went away, walking on tiptoe out of the
room, as if she supposed her young friend’s affliction could
be jneneaped by noise.
Marianne, to the surprise of her cain determined on
dining with them. Elinor even advised her against it.
But “no, she would go down; she could bear it very
well, and the bustle about her would be less.’ Elinor,
pleased to have her governed for a moment by such a
motive, though believing it hardly possible that she could
sit out the dinner, said no more ; and adjusting her dress
for her as well as she could, while Marianne still remained
on the bed, was ready to assist her into the dining room as
soon as they were summoned to it.
When there, though looking most wretchedly, she ate
more, and was calmer than her sister had expected. Had
she tried to speak, or had she been conscious of half Mrs.
Jennings’s well meant but ill-judged attentions to her, this
calmness could not have been maintained; but not a
syllable escaped her lips ; and the abstractionof her thoughts
preserved her in ignorance of every thing that was passing
before her.
Elinor, who did justice to Mrs. Tiokistsi' kindness,
though its effusions were often distressing, and sometimes
almost ridiculous, made her those acknowledgments, and
returned her those civilities, which her sister could not
make or return for herself. Their good friend saw that
Marianne was unhappy, and felt that every thing was due
to her which might make her at all less so. She treated
her, therefore, with all the indulgent fondness of a parent
towards a favourite child on the last day of its holidays.
Marianne was to have the best place by the fire, was to be
tempted to eat by every delicacy in the house, and to be
amused by the relaticn of all the news of the day. Had
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 165.
not Elinor, in the sad countenance of her sister, seen a
check to all mirth, she could have been entertained by
Mrs. Jennings’s endeavours to cure a disappointment in
love, by a variety of sweetmeats and olives, and a good fire.
As soon, however, as the consciousness of all this was
forced by continual repetition on Marianne, she could stay
no longer. With a hasty exclamation of misery, and a
sign to her sister not to follow her, she directly got up and
hurried out of the room.
“* Poor soul!” cried Mrs. Jennings, as soon as she was
gone, “‘ how it grieves me to see her! And I declare if
she is not gone away without finishing her wine! And the
dried cherries too! Lord! nothing seems to do her any
good. I am sure if I knew of any thing she would like, I
would send all over the“town for it. Well, it is the oddest
thing to me, that a man should use such a pretty girl so
ill! But when there is plenty of money on one side, and
next to none on the other, Lord bless you! they care no
more about such things!”
. “ The lady, then, — Miss Grey, I think you called her,
—is very rich? ”
*“ Fifty thousand pounds, my dear. Did you ever see
her? a smart, stylish girl, they say, but not handsome. I
remember her aunt very well, Biddy Henshawe; she
married a very wealthy man. But the family are all rich
together. Fifty thousand pounds! and by all accounts it
won't come before it’s wanted; for they say he is all to
pieces. No wonder! dashing about with his curricle and
hunters ! Well, it don’t signify talking; but when a young
man, be he who he will, comes and makes love to a pretty:
girl, and promises marriage, he has no business to fly off
from his word, only because he grows poor, and a richer
girl is ready to have him, Why don’t he, in such a case,
sell his horses, let his house, turn off his servants, and
make a thorough reform at once? I warrant you, Miss
Marianne would have been ready to wait till matters came
round. But that won’t do now-a-days; nothing in the
way of pleasure can ever be given up by the young men of
this age.”
a mu 3 | re
166 SEYSE AND SENSIBILITY.
“Do you know what kind of a girl Miss Grey is? Is
she said to be amiable ?” ?
« I never heard any harm of her ; indeed I hardly ever
heard her mentioned ; except that Mrs. Taylor did say this
morning, that one day Miss Walker hinted to her, that she
believed Mr. and Mrs. Ellison would not be sorry to have
Miss Grey married, for she and Mrs. Ellison could. never
agree.” |
«* And who are the Ellisons ? ”
‘¢ Her guardians, my dear. But now she is of age, and
may choose for herself; and a pretty choice she has
made! — What now,” after pausing a moment, “ your
poor sister is gone to her own room, I suppose, to moan by
herself. Is there nothing. one can get to comfort her ?:
Poor dear, it seems quite cruel to let her be alone. Well,
by-and-by we shall have a few friends, and that will
amuse her. a little. What shall we play at? She hates
whist, I know; but is there no round game she cares
for ?”
© Dear ma’am, this kindness is quite unnecessary.
Marianne, I dare say, will not leave her room again this
evening. I shall persuade her, if I can, to go early to
bed, for I am sure she wants rest.’
“ Ay, 1 believe that will be best for her. Let her
name her own supper, and go to bed. Lord! no wonder
she has been looking so bad and so cast down this last
week or two, for this matter I suppose has been hanging
over her head as long as that. And so the letter that came
to-day finished it! Poor soul! I am sure if I had had a
notion of it, I would not have joked her about it for all my
money. But then, you know, how should I guess such a
thing? I made sure of its being nothing but a common
love letter, and you know young people like to be laughed
at about them. Lord! how concerned Sir John and my
daughters will be when they hear it! If I had had my
senses about me I might have called in Conduit Street in
my way home, and told them of it. But I shall see them
to-morrow.”
“¢ It would be unnecessary, I am sure, for you to caution
Mrs. Palmer and Sir John against ever naming Mr. Wil-
® wm
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 167
loughby, or making the slightest allusion to what has passed,
before my sister. Their own good-nature must point out
to them the real cruelty of appearing to know any thing
about it when she is present ; and the less that may ever:
be said to myself on the subject, the more my feelings will
be spared, as you, my dear madam, will easily believe.”
“ Oh, Lord! yes, that I do indeed. It must be terri-
ble for you to hear it talked of ; and as for your sister, I
am sure I would not mention a word about it to her for
the world. You saw I did not all dinner time. No more
would Sir John nor my daughters, for they are all very
thoughtful and considerate ; especially if I give them a hint,
as I certainly will. For my part, I think the less that is
said about such things the better, the sooner ’tis blown
over and forgot. And what good does talking ever do, you
know ?”
* In this affair it can only do harm; more so, perhaps,
than in many cases of a similar kind; for it has been attended
by circumstances, which, for the sake of every one con«
cerned in it, make it unfit to become the public conversation.
I must do this justice to Mr. Willoughby — he has broken
no positive engagement with my sister.”
** Law, my dear! Don’t pretend to defend him. Nos
positive engagement indeed! after taking her all over Allen-
ham House, and fixing on the very rooms they were to live
in hereafter !”
Elinor, for her sister’s sake, could not press the subject
farther, and she hoped it was not required of her for Wil-
loughby’s ; since, though Marianne might lose much, he
could gain very little by the enforcement of the real truth.
After a short silence on both sides, Mrs. Jennings, with all
her natural hilarity, burst forth again.
** Well, my dear, ’tis a true saying about an ill wind,.
for it will be all the better for Colonel Brandon. He will
have her at last ; ay, that he will. Mind me, now, if they
an’t married by Midsummer. Lord! how he’ll chuckle over
this news! I hope he will come to-night. It will be all
to one a better match for your sister. Two thousand a:
year without debt or drawback — except the little love<
child, indeed ; ay, I had forgot her ; but she may be ’pren«
mM 4
168 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
ticed out at small cost, and then what does it signify?
Delaford is a nice place, I can tell you; exactly what I
call a nice old: fashioned place, full of comforts and conve=
niences; quite shut in with great garden walls that are
covered with the best fruit-trees in the country ; and such
a mulberry tree in one corner! Lord! how Charlotte and
I did stuff the only time we were there! Then, there is
a dovecote, some delightful stewponds, and a very pretty
canal ; and every thing, in short, that one could wish for:
and, moreover, it is close to the church, and only a quarter
of a mile from the turnpike-road, so ’tis never dull, for if
you only go and sit up in an old yew!arbour behind the
house, you may see all the carriages that pass along. Oh,
*tis a nice place! A butcher hard by in the village, and the
parsonage-house within a stone’s throw. To my fancy, a
thousand times prettier than Barton Park, where they are
forced to send three miles for their meat, and have not a
neighbour nearer than your mother. Well, I shall spirit
up the Colonel as soon as I can. One shoulder of mutton,
you know, drives another down. If we can but put Wil-
loughby out of her head !”
«* Ay, if we can but do that, ma’am,” said Elinor, “‘ we
shall do very well with or without Colonel Brandon.” And
then rising, she went away to join Marianne, whom she
found, as she expected, in her own room, leaning, in silent
misery, over the small remains of a fire, which, till Elinor’s
entrance, had been her only light.
“ You had better leave me,” was all the notice that her
sister received from her.
“* I will leave you,” said Elinor, “ if you will go to
bed.” But this, from the momentary perverseness of im-
patient suffering, she at first refused to do. Her sister’s
earnest, though gentle persuasion, however, soon softened
her to compliance ; and Elinor saw her lay her aching head
on the pillow, and saw her, as she hoped, in a way to get
some quiet rest before she left her.
_ Inthe drawing-room, whither she then repaired, she was
soon joined by Mrs. Jennings, with a wine glass, full of
something, in her hand.
» <€ My dear,” said she, entering, “ I have just recollected:
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 169
that I have some of the finest old Constantia wine in the
house that ever was tasted, so I have brought a glass of it
for your sister. My poor husband! how fond he was of it!
Whenever he had a touch of his old colicky gout, he said
it did him more good than any thing else in the world.
Do take it to your sister.”
‘© Dear ma’am,” replied Elinor, smiling at the difference
of the complaints for which it was recommended, “ how
good you are! But I have just left Marianne in bed, and,
I hope, almost asleep ; and as I think nothing will be of so
much service to her as rest, if you will give me leave, I will
drink the wine myself.”
Mrs. Jennings, though regretting that she had not been
five minutes earlier, was satisfied with the compromise ;
and Elinor, as she swallowed the chief of it, reflected, that
though its good effects on a colicky gout were, at present,
of little importance to her, its healing powers, on a disap-
pointed heart, might be as reasonably tried on herself as on
her sister.
Colonel Brandon came in while the party were at tea;
and by his manner of looking round the room for Marianne,
Elinor immediately fancied that he neither expected nor
wished to see her there, and, in short, that he was already.
aware of what occasioned her absence. Mrs. Jennings was
‘not struck by the same thought ; for, soon after his en-
trance, she walked across the room to the tea-table where
Elinor presided, and whispered, ‘‘ The Colonel looks as
grave as ever, you see: he knows nothing of it ; do tell him,
my dear.”
He shortly afterwards drew a chair close to hers, and,
with a look which perfectly assured her of his good inform
ation, enquired after her sister,
** Marianne is not well,” said she. ‘* She has been in-
disposed all day, and we have persuaded her to go to bed.”
“* Perhaps, then,” he hesitatingly replied, “ what I heard
this morning may be — there may be more truth in it than
I could believe possible at first.”
«< What did you hear ?”
* That a gentleman, whom I had reason to think —in
short, that a man, whom I knew to be engaged —but how
170 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
shall I tell you? If you know it already, as surely you
must, I may be spared.”
*“ You mean,” answered Elinor, with forced calmness,
* Mr. Willoughby’s marriage with Miss Grey. Yes, we
do know it all. This seems to have been a day of general
elucidation, for this very morning first unfolded it to us.
Mr. Willoughby i is unfathomable ! Where did you hear it ?””
“ In a stationer’s shop in Pall Mall, where I had business.
Two ladies were waiting for their carriage, and one of
them was giving the other an account ae the intended
match, in a voice so little attempting concealment, that it was
impossible for me not to hear all. The name of Willoughby,
John Willoughby, frequently repeated, first caught my
attention ; and what followed was a-positive assertion that
every thing was now finally settled respecting his marriage
with Miss Grey —it was no longer to be a secret—it would
take place even within a few weeks, with many particulars
of preparations and other matters. One thing, especially,
I remember, because it served to identify the man still more :
—as soon as the ceremony was over, they were to go to
Combe Magna, his seat in Somersetshire. My astonish-
ment !—but it would be impossible to describe what I felt.
The communicative lady I learnt,on enquiry, —for I stayed
in the shop till they were gone, — was a Mrs. Ellison, and
that, as I have been since informed, is the name of Miss
Grey’s guardian.”
“It is. But have you likewise heard that Miss Grey
has fifty thousand pounds? In that, if in any thing, we
may find an explanation.”
“It may be so; but Willoughby is capable —at least I
think He stopped amoment ; then added, in a voice
which seemed to distrust itself, ‘ And your sister, —how.
did she ——_”
‘“* Her sufferings have been very severe. I have only
to hope that they may be proportionably short. It has
been, it is a most cruel affliction. Till yesterday, I be-
lieve, she never doubted his regard ; and even now, per-
haps — but J am almost convinced that he never was really
attached to her. He has been very deceitful! and, in
some points, there seems a hardness of heart about him.” |
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 171
«© Ah!” said Colonel Brandon, “ there is, indeed! But
your sister does not-——I think you said so—she does not
consider it quite as you do?”
“‘ You know her disposition, and may believe how eagerly
she would still justify him if she could.”
He made no answer; and soon afterwards, by the re-
moval of the tea-things, and the arrangement of the card
parties, the subject was necessarily dropped. Mrs. Jennings,
who had watched them with pleasure while they were
talking, and who expected to see the effect of Miss Dash-
wood’s communication, in such an instantaneous gaiety on
Colonel Brandon’s side, as might have become a man in
the bloom of youth, of hope, and happiness, saw him, with
amazement, remain the whole evening more serious and
thoughtful than usual.
CHAPTER IX.
From a night of more sleep than she had expected, Ma-
rianne awoke the next morning to the same consciousness of
misery in which she had closed her eyes.
Elinor encouraged her as much as possible to talk of
what she felt; and before breakfast was ready they had
gone through the subject again and again; with the same
steady conviction and affectionate counsel on Elinor’s side,
the same impetuous feelings and varying opinions on
Marianne’s, as before. Sometimes she could believe Wil-
loughby to be as unfortunate and as innocent as herself,
and at others lost every consolation in the impossibility of
acquitting him. At one moment she was absolutely in-
different to the observation of all the world; at another,
she would seclude herself from it for ever, and at a third,
could resist it with energy, In one thing, however, she
was uniform, when it came to the point, in avoiding,
where it was possible, the presence of Mrs. Jennings, and
in a determined silence when obliged to endure it. Her
172 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
heart was hardened against the belief of Mrs. Jennings’s
entering into her sorrows with any compassion.
“No, no, no, it cannot be,” she cried; * she cannot
feel. Her kindness is not sympathy ; her good-nature is
not tenderness. All that she wants is gossip; and she only
likes me now because I supply it.”
Elinor had not needed this to be assured of the injustice
to which her sister was often led in her opinion of others,
by the irritable refinement of her own mind, and the too
great importance placed by her on the delicacies of a strong
sensibility, and the graces of a polished manner. Like
half the rest of the world, if more than half there be that
are clever and good, Marianne, with excellent abilities and an
excellent disposition, was neither reasonable ‘nor candid.
She expected from other people the same opinions and feel-
ings as her own, and she judged of their motives by the
immediate effect of their actions on herself. Thus a cir-
cumstance occurred, while the sisters were together in their
own room after breakfast, which sunk the heart of Mrs.
Jennings still lower in her estimation ; because, through
her own weakness, it chanced to prove a source of fresh
pain to herself, though Mrs. Jennings was governed in it
by an impulse of the utmost good-will.
With a letter in her out-stretched hand, and countenance
gaily smiling, from the persuasion of bringing comfort, she
entered their room, saying, —
“* Now, my dear, I bring you something that I am sure
will do you good.”
Marianne heard enough. In one moment her imagination
placed before her a letter from Willoughby, full of ten-
derness and contrition, explanatory of all that had passed,
satisfactory, convincing ; and instantly’ followed by Wil-
loughby himself, rushing eagerly into the room to enforce,
at her feet, by the eloquence of his eyes, the assurances
of his letter. The work of one moment was destroyed by
the next. The hand-writing of her mother, never till then
unwelcome, was before her ; and, in the acuteness of the
disappointment which followed such an ecstasy of more
than hope, she felt as if, till that instant, she had never
suffered.” ~
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 173
The cruelty of Mrs. Jennings no language, within her
reach in her moments of happiest eloquence, could have
expressed ; and now she could reproach her only by the
tears which streamed from her eyes with passionate violence ;
— a reproach, however, so entirely lost on its object, that,
after many expressions of pity, she withdrew, still referring
her to the letter for comfort. But the letter, when she was
calm enough to read it, brought little comfort. Willoughby
filled every page. Her mother, still confident of their en-~
gagement, and relying as warmly as ever on his constancy,
had only been roused by Elinor’s application, to entreat
from Marianne greater openness towards them both; and
this, with such tenderness towards her, such affection for
Willoughby, and such a conviction of their future hap-
piness in each other, that she wept with agony through the
whole of it.
All her impatience to be at home again now returned ;
her mother was dearer to her than ever; dearer through
the very excess of her mistaken confidence in Willoughby,
and she was wildly urgent to be gone. Elinor, unable her-
self to determine whether it were better for Marianne to be
in London or at Barton, offered no counsel of her own, ex-
cept of patience till their mother’s wishes could be known ;
and at length she obtained her sister's consent to wait for
that knowledge.
Mrs. Jennings left them earlier than usual ; for she could
not be easy till the Middletons and Palmers were able to
grieve as much as herself ; and positively refusing Elinor’s
offered attendance, went out alone for the rest of the morn.
ing. LElinor, with a very heavy heart, aware of the pain
she was going to communicate, and perceiving, by Marianne’s
letter, how ill she had succeeded in laying any foundation
for it, then sat down to write her mother an account of what
had passed, and entreat her directions for the future ; while
Marianne, who came into the drawing-room on Mrs. Jen-
nings’s going away, remained fixed at the table where Elinor
wrote, watching the advancement of her pen, grieving over
her for the hardship of such a task, and grieving still more
fondly over its effect on her mother.
In this manner they had continued about a quarter of an
174 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY:
hour, when Marianne, whose nerves could not then bear
any sudden noise, was startled by a rap at the door.
““ Who can this be?” cried Elinor. ‘‘ So early too! I
thought we had been safe.”
Marianne moved to the window.
« It is Colonel Brandon !” said she, with vexation. “‘ We
are never safe from him.”
“* He will not come in as Mrs. Jennings is from home.”
“* J will not trust to that,” retreating to her own room.
** A man who has nothing to do with his own time has no
conscience in his intrusion on that of others.”
The event proved her conjecture right, though it was
founded on injustice and error; for Colonel Brandon did
come in ; and Elinor, who was convinced that solicitude for
Marianne brought him thither, and who saw that solicitude
in his disturbed and melancholy look, and in his anxious
though brief enquiry after her, could not forgive her sister
for esteeming him so lightly.
““ I met Mrs. Jennings in Bond Street,” said he, after
the first salutation, ‘‘ and she encouraged me to come on ;
and I was the more easily encouraged, because I thought it
probable tbat I might find you alone, which I was very
desirous of doing. My object —my wish — my sole wish
in desiring it—TI hope, I believe it is—is to be a means
of giving comfort ;——no, I must not say. comfort — not
present comfort —but conviction, lasting conviction to your
sister's mind. My regard for her, for yourself, for your
mother — will you allow me to prove it, by relating some
circumstances which nothing but a very sincere regard —
nothing but an earnest desire of being useful — I think
I am justified — though where so many hours have been
spent in convincing myself that I am right, is there not
some reason to fear I may be wrong?” He stopped.
** T understand you,” said Elinor. ‘ You have some-
thing to tell me of Mr. Willoughby, that will open his cha-
racter farther. Your telling it will be the greatest act of
friendship that can be shown Marianne. My gratitude will
be ensured immediately by any information tending to that
end, and hers must be gained by it in time... Pray, pray
let me hear it.”
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 175
“You shall; and, to be brief, when I quitted Barton
last October, —but this will give you no idea—I must go
farther back. You will find me a very awkward narrator,
Miss Dashwood ; I hardly know where to begin. A short
account of myself, I believe, will be necessary, and it shall
be a short one. On such a subject,” sighing heavily, “ I
can have little temptation to be diffuse.”
He stopt a moment for recollection, and then, with another
sigh, went on.
_ “ You have probably entirely forgotten a conversation —
(it is not to be supposed that it could make any impression
on you) —a conversation between us one evening at Barton
Park — it was the evening of a dance — in which I alluded
to a lady I had once known, as resembling, in some mea-
sure, your sister Marianne.”
** Indeed,” answered Elinor, “‘ I have noé forgotten it.”
He looked pleased by this remembrance, and added, —
“ If I am not deceived by the uncertainty, the partiality
of tender recollection, there is a very strong resemblance
between them, as well in mind as person. The same
warmth of heart, the same eagerness of fancy and spirits.
This lady was one of my nearest relations, an orphan from
her infancy, and under the guardianship of my father. Our
ages were nearly the same, and from our earliest years we
were playfellows and friends. I cannot remember the time
when I did not love Eliza; and my affection for her, as we
grew up, was such, as, perhaps, judging from}my present
forlorn and cheerless gravity, you might think me incapable
of having ever felt. Hers, for me, was, I believe, fervent
as the attachment of your sister to Mr. Willoughby, and it
was, though from a different cause, no less unfortunate. At
seventeen she was lost to me for ever. She was married —
married against her inclination to my. brother. Her fortune
was large, and our family estate much encumbered. “And
this, I fear, is all that can be’ said for. the conduct of ot
who was at once her uncle-and: ‘guardian » My brothe
not deserve her; he did not even Jouélieest had hoped
that her regard ‘for me would support “under any diffi-
culty, and for some time it did; but at last the ¥ sery of her
situation, for she experienced great unkindness, overcame
176 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
all her resolution, and though she had promised me that
nothing — but how blindly I relate! I have never told
you how this was brought on. We were within a few
hours of eloping together for Scotland. The treachery, or
the folly, of my cousin’s maid betrayed us. I was banished
to the house of a relation far distant, and she was allowed
no liberty, no society, no amusement, till my father’s point
was gained. I had depended on her fortitude too far, and
the blow was a severe one ; — but had her marriage been
happy, so young as I then was, a few months must have
reconciled me to it, or at least I should not have now to
lament it. This, however, was not the case. My brother
had no regard for her; his pleasures were not what they
ought to have been, and from the first he treated her un.
kindly. The consequence of this, upon a mind so young,
so lively, so inexperienced as Mrs. Brandon’s, was but too
natural. She resigned herself at first to all the misery of
her situation; and happy had it been if she had not lived
to overcome those regrets which the remembrance of me
occasioned. But can we wonder that, with such a husband
to provoke inconstancy, and without a friend to advise or
restrain her, (for my father lived only aefew months after
their marriage, and I was with my regiment in the East
Indies, ) she should fall? Had I remained in England, per-
haps, — but I meant to promote the happiness of both by
removing from her for years, and for that purpose had pro-
cured my exchange. The shock which her marriage had
given me,” he continued, in a voice of great agitation, “‘ was
of trifling weight — was nothing to what I felt when I
heard, about two years afterwards, of her divorce. It was
that which threw this gloom, — even now the recollection
of what I suffered of
He could say no more, and, rising hastily, walked for a
few minutes about the room. Elinor, affected by his re-
lation, and still more by his distress, could not speak. He
saw her concern, and coming to her, took her hand, pressed
it, and kissed it with grateful respect. A few minutes more
of silent exertion enabled him to proceed with composure,
* It was nearly three years after this unhappy period
before I returned to England. My first care, when I did
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 177
arrive, was of course to seek for her; but the search was’
as fruitless as it was melancholy. I could not trace her
beyond her first seducer, and there was every reason to fear
that she had removed from him only to sink deeper in a
life of sin. Her legal allowance was not adequate to her
fortune, nor sufficient for her comfortable maintenance ;
and I learnt from my brother that the power of receiving
it had been made over some months before to another pers
son. He imagined, and calmly could he imagine it, that
her extravagance, and consequent distress, had obliged her
to dispose of it for some immediate relief. At ‘last, how-
ever, and after I had been six months in England, I did
find her. Regard for a former servant of my own, who
had since fallen into misfortune, carried me to visit him in
a spunging-house, where he was confined for debt ; and
there, in the same house, under a similar confinement, was
my unfortunate sister. So altered —so faded — worn
down by acute suffering of every kind! hardly could I
believe the melancholy and sickly figure before me, to be
the remains of the lovely, blooming, healthful girl, on whom
I had once doted. What I endured in so beholding her
— but I have no right to wound your feelings by attempt-
ing to describe it — I have pained you too much already.
That she was, to all appearance, in the last stage of a con
sumption, was —yes, in such a situation, it was my greatest
comfort. Life could do nothing for her, beyond giving
time fora better preparation for death ; and that was given. —
I saw her placed in comfortable lodgings, and under proper
attendants ; I visited her every day during the rest of her
short life: I was with her in her last moments.”
Again he stopped to recover himself ; and Elinor spoke
her feelings in an exclamation of tender concern at the fate
of his unfortunate friend. n
“ Your sister, I hope, cannot be offended,” said he,
“by the resemblance I have fancied between her and my
poor disgraced relation. Their fates, their fortunes, cannot
be the same ; and had the natural sweet disposition of the
one been duarded by a firmer mind, or a happier marriage,
she might have been all that you will live to see the other
be. But to what does all this lead? I seem to have been
N
178 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
distressing you for nothing. Ah! Miss Dashwood —a
subject such as this — untouched for fourteen years—it is
dangerous to handle it at all! I will be more collected —
more concise. She left to my care her only child, a little
girl, the offspring of her first guilty connection, who was
then about three years old. She loved the child, and had
always kept it with her. It was a valued, a precious trust
to me ; and gladly would I have discharged it in the strict-
est sense, by watching over her education myself, had the
nature of our situations allowed it ; but I had no family,
no home; and my little Eliza was, therefore, placed at
school. I saw her there whenever I could; and after the
death of my brother (which happened about five years ago,
and which left to me the possession of the family property, )
she frequently visited me at Delaford. I called her a dis-
tant relation; but I am well aware that I have in general
been suspected of a much nearer connection with her. It
is now three years ago (she had just reached her fourteenth
year) that I removed her from school, to place her under
the care of a very respectable woman, residing in Dorset-
shire, who had the charge of four or five other girls of
about the same time of life ; and for two years I had every
reason to be pleased with her situation. But last February,
almost a twelvemonth back, she suddenly disappeared. I
had allowed her, (imprudently, as it has since turned out,)
at her earnest desire, to go to Bath with one of her young
friends, who was attending her father there for his health.
I knew him to be a very good sort of man, and I thought
well of his daughter — better than she deserved ; for, with
a most obstinate and ill-judged secrecy, she would tell
nothing, would give no clue, though she certainly knew all.
He, her father, a well-meaning, but not a quick-sighted
man, could really, I believe, give no information; for he
had been generally confined to the house, while the girls
were ranging over the town, and making what acquaintance
they chose ; and he tried to convince me, as thoroughly as
he was convinced himself, of his daughter’s being entirely
unconcerned in the business. In short, I could learn no-
thing but that she was gone; all the rest, for eight long
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 179
months, was left to conjecture. What I thought, what I
feared, may be imagined ; and what I suffered too.”
** Good heavens!” cried Elinor, ‘“‘ could it be — could
Willoughby !’’ —
<< The first news that reached me of her,” he continued,
** came in a letter from herself, last October. It was for-
warded to me from Delaford, and I received it on the very
morning of our intended party to Whitwell ; and this was
the reason of my leaving Barton so suddenly, which I am
sure must at the time have appeared strange to every body,
and which I believe gave offence to some. Little did
Mr. Willoughby imagine, I suppose, when his looks cen-
sured me for incivility in breaking up the party, that I
was called away to the relief of one whom he had made
poor and miserable ; but had he known it, what would it
have availed ? Would he have been less gay or less happy
in the smiles of your sister? No, he had already done that,
which no man who can feel for another would do. He
had left the girl whose youth and innocence he had se-
duced in a situation of the utmost distress, with no cre-
ditable home, no help, no friends, ignorant of his address !
He had left her, promising to return ; he neither returned,
nor wrote, nor relieved her.”
** This is beyond every thing !” exclaimed Elinor.
** His character is now before you, — expensive, dissi-
pated, and worse than both. Knowing all this, as I have
now known it many weeks, guess what I must have felt on
seeing your sister as fond of him as ever, and on being
assured that she was to marry him: guess what I must
have felt for all your sakes. When I came to you last
week and found you alone, I came determined to know the
truth ; though irresolute what to do when it. was known.
My behaviour must have seemed strange to you then ; but
now you will comprehend it. To suffer you all to be so
‘deceived ; to see your sister——but what could I do? I had
no hope of interfering with success; and sometimes I
thought your sister’s influence might yet reclaim him. But
now, after such dishonourable usage, who can tell what
were his designs on her? Whatever they may have been,
however, she may now, and hereafter doubtless wil/, turn
N 2
180 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
‘with gratitude towards her own condition, when she com-
pares it with that of my poor Eliza ; when she considers
the wretched and hopeless situation of this poor girl, and
pictures her to herself, with an affection for him as strong,
still as strong as her own, and with a mind tormented by
self-reproach, which must attend her through life. Surely
this comparison must have its use with her. She will feel
her own sufferings to be nothing: they proceed from no
misconduct, and can bring no disgrace. On the contrary,
every friend must be made still more her friend by them.
Concern for her unhappiness, and respect for her fortitude
under it, must strengthen every attachment. Use your
own discretion, however, in communicating to her what I
have told you. You must know best what will be its effect ;
but had I not seriously, and from my heart believed it
might be of service, might lessen her regrets, I would not
have suffered myself to trouble you with this account of
my family afflictions, — with a recital which may seem
to have been intended to raise myself at the expense of
others.” 7 !
Elinor’s thanks followed this speech with grateful ear-
nestness ; attended, too, with the assurance of her expecting
material advantage to Marianne from the communication
of what had passed.
** T have been more pained,” said she, “ by her endea-
vours to acquit him than by all the rest ; for it irritates her
mind more than the most perfect conviction of his un-
worthiness can do. Now, though at first she will suffer
much, I am sure she will soon become easier. Have you,”
she continued) after a short silence, “‘ ever seen Mr. Wil-
loughby since you left him at Barton ?”
« Yes,” he replied gravely, “ once I have. One meeting
was unavoidable.”
Elinor, startled by his manner, looked at him anxiously,
saying,—
“© What! have you met him to
** I could meet him in'no other way. Eliza had con-
fessed to me, though most reluctantly, the name of her
lover ; and when he returned to town, which was within a
fortnight after myself, we met by appointment; he to de-
39
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 181
fend, I to punish his conduct. We returned unwounded,
and the meeting, therefore, never got abroad.”
Elinor sighed over the fancied necessity of this ; but to
a man and a soldier she presumed not to censure it.
** Such,” said Colonel Brandon, after a pause, “* has
been the unhappy resemblance between the fate of mother
and daughter; and so imperfectly have I discharged my
trust.”
** Ts she still in town ?”
** No ; as soon as she recovered from her lying-in, for I
found her near her delivery, I removed her and her child
into the country, and there she remains.”
Recollecting, soon afterwards, that he was probably di-
viding Elinor from her sister, he put an end to his visit,
receiving from her again the same grateful acknowledg-
ments, and leaving her full‘of compassion and esteem for
him.
CHAPTER X.
Wuen the particulars of this conversation were repeated
by Miss Dashwood to her sister, as they very soon were,
the effect on her was not entirely such as the former had
hoped to see. Not that Marianne appeared to distrust the
truth of any part of it, for she listened to it all with the
most steady and submissive attention, made neither objec-
tion nor remark, attempted no vindication of Willoughby,
and seemed to show by her tears that she felt it to be im-
possible. But though this behaviour assured Elinor that
the conviction of this guilt was carried home to ‘her mind,
though she saw with satisfaction the effect of it, in her no
longer avoiding Colonel Brandon when he called, in her
speaking to him, even voluntarily speaking, with a kind of
compassionate respect, and though she saw her spirits less
violently irritated than before, she did not see her: less
wretched. Her mind did become settled, but it was settled
N 8
182 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
in a gloomy dejection. She felt the loss of Willoughby’s
character yet more heavily than she had felt the loss of his
heart ; his seduction and desertion of Miss Williams, the
misery of that poor girl, and the doubt of what his designs
might once have been on herself, preyed altogether so
much on her spirits, that she could not bring herself to
speak of what she felt even to Elinor; and, brooding over
her sorrows in silence, gave more pain to her sister than
could have been communicated by the most open and most
frequent confession of them.
To give the feelings or the language of Mrs. Dashwood
on receiving and answering Elinor’s letter would be only
to give a repetition of what her daughters had already felt
and said; of a disappointment hardly less painful than
Marianne’s, and an indignation even greater than Elinor’s.
Long letters from her, quickly succeeding each other,
arrived to tell all that she suffered and thought; to express
her anxious solicitude for Marianne, and entreat she would
bear up with fortitude under this misfortune. Bad,
indeed, must the nature of Marianne’s affliction be, when
her mother could talk of fortitude! mortifying and humili-
ating must be the origin of those regrets, which she could
wish her not to indulge!
Against the interest of her own individual comfort, Mrs.
Dashwood had determined that it would be better for
Marianne to be any where, at that time, than at Barton,
where every thing within her view would be bringing back
the past in the strongest and most afflicting manner, by
constantly placing Willoughby before her, such as she had
always seen him there. She recommended it to her
daughters, therefore, by all means not to shorten their visit
to Mrs. Jennings; the length of which, though never
exactly fixed, had been expected by all to comprise at least
five or six weeks. A variety of occupations, of objects,
and of company, which could not be procured at Barton,
would be inevitable there, and might yet, she hoped, cheat
Marianne, at times, into some interest beyond herself, and
even into some amusement, much as the idea of both
might now be spurned by her.
From all danger of seeing Willoughby again, her mo-
\
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 183
‘ther considered her to be at least equally safe in town as in
the country, since his acquaintance must now be dropped
by all who called themselves her friends. Design could
never bring them in each other’s way: negligence could
never leave them exposed to a surprise; and chance had
less in its favour in the crowd of London than even in the
retirement of Barton, where it might force him before her
while paying that visit at Allenham on his marriage, which
‘Mrs. Dashwood, from foreseeing at first as a probable
event, had brought herself to expect as a certain one.
She had yet another reason for wishing her children to
remain where they were ; a letter from her son-in-law had
told her that he and his wife were to be in town before the
middle of February, and she judged it right that they
should sometimes see their brother.
Marianne had promised to be guided by her mother’s
opinion, and she submitted to it, therefore, without oppo~
sition, though it proved perfectly different from what she
wished and expected, though she felt it to be entirely
wrong, formed on mistaken grounds ; and that, by requiring
her longer continuance in London, it deprived her of the
only possible alleviation of her wretchedness, the personal
sympathy of her mother, and doomed her to such society
and such scenes as must prevent her ever knowing a mo-
ment’s rest.
But it was a matter of great consolation to her, that
what brought evil to herself would bring good to her sister ;
and Elinor, on the other hand, suspecting that it would
not be in her power to avoid Edward entirely, comforted
herself by thinking, that though their longer stay would
therefore militate against her own happiness, it would be
better for Marianne than an immediate return into De<
vonshire.
Her carefulness in guarding her sister from ever hearing
Willoughby’s name mentioned was not thrown away.
Marianne, though without knowing it herself, reaped all
its advantage; for neither Mrs. Jennings, nor Sir John,
nor even Mrs. Palmer herself, ever spoke of him before
her. Elinor wished that the same forbearance could have
extended towards herself, but that was impossible, and she
N 4
184 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
was obliged to listen, day after day, to the indignation of
them all.
Sir John could not have thought it possible. “A man
of whom he had always had such reason to think well!
Such a good-natured fellow! He did not believe there
was a bolder rider in England! It was an unaccountable
business. He wished him at the devil with all his heart.
He would not speak another word to him, meet him where
he might, for/all the world! No, not if it were to be by the
side of Barton covert, and they were kept waiting for two
hours together. Such a scoundrel of a fellow! such a
deceitful dog! It was only the last time they met that
he had offered him one of Folly’s puppies! and this was
the end of it!”
Mrs. Palmer, in her way, was equally angry. ‘“‘ She
was determined to drop his acquaintance immediately, and
she was very thankful that she had never been acquainted
with him at all. She wished with all her heart Combe
Magna was not so near Cleveland ; but it did not signify,
for it was a great deal too far off to visit; she hated him
so much that she was resolved never to mention his name
again, and she should tell every body she saw, how good-
for-nothing he was.”
The rest of Mrs. Palmer’s sympathy was shown in pro-
curing all the particulars in her power of the approaching
marriage, and communicating them to Elinor. She could
soon tell at what coachmaker’s the new carriage was build-
ing, by what painter Mr. Willoughby’s portrait was drawn,
and at what warehouse Miss Grey’s clothes might be seen.
The calm and polite unconcern of Lady Middleton on the
occasion was a happy relief to Elinor’s spirits, oppressed as
they often were by the clamorous kindness of the others.
It was a great comfort to her to be sure of exciting no in-
terest in one person at least among their circle of friends ;
a great comfort to know that there was one who would meet
her without feeling any curiosity after particulars, or any
anxiety for her sister’s health.
Every qualification is vaised at times, by the circumstances
of the moment, to rore then its real value; and she was
sometimes worried down by officious condolence to rate
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 185
good-breeding as more indispensable to comfort than good
nature.
Lady Middleton expressed her sense of the affair about
once every day, or twice, if the subject occurred very often,
by saying, ‘‘ It is very shocking, indeed !” and by the means
of this continual, though gentle, vent, was able not only to
see the Miss Dashwoods, from the first, without the smallest
emotion, but very soon to see them without recollecting a
-word of the matter ; and having thus supported the dignity
of her own sex, and spoken her decided censure of what was
wrong in the other, she thought herself at liberty to attend
to the interest of her own assemblies, and therefore deter-
mined (though rather against the opinion of Sir John) that
as Mrs. Willoughby would at once be a woman of elegance
and fortune, to leave her card with her as soon as she
married.
Colonel Brandon’s delicate, unobtrusive enquiries were
never unwelcome to Miss Dashwood. He had abundantly
earned the privilege of intimate discussion of her sister’s
disappointment, by the friendly zeal with which he had
endeavoured to soften it, and they always conversed with
confidence. His chief reward for the painful exertion of
disclosing past sorrows and present humiliations was given
in the pitying eye with which Marianne sometimes ob-
served him, and the gentleness of her voice, whenever
(though it did not often happen) she was obliged, or could
oblige herself to speak to him. These assured him that his
exertion had produced an increase of good-will towards
himself, and these gave Elinor hopes of its being farther
augmented hereafter ; but Mrs. Jennings, who knew nothing
of all this, who knew only that the Colonel continued as
grave as ever, and that she could neither prevail on him to
make the offer himself, nor commission her to make it for
him, began, at the end of two days, to think that, instead of
Midsummer, they would not be married till Michaelmas,
and by the end of a week that it would not be a match at
all. The good understanding between the Colonel and
Miss Dashwood seemed rather to declare that the honours
of the mulberry-tree, the canal, and the yew arbour, would
186 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
all be made over to her; and Mrs. Jennings had, for some
time, ceased to think at all of Mr. Ferrars.
Early i in February, within a fortnight from the receipt of
Willoughby’ s letter, Elinor had the painful office of inform~
ing her sister that he was married. She had taken care to
have the intelligence conveyed to herself, as soon as it was
known that the ceremony was over, as she was desirous that
Marianne should not receive the first notice of it from the
public papers, which she saw her eagerly examining every
morning.
She received the news with resolute composure ; made
no observation on it, and at first shed no tears; but after a
short time they would burst out, and for the rest of the
day she was ina state hardly less pitiable than when she
first learnt to expect the event.
The Willoughbys left town as soon as they were mar-
ried ; and Elinor now hoped, as there could be no danger
of her seeing either of them, to prevail on her sister, who
had never yet left the house since the blow first fell, to go
out again, by degrees, as she had done before.
About this time the two Miss Steeles, lately arrived at
their cousin’s house in Bartlett’s Buildings, Holborn, pre-
sented themselves again before their more grand relations
in Conduit and Berkeley Street ; and were welcomed by
them all with great cordiality.
Elinor only was sorry to see them. Their presence al-
ways gave her pain, and she hardly knew how to make a
very gracious return to the overpowering delight of Lucy in
finding her sti// in town.
“* T should have been quite disappointed if I had not
found you here still,” said she repeatedly, with a strong
emphasis on the word. ‘ But I always thought I should.
I was almost sure you would not leave London yet awhile ;
though you to/d me, you know, at Barton, that you should
not stay above a month. But I thought, at the time, that
“you would most likely change your mind when it came to
the point. It would have been such a great pity to have
went away before your brother and sister came. And now,
to be sure, you will be in no hurry to be gone. I am
amazingly glad you did not keep to your word.”
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. . HL8Y
Elinor perfectly understood her, and was forced to use
all her self-command to make it appear that she did not.
“ Well, my dear,’ said Mrs. Jennings, “ and how did
you travel ?” ;
“‘ Not in the stage, I assure you,’ replied Miss Steele,
with quick exultation ; “‘we came post all the way, and
had a very smart beau to attend us. Dr. Davies was com-
ing to town, and so we thought we'd join him in a post-
chaise ; and he behaved very genteelly, and paid ten or
twelve shillings more than we did.”
** Oh, oh !” cried Mrs. Jennings ; “ very pretty, indeed!
and the Doctor is a single man, I warrant you.”
““ There now,” said Miss Steele, affectedly simpering,
“ every body laughs at me so about the Doctor, and I can-
not think why. My cousins say they are sure I have made
a conquest ; but for my part I declare I never think about
him from one hour’s end to another. ‘ Lord! here comes
your beau, Nancy,’ my cousin said t’ other day, when she saw
him crossing the street to the house. My beau, indeed !
said I—I cannot think who you mean. The Doctor is no
beau of mine.”
“* Ay, ay, that is very pretty talking—but it won't do
—the Doctor is the man, I see.”
*“ No, indeed!” replied her cousin, with affected earnest-
ness, “ and I beg you will contradict it, if you ever hear it
talked of.”
Mrs. Jennings directly gave her the gratifying assurance
that she certainly would nof, and Miss Steele was made
completely happy.
“I suppose you will go and stay with your brother and
sister, Miss Dashwood, when they come to town,” said
Lucy, returning, after a cessation of hostile hints, to the
charge. :
“No, I do not think we shall.”
«Oh, yes, I dare say you will.”
Elinor would not humour her by farther opposition.
«What a charming thing it is that Mrs. Dashwood can
spare you both for so long a time together !”
“Long a time, indeed!” interposed Mrs. Jennings.
“Why, their visit is but just begun !”
188 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY:
Lucy was silenced. ,
** I am sorry we cannot see your sister, Miss Dashwood,”
said Miss Steele. ‘I am sorry she is not well;” for Ma-
rianne had left the room on their arrival.
“You are very good. My sister will be equally sorry
to miss the pleasure of seeing you; but she has been very
much plagued lately with nervous headachs, which make
her unfit for company or conversation.”
“Oh, dear, that is a great pity! but such old friends as
Lucy and me qatey think she might see us 5 and I am sure
we would not speak a word.”
Elinor, with great civility, declined the proposal. Her
sister was, perhaps, laid down upon the bed, or in her
dressing gown, and therefore not able to come to them. } “4
“Oh, if that’s all,’’ cried Miss Steele, ‘“ we can just as
well go and see her.”
Elinor began to find this impertinence too much for
her temper ; but she was saved the trouble of checking it,
by Lucy’s sharp reprimand, which now, as on many
occasions, though it did not give much sweetness to the
manners of one sister, was of advantage in governing those
of the other.
CHAPTER XI.
ArrER some opposition, Marianne yielded to her sister’s
entreaties, and consented to go out with her and Mrs. Jen-
nings one morning for half an hour. She expressly con-
- ditioned, however, for paying no visits, and would do no
more than accompany them to Gray’s in Sackville Street,
where Elinor was carrying on a negotiation for the ex-
change of a few old- fashioned jewels of her mother.
Waker they stopped at the door, Mrs. Jennings recollect-
ed that there was a lady at the ater end of he street on
whom she ought to call; and as she had no business at
Gray's, it was resolved, that while her young friends
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 189
transacted theirs, she should pay her visit, and return for
them.
On ascending the stairs, the Miss Dashwoods found so
many people before them in the room, that there was not a
person at liberty to attend to their orders; and they were
obliged to wait. All that could be done was, to sit down
at that end of the counter which seemed to promise the
quickest succession; one gentleman only was standing
there, and it is probable that Elinor was not without hope
of exciting his politeness to a quicker despatch. But the
correctness of his eye, and the delicacy of his taste, proved
to be beyond his politeness. He was giving orders for a
toothpick-case for himself; and till its size, shape, and
ornaments were determined, all of which, after examining
and debating for a quarter of an hour over every toothpick-
case in the shop, were finally arranged by his own inven-
tive fancy, he had no leisure to bestow any other attention
on the two ladies than what was comprised in three or four
very broad stares; a kind of notice which served to im-
print on Elinor the remembrance of a person and face of
strong, natural, sterling insignificance, though adorned in
the first style of fashion.
Marianne was spared from the troublesome feelings of ©
contempt and resentment, on this impertinent examination
of their features, and on the puppyism of his manner in
deciding on all the different horrors of the different tooth-
- pick-cases presented to his inspection, by remaining uncon-
scious of it all; for she was as well able to collect her
thoughts within herself, and be as ignorant of what was
passing around her, in Mr. Gray’s shop, as in her own
bed-room.
At last the affair was decided. The ivory, the gold,
and the pearls, all received their appointment; and the
gentleman having named the last day on which his exist-
ence could be continued without the possession of the
toothpick-case, drew on his gloves with leisurely care, and
bestowing another glance on the Miss Dashwoods, but
such a one as seemed rather to demand than express ad-
miration, walked off with a happy air of real conceit and
affected indifference.
190 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
Elinor lost no time in bringing her business forward,
and was on the point of concluding it, when another gen-
tleman presented himself at her side. She turned her eyes
towards. his face, and found him, with some surprise, to be
her brother.
Their affection and pleasure in meeting was just enough
to make a very creditable appearance in Mr. Gray’s shop.
John Dashwood was really far from being sorry to see
his sisters again; it rather gave them satisfaction ; and
his enquiries after their mother were respectful and at-
tentive.
_ Elinor found that he and Fanny had been in town two
days. 3
‘“* T wished very much to call upon you yesterday,” said
he, “‘ but it was impossible, for we were obliged to take
Harry to see the wild beasts at Exeter Exchange: and we
spent the rest of the day with Mrs. Ferrars. Harry was
vastly pleased. This morning I had fully intended to call on
you, if I could possibly find a spare half hour, but one has
always so much to do on first coming to town. Iam come
here to bespeak Fanny a seal. But to-morrow I think I
shall certainly be able to call in Berkeley Street, and be in-
troduced to your friend Mrs. Jennings. I understand she
is a woman of very good fortune. And the Middletons, too,
you must introduce me to them. As my mother-in-law’s
relations, I shall be happy to show them every respect.
They are excellent neighbours to you in the country, I
understand.”
“ Excellent indeed. Their attention to our comfort,
their friendliness in every particular, is more than J can
express.”
“* I am extremely glad to hear it, upon my word; ex-
tremely glad indeed. But so it ought to be ;. they are
people of large fortune; they are related to you; and every
civility and accommodation that can serve to make your
situation pleasant might be reasonably expected. And so
you are most comfortably settled in your little cottage, and
want for nothing! Edward brought us a most charming
account of the place: the most complete thing of its kind,
he said, that ever was, and you all seemed to enjoy it be-
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 191
yond any thing. . It was a great satisfaction to us to hear
it, I assure you.”
Elinor did feel a little ashamed of her brother ; and was
not sorry to be spared the necessity of answering him, by
the arrival of Mrs. Jennings’s servant, who came to tell her
that his mistress waited for them at the door.
Mr. Dashwood attended them down stairs, was introduced
to Mrs. Jennings at the door of her carriage, and repeating
his hope of being able to call on them the next day, took
leave.
His visit was duly paid. He came with a pretence at
an apology from their sister-in-law, for not coming too ;
“© but she was so much engaged with her mother, that really
she had no leisure for going any where.” Mrs. Jennings,
however, assured him directly, that she should not stand
upon ceremony, for they were all cousins, or somethiug like
it, and she should certainly wait on Mrs. John Dashwood
very soon, and bring her sisters to see her. His manners
to them, though calm, were perfectly kind ; to Mrs. Jen-
nings, most attentively civil; and on Colonel Brandon’s
coming in soon after himself, he eyed him with a curiosity
which seemed to say, that he only wanted to know him to
be rich, to be equally civil to him.
After staying with them half an hour, he asked Elinor
to walk with him to Conduit Street, and introduce him to
Sir John and Lady Middleton. The weather was remarkably
fine, and she readily consented. As soon as they were out
of the house, his enquiries began.
* Who is Colonel Brandon? Is he a man of fortune ?”
«© Yes; he has very good property in Dorsetshire.”
“TI am glad of it. He seems a most gentlemanlike man ;
and I think, Elinor, I may congratulate you on the prospect
of a very respectable establishment in life.”
<< Me, brother! what do you mean ?”
“* He likes you. I observed him narrowly, and am con-
vinced of it. What is the amount of his fortune?”
“« I believe about two thousand a year.”
** Two thousand a year!” and then working himself up
to a pitch of enthusiastic generosity, he added, “ Elinor, I
wish with all my heart it were twice as much for your sake.”
r
192 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
“* Indeed I believe you,” replied Elinor ; ‘ but I am very
sure that Colonel Brandon has not the smallest wish of
marrying me.”
“You are mistaken, Elinor ; you are very much mis-
taken. A very little trouble on your side secures him.
Perhaps just at present he may be undecided ; the smallness
of your fortune may make him hang back ; his friends may
all advise him against it. But some of those little atten-
tions and encouragements which ladies can so easily give
will fix him, in spite of himself. And there can be no
reason why you should not try for him.’ It is not to be
supposed that any prior attachment on your side ;—in short,
you know, as to an attachment of that kind, it is quite out
of the question, the objections are insurmountable— you
have too much sense not to see all that. Colonel Brandon
must be the man; and no civility shall be wanting on my
part to make him pleased with you and your family. It
is a match that must give universal satisfaction. In short,
it is a kind of thing that,” lowering his voice to an im-
portant “whisper, “ will be exceedingly welcome to all
parties.” Recollecting himself, however, he added, “ That
is, | mean to say —your friends are all truly anxious to see
you well settled; Fanny particularly, for she has your
interest very much at heart, I assure you. And her mother
too, Mrs. Ferrars, a very good-natured woman, I am sure
it would give her great pleasure; she said as much the
other day.”
Elinor would not vouchsafe any answer.
“Tt would be something remarkable, now,” he continued,
** something droll, if Fanny should have a brother and I
a sister settling at the same time. And yet it is not very
unlikely.” .
“Ts Mr. Edward Ferrars,” said Elinor, with resolution,
** going to be married ?”
* It is not actually settled, but there is such a thing in
‘ agitation. He has a most excellent mother. Mrs. Ferrars,
with the utmost liberality, will come forward, and settle on
him a thousand a year, if the match takes place. The
lady is the Hon. Miss Morton, only daughter of the late
Lord Morton, with thirty thousand pounds. —TI
saw a vast deal more. Such kindness as fell to the share of
- nobody but me !— No pride, no hauteur, and your sister just
the same— all sweetness and affability!”
Elinor wished to talk of something else, but Lucy still
pressed her to own that she had reason for her happiness ;
and Elinor was obliged to go on.
** Undoubtedly, if they had known your engagement,”
said she, ‘‘ nothing could be more flattering than their
treatment of you ;—but as that was not the case %
‘* I guessed you would say so,” replied Lucy, quickly ; —
“ but there was no reason in the world why Mrs. Ferrars
should seem to like me, if she did not, and her liking me is
every thing. You shan’t talk me out of my satisfaction. I
am sure it will all end well, and there will be no difficulties
at all, to what I used to think. Mrs. Ferrars is a charm-
ing woman, and so is your sister. They are both delight-
ful women indeed !—I wonder I should never hear you
say how agreeable Mrs. Dashwood was !”
206 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
To this Elinor had no answer to make, and did not at«
tempt any. i
** Are you ill, Miss Dashwood ? —you seem low — you
don’t speak ; — sure you an’t well.”
** I never was in better health.”
“IT am glad of it with all my heart; but really you did
not look it. I should be so sorry to have you ill; you, that
have been the greatest comfort to me in the world !—
Heaven knows what I should have done without your
friendship.”
Elinor tried to make a civil answer, though, doubting her
own success. But it seemed to satisfy Lucy, for she di-
rectly replied,—
““ Indeed I am perfectly convinced of your regard for
me, and, next to Edward’s love, it is the greatest comfort I
have. Poor Edward! But now there is one good thing,
we shall be able to meet, and meet pretty often, for Lady
Middleton’s delighted with Mrs. Dashwood, so we shall be
a good deal in Harley Street, I dare say, and Edward spends
half his time with his sister — besides, Lady Middleton and
Mrs. Ferrars will visit now ;— and Mrs. Ferrars and your
sister were both so good to say, more than once, they
should always be glad to see me. They are such charming
women !—I am sure if ever you tell your sister what I
think of her, you cannot speak too high.”
But Elinor would not give her any encouragement to
hope that she should tell her sister. Lucy continued, —
““ IT am sure I should have seen it in a moment, if Mrs.
Ferrars had took a dislike to me. If she had only made
me a formal courtesy, for instance, without saying a word,
and never after had took any notice of me, and never looked
at me in a pleasant way — you know what I mean—if I
had been treated in that forbidding sort of way, I should
have gave it all up in despair. I could not have stood it.
For where she does dislike, I know it is most violent.”
Elinor was prevented from making any reply to this
civil triumph, by the door’s being thrown open, the servant’s
announcing Mr, Ferrars, and Edward’s immediately walk-
ing in.
It was a very awkward moment; and the countenance
‘
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 207
of each showed that it was so. They all looked exceed-
ingly foolish ; and Edward seemed to have as great an in-
clination to walk out of the room again as to advance farther
into it. The very circumstance, in its unpleasantest form,
which they would each have been most anxious to avoid,
had fallen on them. They were not only all three together,
but were together without the relief of any other person.
The ladies recovered themselves first. It was not Lucy’s
business to put herself forward, and the appearance of se-
erecy must still be kept up. She could therefore only look
her tenderness, and after slightly addressing him, said no
more. |
But Elinor had more to do ; and so anxious was she, for
his sake and her own, to do it well, that she forced herself,
after a moment’s recollection, to welcome him, with a look
and manner that were almost easy, and almost open; and
another struggle, another effort still improved them. She
would not allow the presence of Lucy, nor the conscious-
ness of some injustice towards herself, to deter her from
saying that she was happy to see him, and that she had
very much regretted being from home, when he called be-
fore in Berkeley Street. She would not be frightened from
paying him those attentions which, as a friend and almost
a relation, were his due, by the observant eyes of Lucy,
though she soon perceived them to be narrowly watching
her. |
Her manners gave some re-assurance to Edward, and he
had courage enough to sit down; but his embarrassment
still exceeded that. of the ladies in a proportion which the
case rendered reasonable, though his sex might make it
rare; for his heart had not the indifference of Lucy’s, nor
could his conscience have quite the ease of Elinor’s.
Lucy, with a demure and settled air, seemed determined
to make no contribution to the comfort cf the others, and
would not say a word; and almost every thing that was
said proceeded from Elinor, who was obliged to volunteer
all the information about her mother’s health, their coming
to town, &c. which Edward ought to have enquired about,
but never did.
Her exertions did not stop here; for she soon afterwards
208 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
felt herself so heroically disposed as to determine, under
pretence of fetching Marianne, to leave the others by them-
selves ; and she really did it, and that in the handsomest
manner, for she loitered away several minutes on the land-
ing-place, with the most high-minded fortitude, before she
went to her sister. When that was once done, however, it
was time for the raptures of Edward to cease; for Mari-
anne’s joy hurried her into the drawing-room immediately.
Her pleasure in seeing him was like every other of her feel-
ings, strong in itself, and strongly spoken. She met him
with a hand that vould be taken, and a voice that ex-
pressed the affection of a sister.
“ Dear Edward!” she cried, “ this is a moment of great
happiness! This would almost make amends for every
thing !”
Edward tried to return her kindness as it deserved, but
before such witnesses he dared not say half what he really
felt. Again they all sat down, and for a moment or two
all were silent ; while Marianne was looking with the most
speaking tenderness, sometimes at Edward and sometimes
at Elinor, regretting only that their delight in each other
should be checked by Lucy’s unwelcome presence. Edward
was the first to speak, and it was to notice Marianne’s al-
tered looks, and express his fear of her not finding London
agree with her.
“Oh, don’t think of me!” she replied with spirited
earnestness, though her eyes were filled with tears as she
spoke, “ don’t think of my health. Elinor is well, you see.
That must be enough for us both.”
This remark was not calculated to make Edward or
Elinor more easy, nor to conciliate the good will of Lucy,
who looked up at Marianne with no very benignant ex-
pression.
** Do you like London?” said Edward, willing to say
any thing that might introduce another subject.
“ Not at all. I expected much pleasure in it, but I
have found none. The sight of you, Edward, is the only
comfort it has afforded; and, thank Heaven! you are what.
you always were!” | vrsife
She paused — no one spoke.
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. | 209
**{ think, Elinor,” she presently added, “ we must
employ Edward to take care of us in our return to Barton.
In a week or two, I suppose, we shall be going ; and, I
trust, Edward will not be very unwilling to accept the
charge.”
Poor Edward muttered something, but what it was
nobody knew, not even himself. But Marianne, who saw
his agitation, and could easily trace it to whatever cause
best pleased herself, was perfectly satisfied, and soon talked
of something else.
** We spent such a day, Edward, in Harley Street
yesterday! So dull, so wretchedly dull! But I have
much to say to you on that head, which cannot be said
now.
And with this admirable discretion did she defer the
assurance of her finding their mutual relatives more dis-
agreeable than ever, and of her being particularly disgusted
with his mother, till they were more in private.
** But why were you not there, Edward? Why did
you not come ? ”
** I was engaged elsewhere.”
* Engaged! But what was that, when such friends
were to be met ?”
«« Perhaps, Miss Marianne,” cried Lucy, eager to take
some revenge on her, “‘ you think young men never stand
upon engagements, if they have no mind to keep them,
little as well as great.”
Elinor was very angry, but Marianne seemed entirely
- insensible of the sting ; for she calmly replied, —
“ Not so, indeed ; for, seriously speaking, I am very
sure that conscience only kept Edward from Harley Street.
And I really believe he has the most delicate conscience in
the world ; the most scrupulous in performing every en-
gagement, however minute, and however it may make
against his interest or pleasure. He is the most fearful of
giving pain, of wounding expectation, and the most in-
capable of being selfish, of any body I ever saw. Edward,
it is so, and I will say it. What! are you never to hear
yourself praised P— Then you must be no friend of mine ;
P
210 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
for those who will accept of my love and esteem must
submit to my open commendation.”
The nature of her commendation, in the present case,
however, happened to be particularly ill suited to the feel-
ings of two thirds of her auditors, and was so very un-
exhilarating to Edward, that he very soon got up to go
away.
‘«* Going so soon !” said Marianne; “ my dear Edward,
this must not be.”
And drawing him a little aside, she whispered her per-
suasion that Lucy could not stay much longer. But even
this encouragement failed, for he would go; and Lucy,
who would have outstayed him had his visit lasted two
hours, soon afterwards went away.
“What can bring her here so often?” said Marianne,
on her leaving them. ‘ Could she not see that we wanted
her gone ! — how teazing to Edward !” .
«Why soP we were all his friends, and Lucy has
been the longest known to him of any. It is but natural
that he should like to see her as well as ourselves.”
Marianne looked at her steadily, and said, “‘ You know,
Elinor, that this is a kind of talking which I cannot bear.
If you only hope to have your assertion contradicted, as I
must suppose to be the case, you ought to recollect that I
am the last person in the world to do it. I cannot descend
to be tricked out of assurances that are not really wanted.”
She then left the room ; and Elinor dared not follow her
to say more, for bound as she was by her promise of secrecy
to Lucy, she could give no information that would convince
Marianne ; and painful as the consequences of her still
continuing in an error might be, she was obliged to submit
to it. All that she could hope was, that Edward would,
not often expose her or himself to the distress of hearing
Marianne’s mistaken warmth, nor to the repetition of any
other part of the pain that had attended their recent meet-
ing —- and this she had every reason to expect.
é
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 211
CHAPTER XIV.
Wirnin a few days after this meeting, the newspapers
announced to the world, that the lady of Thomas Palmer,
Esq. was safely delivered of a son and heir; a very in-
teresting and satisfactory paragraph, at least to all those
intimate connections who knew it before.
This event, highly important to Mrs. Jennings’s hap-
piness, produced a temporary alteration in the disposal of
her time, and influenced, in a like degree, the engage-
ments of her young friends ; for as she wished to be as
much as possible with Charlotte, she went thither every
morning as soon as she was dressed, and did not return till
late in the evening ; and the Miss Dashwoods, at the par-
ticular request of the Middletons, spent the whole of every
day in Conduit Street. For their own comfort, they would
much rather have remained, at least all the morning, in
Mrs. Jennings’s house ; but it was not a thing to be urged
against the wishes of every body. ‘Their hours were there-
fore made over to Lady Middleton and the two Miss
Steeles, by whom their company was, in fact, as little
valued as it. was professedly sought.
They had too much sense to be desirable companions to
the former ; and by the latter they were considered with a
jealous eye, as intruding on their ground, and sharing the
kindness which they wanted to monopelise. Though no-
thing could be more polite than Lady Middleton’s behaviour
to Elinor and Marianne, she did not really like them at all.
Because they neither flattered herself nor her children, she.
could not believe them good natured ; and because they
were fond of reading, she fancied them satirical: perhaps
without exactly knowing what it was to be satirical; but
that did not signify. It was censure in common use, and
easily given.
Their presence was a restraint both on her and on Lucy.
It checked the idleness of one, and the business of the other.
Lady Middleton was ashamed of doing nothing before them,
B2
212 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
and the flattery which Lucy was proud to think of and ad-
minister at other times she feared they would despise
her for offering. Miss Steele was the least discomposed of
the three by cheir presence ; ‘and it was in their power to
reconcile her to it entirely. Would either of them only
have given her a full and minute account of the whole affair
between Marianne and Mr. Willoughby she would have
thought herself amply rewarded for the sacrifice of the best
place by the fire after dinner, which their arrival occasioned.
But this conciliation was not granted ; for though she often -
threw out expressions of pity for her sister to Elinor, and
more than once dropt a reflection on the inconstancy of
beaux before Marianne ; no effect was produced, but a look
of indifference from the former, or of disgust in the latter.
An effort even yet lighter might have made her their friend:
— would they only have laughed at her about the Doctor !
But so little were they, any more than the others, inclined
to oblige her, that if Sir John dined from home she might
spend a whole day without hearing any other raillery on the
subject than what she was kind enough to bestow on herself.
All these jealousies and discontents, however, were so
totally unsuspected by Mrs. Jennings, that she thought it a
delightful thing for the girls to be together ; and generally
congratulated her young friends every night on having es-
caped the company of a stupid old woman so long. She joined
them sometimes at Sir John’s, and sometimes at her own
house ; but wherever it was, she always came in excellent
spirits, full of delight and importance, attributing Charlotte’s
well doing to her own care, and ready to give so exact, so mi-
nute a detail of her situation, as only Miss Steele had curiosity
enough to desire. One thing did disturb her ; and of that
she made her daily complaint. Mr. Palmer maintained the
common, but unfatherly opinion among his sex, of all infants
being alike ; and though she could plainly perceive, at dif-
ferent times, the most striking resemblance between this
baby and every one of his relations on both sides, there was
no convincing his father of it; no persuading him to be-
lieve that it was not exactly like every other baby of the
same age; nor could he even be brought to acknowledge
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 213
the simple proposition of its being the finest child in the
world.
I come now to the relation of a misfortune which about
this time befell Mrs. John Dashwood. It so happened that
while her two sisters with Mrs. Jennings were first calling on
her in Harley Street, another of her acquaintance had dropt
in — a circumstance in itself not apparently likely to pro-
duce evil to her. But while the imaginations of other peo..
ple will carry them away to form wrong judgments of our
conduct, and to decide on it by slight appearances, one’s
happiness must in some measure be always at the mercy of
chance. In the present instance, this last-arrived lady al-
lowed her fancy so far to outrun truth and probability, that
on merely hearing the name of the Miss Dashwoods, and
understanding them to be Mr. Dashwood's sisters, she im-
mediately concluded them to be staying in Harley Street ;
and this misconstruction produced, within a day or two
afterwards, cards of invitation for them, as well as for their
brother and sister, to a small musical party at her house;
the consequence of which was, that Mrs. John Dashwood
was obliged to submit not only to the exceedingly great in-
convenience of sending her carriage for the Miss Dash-
woods, but, what was still worse, must be subject to all
the unpleasantness of appearing to treat them with attention
and who could tell that they might not expect to go out
with her a second time? The power of disappointing them,
it was true, must always be hers. But that was not enough ;
for when people are determined on a mode of conduct which
they know to be wrong, they feel injured by the expectation
of any thing better from them.
Marianne had now been brought, by degrees, so much
into the habit of going out every day, that it was become a
matter of indifference to her whether she went or not .
and she prepared quietly and mechanically for every even-
ing’s engagement, though without expecting the smallest
amusement from any, and very often without knowing, till
the last moment, where it was to take her.
To her dress and appearance she was grown so perfectly
indifferent as not to bestow half the consideration on it,
during the whole of her toilet, which it received from
P35
Q14 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
Miss Steele in the first five minutes of their being together,
when it was finished. Nothing escaped her minute observ-
ation and general curiosity ; she saw every thing, and asked
every thing ; was never easy till she knew the price of every
part of Marianne’s dress; could have guessed the number
of her gowns altogether with better judgment than Marianne
herself; and was not without hopes of finding out, before
they parted, how much her washing cost per week, and
how much she had every year to spend upon herself. The
impertinence of these kind of scrutinies, moreover, was
generally concluded with a compliment, which, though
‘meant as its douceur, was considered by Marianne as the
greatest impertinence of all; for after undergoing an ex-
amination into the value and make of her gown, the colour
of her shoes, and the arrangement. of her hair, she was
almost sure of being told, that upon “ her word she looked
vastly smart, and she dared to say would make a great
many conquests.”
With such encouragement as this was she dismissed, on,
the present occasion, to her brother’s carriage ; which they
were ready to enter five minutes after it stopped at the
door, a punctuality not very agreeable to their sister-in-
law, who had preceded them to the house of her aequaint-
ance, and was there hoping for some delay on their part,
that might inconvenience either herself or her coachman.
The events of the evening were not very remarkable.
The party, like other musical parties, comprehended a great
many people who had real taste for the performance, and a
great many more who had none at all; and the performers
themselves were, as usual, in their own estimation, and
that of their immediate friends, the first private performers
in England,
As Elinor was neither musical, nor affecting to be so,
she made no scruple of turning away her eyes from the
grand piano-forte whenever it suited her, and unrestrained
even by the presence of a harp, and a violoncello, would
fix them at pleasure on any other object in the room. In
one of these excursive glances she perceived, among a group
of young men, the very he who had given them a lecture
on toothpick-cases at Gray’s. She perceived him soon
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 215
afterwards looking at herself, and speaking familiarly to her
brother; and had just determined to find out his name
from the latter, when they both came towards her, and
Mr. Dashwood introduced him to her as Mr. Robert
Ferrars.
He addressed her with easy civility, and twisted his
head into a bow, which assured her, as plainly as words
could have done, that he was exactly the coxcomb she had
heard him described to be by Lucy. Happy had it been
for her, if her regard for Edward had depended less on his
own merit than on the merit of his nearest relations! For
then his brother’s bow must have given the finishing stroke
to what the ill-humour of his mother and sister would have
begun. But while she wondered at the difference of the
two young men, she did not find that the emptiness and
conceit of the one put her at all out of charity with the
modesty and worth of the other. Why they were different,
Robert explained to her himself, in the course of a quarter
of an hour’s conversation ; for, talking of his brother, and
lamenting the extreme gaucherie which he really believed
kept him from mixing in .proper society, he candidly and
generously attributed it much less to any natural deficiency
than to the misfortune of a private education ; while he
himself, though probably without any particular, any ma-
terial superiority by nature, merely from the advantage of
a public school, was as well fitted to mix in the world as
any other man.
“Upon my soul,” he added, “ I believe it is nothing
more ; and so I often tell my mother, when she is grieving
about it. ‘ My dear madam,’ I always say to her, ‘ you
must make yourself easy. The evil is now irremediable,
and it has been entirely your own doing. Why would
you be persuaded by my uncle, Sir Robert, against your
own judgment, to place Edward under private tuition,
at the most critical time of his life? If you had only sent
him to Westminster as well as myself, instead of sending
him to Mr. Pratt's, all this would have been prevented.’
This is the way in which I always consider the matter,
and my mother is perfectly convinced of her error.”
. Elinor would not oppose his opinion, because, whatever
Pp 4
216 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
might be her general estimation of the advantage of a
public school, she could not think of Edward’s abode in
Mr. Pratt’s family with any satisfaction.
«* You reside in Devonshire, I think,’ was his next ob-
servation, “ in a cottage near Dawlish.”
Elinor set him right as to its situation ; and it seemed
rather surprising to him that any body could live in Devon-
shire without living near Dawlish. He bestowed his
hearty approbation, however, on their species of house.
** For my own part,’ said he, ‘ I am excessively fond
of a cottage ; there is always so much comfort, so much
elegance about them. And I protest, if I had any money
to spare, I should buy a little land and build one myself,
within a short distance of London, where I might drive
myself down at any time, and collect a few friends about
me, and be happy. I advise every body who is going to
build, to build a cottage. My friend Lord Courtland
came to me the other day on purpose to ask my advice,
and laid before me three different plans of Bonomi’s. I was
to decide on the best of them. ‘ My dear Courtland,’ said
I, immediately throwing them all into the fire, ‘ do not
adopt either of them, but by all means build a cottage.’
And that, I fancy, will be the end of it.
““ Some people imagine that there can be no accommo-
dations, no space in a cottage ; but thisis alla mistake. I
was last month at my friend Elliott’s, near Dartford.
Lady Elliott wished to give a dance. ‘ But how can it be
done?’ said she: ‘ my dear Ferrars, do tell me how it is
to be managed. There is not a room in this cottage that
will hold ten couple ; and where can the supper be?’ J
immediately saw that there could be no difficulty in it, so
I said, ‘ My dear Lady Elliott, do not be uneasy. The
dining-parlour will admit eighteen couple with ease ; card-
tables may be placed in the drawing-room ; the library
may be open for tea and other refreshments; and let the
supper be set out in the saloon.’ Lady Elliott was de-
lighted with the thought. We measured the dining-
room, and found it would hold exactly eighteen couple, —
and the affair was arranged precisely after my plan. So
that, in fact, you see, if people do but know how to set
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. OVE
about it, every comfort may be as well enjoyed in a cottage
as in the most spacious dwelling.”
Elinor agreed to it all, for she did not think he deserved
the compliment of rational opposition.
As John Dashwood had no more pleasure in music than
his eldest sister, his mind was equally at liberty to fix on
any thing else; and a thought struck him, during the
evening, which he communicated to his wife, for her ap-
probation, when they got home. The consideration of
Mrs. Dennison’s mistake, in supposing his sisters their
guests, had suggested the propriety of their being really in-
vited to become such, while Mrs. Jennings’s engagements
kept her from home. The expense would be nothing; the
inconvenience not more; and it was altogether an atten-
tion which the delicacy of his conscience pointed out to be
requisite to its complete enfranchisement from his promise
to his father. Fanny was startled at the proposal.
** I do not see how it can be done,” said she, “ without
affronting Lady Middleton, for they spend every day with
her ; otherwise I should be exceedingly glad to do it. You
know I am always ready to pay them any attention in my
power, as my taking them out this evening shows. But
they are Lady Middleton’s visiters. How can I ask them
away from her ?”
__. Her husband, but with great humility, did not see the
force of her objection. “ They had already spent a week
in this manner in Conduit Street, and Lady Middleton
could not be displeased at their giving the same number of
days to such near relations.”
Fanny paused a moment, and then, with fresh vigour,
said,—
“* My love, I would ask them with all my heart, if it
was in my power. But I had just settled within myself to
ask the Miss Steeles to spend a few days with us. They
are very well behaved, good kind of girls; and I think the
attention is due to them, as their uncle did so very well by
Edward. We can ask your sisters some other year, you
know ; but the Miss Steeles may not be in town any more.
I am sure you will like them ; indeed, you do like them,
218 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
you know, very much already, and so does my mother ;
and they are such favourites with Harry !”
Mr. Dashwood was convinced. He saw the necessity of
inviting the Miss Steeles immediately ; and his conscience
was pacified by the resolution of inviting his sisters another
year ; at the same time, however, slily suspecting that an-
other year would make the invitation needless, by bringing
Elinor to town as Colonel Brandon’s wife, and Marianne as
their visiter.
Fanny, rejoicing in her escape, and proud of the ready
wit that had procured it, wrote the next morning to Lucy,
to request her company and her sister’s, for some days, in
Harley Street, as soon as Lady Middleton could spare
them. This was enough to make Lucy really and reason-
ably happy. Mrs. Dashwood seemed actually working for
her herself ; cherishing all her hopes, and promoting all her
views! Such an opportunity of being with Edward and
his family was, above all things, the most material to her
interest, and such an invitation the most gratifying to her
feelings! It was an advantage that could not be too grate-
fully acknowledged, nor too speedily made use of ; and the
visit to Lady Middleton, which had not before had any
precise limits, was instantly discovered to have been always
meant to end in two days’ time.
When the note was shown to Elinor, as it was within
ten minutes after its arrival, it gave her, for the first time,
some share in the expectations of Lucy ; for such a mark
of uncommon kindness, vouchsafed on so short an acquaint-
ance, seemed to declare that the good will towards her
arose from something more than merely malice against
herself ; and might be brought, by time and address, to do
every thing that Lucy wished. Her flattery had already
subdued the pride of Lady Middleton, and made an entry
into the close heart of Mrs. John Dashwood ; and these
were effects that laid open the probability of greater.
The Miss Steeles removed to Harley Street ; and all that
reached Elinor of their influence there strengthened her
expectation of the event. Sir John, who called on them
more than once, brought home such accounts of the favour
they were in as must be universally striking. Mrs. Dash-
; SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 219
wood had never been so much pleased with any young
women in her life as she was with them ; had given each
of them a needle-book made by some emigrant ; called
Lucy by her Christian name ; and did not know whether
she should ever be able to part with them.
END OF THE SECOND VOLUME.
.
.
%
220 SENSE, AND SENSIBILITY.
VOLUME THE THIRD.
CHAPTER I.
Mrs. Paumer was so well at the end of a fortnight that
her mother felt it no longer necessary to give up the whole
of her time to her ; and, contenting herself with visiting her
once or twice a day, returned from that period to her own
home, and her own habits, in which she found the Miss
Dashwoods very ready to re-assume their former share.
About the third or fourth morning after their being thus
resettled in Berkeley Street, Mrs. Jennings, on returning
from her ordinary visit to Mrs. Palmer, entered the draw-
ing-room, where Elinor was sitting by herself, with an air
of such hurrying importance as prepared. her to hear some-
thing wonderful; and giving her time only to form that
idea, began directly to justify it by saying, —
“ Lord! my dear Miss Dashwood! have you heard the
news ?”
“No, maam. What is it?”
“Something so strange! But you shall hear it all.
When I got to Mr. Palmer’s, I found Charlotte quite in a
fuss about the child. She was sure it was very ill —it
cried, and fretted, and was all over pimples. So I looked
at it directly, and, ‘ Lord! my dear,’ says I, ‘ it is nothing
in the world but the red gum ;’ and nurse said just the
same. But Charlotte, she would not be satisfied, so Mr.
Donavan was sent for ; and luckily he happened to be just
come in from Harley Street, so he stepped over directly,
and as soon as ever he saw the child he said just as we did,
that it was nothing in the world but the red gum, and then
Charlotte was easy. And so, just as he was going away
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 9921
again, it came into my head, I am sure I do not know how
I happened to think of it, but it came into my head to ask
him if there was any news. So upon that he smirked, and
simpered, and looked grave, and seemed to know some-
thing or other, and at last he said in a whisper, ‘ For fear
any unpleasant report should reach the young ladies under
your care as to their sister's indisposition, I think it ad-
visable to say, that I believe there is no great reason for
alarm ; I hope Mrs. Dashwood will do very well.”
“ What! is Fanny ill?”
** That is exactly what I said, my dear. ‘ Lord!’ says
I, ‘is Mrs. Dashwood ill?’ So then it all came out ;
and the long and the short of the matter, by all I can learn,
seems to be this. Mr. Edward Ferrars, the very young
man I used to joke with you about, (but, however, as it
turns out, I am monstrous glad there never was any thing
in it,) Mr. Edward Ferrars, it seems, has been engaged
above this twelvemonth to my cousin Lucy! There’s for
you, my dear! And not a creature knowing a syllable of
the matter except Nancy! Could you have believed such
a thing possible? There is no great wonder in their liking
one another ; but that matters should be brought so for-
ward between them, and nobody suspect it! That is
strange! I never happened to see them together, or [am
sure I should have found it out directly. Well, and so
this was kept a great secret, for fear of Mrs. Ferrars, and
neither she nor your brother or sister suspected a word of
the matter; till this very morning, poor Nancy, who, you
know, is a well-meaning creature, but no conjurer, popt it
all out. ‘ Lord!’ thinks she to herself, ‘ they are all so fond
of Lucy, to be sure they will make no difficulty about it ;’
and so away she went to your sister, who was sitting all
alone at her carpet-work, little suspecting what was to come
— for she had just been saying to your brother, only five
minutes before, that she thought to make a match between
Edward and some Lord’s daughter or other, I forget who.
So you may think what a blow it was to all her vanity and
pride. She fell into violent hysterics immediately, with
such screams as reached your brother’s ears, as he was sit-
ting in his own dressing-room down stairs, thinking about
222 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
writing a letter to his steward in the country. So up he
flew directly, and a terrible scene took place, for Lucy was
come to them by that time, little dreaming what was going
on. Poor soul! I pity her. And I must say, I think she
was used very hardly ; for your sister scolded like any fury,
and soon drove her into a fainting fit. Nancy, she fell
upon her knees, and cried bitterly ; and your brother, he
walked about the room, and said he did not know what to
do. Mrs. Dashwood declared they should not stay a minute
Jonger in the house; and your brother was forced to go down
upon his knees, too, to persuade her to let them stay till they
had packed up their clethés. Zhen she fell into hysterics
again, and he was so frightened that he would send for
Mr. Donavan, and Mr. Donavan found the house in all this
uproar. The carriage was at the door ready to take my
poor cousins away, and they were just stepping in as he
came off; poor Lucy in such a condition, he says, she
could hardly walk; and Nancy, she was almost as bad. I
declare, I have no patience with your sister; and I hope,
with all my heart, it will be a match in spite of her. Lord!
what a taking poor Mr. Edward will be in when he hears
of it! To have his love used so scornfully ! for they say
he is monstrous fond of her, as well he may. I should
not wonder, if he was to be in the greatest of a passion !—
and Mr. Donavan thinks’ just the same. He and I hada
great deal of talk about it; and the best of all is, that he is
gone back again to Harley Street, that he may be within
call when Mrs. Ferrars is told of it; for she was sent for as
soon as ever my cousins left the house, for your sister was
sure she would be in hysterics too; and so she may, for
what I care. I have no pity for either of them. I have
no notion of people’s making such a to-do about money and
greatness. There is no reason on earth why Mr. Edward
and Lucy should not marry ; for I am sure Mrs. Ferrars
may afford to do very well by her son; and though Lucy
has next to nothing herself, she knows better than any body
how to make the most of every thing; and I dare say, if
Mrs. Ferrars would only allow him five hundred a year,
she would make as good an appearance with it as any body
else would with eight. Lord! how snug they might live
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 295
in such another cottage as yours—or a little bigger — with
two maids and two men; and I believe I could help them
to a housemaid, for my Beity has a sister out of place, that
would fit them exactly.”
Here Mrs. Jennings ceased; and as Elinor had had time
enough to collect her thoughts, she was able to give such
an answer, and make such observations, as the subject might
naturally be supposed to produce. Happy to find that she
was not suspected of any extraordinary interest in it; that
Mrs. Jennings (as she had of late often hoped might be the
case) had ceased to imagine her at all attached to Edward;
and happy above all the rest, in the absence of Marianne,
she felt very well able to speak of the affair without embar-
rassment, and to give her judgment, as she believed, with
impartiality on the conduct of every one concerned in it.
She could hardly determine what her own expectation of
its event really was; though she earnestly tried to drive
away the notion of its being possible to end otherwise at
last, than in the marriage of Edward and Lucy. What
Mrs. Ferrars would say and do, though there could not be
a doubt of its nature, she was anxious to hear; and still
more anxious to know how Edward would conduct himself.
For him she felt much compassion ; —for Lucy very little
— and it cost her some pains to procure that little ; — for
the rest of the party none at all.
As Mrs. Jennings could talk on no other subject, Elinor
soon saw the necessity of preparing Marianne for its dis-
cussion. No time was to be lost in undeceiving her, in
making her acquainted with the real truth, and in endea-
vouring to bring her to hear it talked of by others, without
betraying that she felt any uneasiness for her sister, or any
resentment against Edward.
Elinor’s office was a painful one. She was going to-re-
move what she really believed to be her sister’s chief con-
solation, — to give such particulars of Edward as she feared
would ruin him for ever in her good opinion, —and to make
Marianne, by a resemblance in their situations, which to her
fancy would seem strong, feel all her own disappointment
over again. But unwelcome as such a task must be, it was
294 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
necessary to be done, and Elinor therefore hastened to per-
form it.
She was very far from wishing to dwell on her own feel-
ings, or to represent herself as suffering much, any other-
wise than as the self-command she had practised since her
first knowledge of Edward’s engagement might suggest a
hint of what was practicable to Marianne. Her narration
was clear and simple; and though it could not be given
without emotion, it was not accompanied by violent agi-
tation, nor impetuous grief. That belonged rather to the
hearer, for Marianne listened with horror, and cried exces-
sively. Elinor was to be the comforter of others in her
own distresses, no less than in theirs; and all the comfort
that could be given by assurances of her own composure of
mind, and a very earnest vindication of Edward from every
charge but of imprudence, was readily offered.
But Marianne for some time would give credit to neither.
Edward seemed a second Willoughby ; and acknowledging
as Elinor did, that she had loved him most sincerely, could
she feel less than herself! As for Lucy Steele, she con-
sidered her so totally unamiable, so absolutely incapable of
attaching a sensible man, that she could not be persuaded
at first to believe, and afterwards to pardon, any former af-
fection of Edward for her. She would not even admit it
to have been natural; and Elinor left her to be convinced
that it was so, by that which only could convince her, a
better knowledge of mankind.
Her first communication had reached no farther than to
state the fact of the engagement, and the length of time it
had existed. Marianne’s feelings had then broken in, and
put an end to all regularity of detail; and for some time
all that could be done was to soothe her distress, lessen her
alarms, and combat her resentment. The first question on
her side, which led to farther particulars, was, —
** How long has this been known to you, Elinor? has he
written to you?”
‘I have known it these four months. When Lucy first
came to Barton Park last November, she told me in con- ©
fidence of her engagement.”
At these words, Marianne’s eyes expressed the astonish-
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 995
ment which her lips could not utter. After a pause of
wonder, she exclaimed, —
‘Four months! Have you known of this four months?”
Elinor confirmed it.
“What! while attending me in all my misery, has this
been on your heart? and I have reproached you for being
happy !”
** It was not fit that you should then know how much I
was the reverse.’
“Four months!” cried Marianne again. “So calm!
so cheerful! How have you been pc fo.
“* By feeling that I was doing my duty. My promise
to Lucy obliged me to be secret. I owed it to her, there-
fore, to avoid giving any hint of the truth; and I owed it
to my family and friends, not to create in them a solicitude
about me, which it could not be in my power to satisfy.”
Marianne seemed much struck.
«J have very often wished to undeceive yourself and
my mother,” added Elinor; “‘ and once or twice I have
attempted it; but without betraying my trust, I never
could have convinced you.”
* Four months! and yet you loved him!”
“Yes. But I did not love only him ; and while the
comfort of others was dear to me, I was glad to spare them
from knowing how much I felt. Now, I can think and
speak of it with little emotion. I would not have you
suffer on my account ; for I assure you I no longer suffer
materially myself. I have many things to support me. I
am not conscious of having provoked the disappointment
by any imprudence of my own, and I have borne it as much
as possible without spreading it farther. I acquit Edward .
of all essential misconduct. J wish him very happy ; and
I am so sure of his always doing his duty, that though
now he may harbour some regret, in the end he must be-
come so. Lucy does not want sense; and that is the
foundation on which every thing good may be built.. And
after all, Marianne, after all that is bewitching in the idea
of a single and constant attachment, and.all that.can be
said of one’s happiness depending entirely on any par- —
ticular person, it is not meant —#it is not fit — it is not
Q
9296 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
possible that it should be so. Edward will marry Lucy ;
he will marry a woman superior in person and understand-
ing to half her sex ; and time and habit will teach him to
forget that he ever thought another superior to her.”
c If such is your way of thinking,” said Marianne, “ if -
the loss of what is most valued is so easily to be made up
by something else, your resolution, your self-command,
are, perhaps, a little less to be wondered at. They are
brought more within my comprehension.”
“J understand you. You do not suppose that I have
ever felt much. For four months, Marianne, I have had
all this hanging on my mind, without being at liberty to:
speak of it to a single creature; knowing that it would
make you and my mother most unhappy whenever it were
explained to you, yet unable to prepare you for it in the
least. It was told me, —it was in a manner forced on me
by the very person herself, whose prior engagement ruined.
all my prospects ; and told me, as I thought, with triumph.
This person’s suspicions, therefore, I have had to oppose,
by endeavouring to appear indifferent where I have been
most deeply interested ; and it has not been only once; I
have had her hopes and exultation to listen to again and
again. I have known myself to be divided from Edward
for ever, without hearing one circumstance that could make
me less desire the connection. Nothing has proved him
unworthy ; nor has any thing declared him indifferent to
me. I have had to contend against the unkindness of his
sister, and the insolence of his mother; and have suffered
the punishment of an attachment, without enjoying its
advantages. And all this has been going on at a time, —
when, as you too well know, it has not been my only un-
happiness. If you can think me capable of ever feeling,
surely you may suppose that I have suffered now. The
composure of mind with which I have brought myself at
present to consider the matter, the consolation that I
have been willing to admit, have been the effect of constant
and painful exertion; they did not spring up of them-
selves ; they did not occur to relieve my spirits at first.
No, Marianne. Then, if I had not been bound to silence,
perhaps nothing could have kept me entirely—not even
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. go}
what I owed to my dearest friends—from openly showing
that I was very unhappy.”
Marianne was quite subdued.
*“Oh, Elinor,” she cried, ‘ you have made me hate
myself for ever. How barbarous have I been to you ! —
you, who have been my only comfort, who have borne
with me in all my misery, who have seemed to be only
suffering .for me! Is this my gratitude? Is this the
only return I can make you? Because your merit cries
out upon myself, I have been trying to do it away.”
The tenderest caresses followed this confession. In such
a frame of mind as she was now in, Elinor had no diffi-
culty in obtaining from her whatever promise she required ;
and, at her request, Marianne engaged never to speak of
the affair to any one with the least appearance of bitter-
ness; to meet Lucy without betraying the smallest in-
crease of dislike to her ; and even to see Edward himself,
if chance should bring them together, without any dimi-
nution of her usual cordiality. These were great con-
cessions ; but where Marianne felt that she had injured,
no reparation could be too much for her to make.
She performed her promise of being discreet, to admir-
ation. She attended to all that Mrs. Jennings had to say
upon the subject, with an unchanging complexion, dissented
from her in nothing, and was heard three times to say,
«“ Yes, maam.” She listened to her praise of Lucy with
only moving from one chair to another ; and when Mrs.
Jennings talked of Edward’s affection, it cost her only a
spasm in her throat. Such advances towards heroism in
her sister, made Elinor feel equal to any thing herself.
The next morning brought a farther trial of it, in a visit
from their brother, who came with a most serious aspect
to talk over the dreadful affair, and bring them news of
his wife.
_ © You have, heard, I suppose,” said he, with great
solemnity, as soon as he was seated, “ of the very shocking
discovery that took place under our roof yesterday.” |
_ They all looked their assent ; it seemed too awful a
moment for speech.
_ © Your sister,” he continued, “ has suffered dreadfully ;
Q 2
998 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
Mrs. Ferrars too — in short it has been a scene of such
complicated distress — but I will hope that the storm may
be weathered without our being any of us quite overcome.
Poor Fanny! she was in hysterics all yesterday. But I
would not alarm you too much. Donavan says there is
nothing materially to be apprehended ; her constitution is
a good one, and her resolution equal to any thing. She
has borne it all with the fortitude of an angel! She says
she never shall think well of any body again; and one
cannot wonder at, it, after being so deceived ! — meeting
with such ingratitude, where so much kindness had been,
shown, so much confidence had,been placed !- It was quite
out of the benevolence of her heart, that she had asked
these young women to her house; merely because she
thought they deserved some attention, were harmless, well-
behaved girls, and would be pleasant companions; for
otherwise we both wished very much to have invited you
and Marianne to be with us, while your kind friend there
was attending her daughter. And now to be so rewarded !
‘I wish, with all my heart,’ says poor Fanny, in her
affectionate way, ‘ that we had asked your sisters instead of
them.’ ”
Here he stopped to be thanked ; which being done, he
went on.
“What poor Mrs. Ferrars suffered, when first Fanny
broke it to her, is not to be described. While she with the
truest affection had been’ planning a most eligible con-
nection for him, was it to be supposed that he could be all
the time secretly engaged to another person !— such a
suspicion could never have entered her head! If she
suspected any prepossession elsewhere, it could not be in
that quarter. ‘ There, to be sure,’ said she, ‘1 might have
thought myself safe.’ She was quite in an agony. We
consulted together, however, as to what should be done,
and at last she determined to send for Edward. He came.
But I am sorry to relate what ensued. All that Mrs.Ferrars
could say to make him put an end to the engagement, as-
sisted too, as you may well suppose, by my arguments, and
Fanny's entreaties, was of no avail. Duty, affection, every
thing was disregarded. I never thought Edward so stub-
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 229
born, so unfeeling before. His mother explained to him
her liberal designs, in case of his marrying Miss Morton ;
told him she would settle on him the Norfolk estate,
which, clear of land-tax, brings in a good thousand a year ;
offered even, when matters grew desperate, to make it
twelve hundred ; and in opposition to this, if he still
persisted in this slow connection, represented to him the
certain penury that must attend the match. His own two
thousand pounds she protested should be his all; she
would never see him again ; and so far would she be from
affording him the smallest assistance, that if he were to
enter into any profession with a view of better support,
she would do all in her power to prevent his advancing
im ity’
Here Marianne, in an ecstasy of indignation, clapped
her hands together, and cried, ‘‘ Gracious God ! can this be
possible P ”
“* Well may you wonder, Marianne,” replied her brother,
*‘ at the obstinacy which could resist such arguments as
these. Your exclamation is very natural.”
Marianne was going to retort, but she remembered her
promises, and forbore.
“* All this, however,” he continued, ‘‘ was urged in vain.
Edward said very little ; but what he did say was in the
most determined manner. Nothing should prevail on him
to give up his eugagement. He would stand to it, cost him
what it might.”
‘Then,’ cried Mrs. Jennings with blunt snediie no
longer able to be silent, “‘ he has acted like an honest man!
I beg your pardon, Mr. Dashwood, but if he had done
otherwise, I should have thought him a rascal. I have
some little concern in the business, as well as yourself, for
Lucy Steele is my cousin ; and I believe there is not a better
kind of girl in the world, nor one who more deserves a good
husband.”
John Dashwood was greatly astonished ; but his nature
was calm, not open to provocation ; and he never wished to
offend any body, especially any body of good fortune. He
therefore replied without any resentment, —
*< I would by no means speak disrespectfully of any re-
Q@ 3
230 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
lation of yours, madam. Miss Lucy Steele is, I dare say,
a very deserving young woman; but in the present case,
you know, the connection must be impossible. And to have
entered into a secret engagement with a young man under
her uncle’s care, the son of a woman especially of such
very large fortune as Mrs. Ferrars, is, perhaps, altogether a
little extraordinary. In short, I do not mean to reflect
upon the behaviour of any person whom you have a regard
for, Mrs. Jennings. We all wish her extremely | happy;
and Mrs. Ferrars’s conduct throughout the whole has
been such as every conscientious, good mother, in like cir-
cumstances, would adopt. It has been dignified and liberal.
Edward has drawn his own lot, and I fear it will be a bad
one.”
Marianne sighed out her similar apprehension ; and
Elinor’s heart wrung for the feelings of Edward, while
braving his mother’s threats, for a woman who could not
reward him.
“ Well, sir,” said Mrs. Jennings, “ and how did it
end?”
“Tam sorry to say, ma'am, in a most unhappy rupture :
— Edward is dismissed for ever from his mother’s notice.
He left her house yesterday, but where he is gone, or
whether he is still in town, I do not know; for we of
course can make no enquiry.”
“* Poor young man! and what is to become of him?”
“* What, indeed, ma'am! It is a melancholy con-
sideration. Born to the prospect of such affluence! If
‘cannot conceive a situation more deplorable. The interest
of two thousand pounds —how can a man live on it!
And when to that is added the recollection that he might,
but for his own folly, within three months, have been in
the receipt of two thousand five hundred a year (for
‘Miss Morton has thirty thousand pounds), I cannot picture
to myself a more wretched condition. We must all feel
for him ; and the more so, because it is totally out of our
power to assist him.”
** Poor young man !”’ cried Mrs. Jennings, “‘ I am sure
he should be very welcome to bed and board at my house ;
and so I would tell him if I could see him. It is not fit
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 931
that he should be living about at his own charge now, at
lodgings and taverns.”
Elinor’s heart thanked her for such kindness towards
Edward, though she could not forbear smiling at the form
of it.
“* If he would only have done as well by himself,” said
John Dashwood, ‘as all his friends were disposed to do by
him, he might now have been in his proper situation, and
would have wanted for nothing ; but as it is, it must be out
of any body’s power to assist him. And there is one thing
more preparing against him, which must be worse than all,
— his mother has determined, with a very natural kind of
spirit, to settle that estate upon Robert immediately, which
might have been Edward’s, on proper conditions. I left
her this morning with her lawyer, talking over the business.”
“Well!” said Mrs. Jennings, “ that is her revenge.
Every body has a way of their own. But I don’t think
mine would be, to make one son independent because
another had plagued me.”
Marianne got up and walked about the room.
“« Can any thing be more galling to the spirit of a man,”
continued John, ‘“‘ than to see his younger brother in pos-
session of an estate which might have been hisown? Poor
Edward! I feel for him sincerely.”
A few minutes more, spent in the same kind of effusion,
concluded his visit; and with repeated assurances to his
sisters that he really believed there was no material danger
in Fanny’s indisposition, and that they need not therefore
be very uneasy about it, he went away, leaving the three
ladies unanimous in their sentiments on the present occasion,
as far at least as it regarded Mrs. Ferrars’s conduct, the
Dashwoods’, and Edward’s.
_ Marianne’s indignation burst forth as soon as he quitted
the room; and as her vehemence made reserve impossible
in Elinor, and unnecessary in Mrs. Jennings, they all joined
in a very spirited critique upon the party.
Q 4
232 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
CHAPTER II.
Mrs. Jennines was very warm in her praise of Edward’s
conduct, but only Elinor and Marianne understood its true
merit. ‘hey only knew how little he had had to tempt him
to be disobedient, and how small was the consolation, beyond
the consciousness of doing right, that could remain to him
in the loss of friends and fortune. Elinor gloried in his in-
tegrity ; and Marianne forgave all his offences in compassion
for his punishment. But though confidence between them
was, by this public discovery, restored to its proper state, it
was not a subject on which either of them were fond of
dwelling when alone. Elinor avoided it upon principle, as
tending to fix still more upon her thoughts, by the too
warm, too positive assurances of Marianne, that belief of
Edward’s continued affection for herself which she rather
wished to do away; and Marianne’s courage soon failed her,
in trying to converse upon a topic which always left her more
dissatisfied with herself than ever, by the comparison it ne-
cessarily produced between Elinor’s conduct and her own.
_She felt all the force of that comparison ; but not as her
sister had hoped, to urge her to exertion now ; she felt it
with all the pain of continual self-reproach, regretted most
bitterly that she had never exerted herself before ; but it
brought only the torture of penitence, without the hope of
amendment. Her mind was so much weakened, that she
still fancied present exertion impossible, and therefore it
only dispirited her more.
Nothing new was heard by them, for a day or two after-
wards, of affairs in Harley Street or Bartlett's Buildings.
But though so much of the matter was known to them al-
ready, that Mrs. Jennings might have had enough to do in
spreading that knowledge farther, without seeking after
more, she had resolved from the first to pay a visit of com-
fort and enquiry to her cousins as soon as she could; and
nothing but the hinderance of more visiters than usual had
prevented her going to them within that time.
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 233
” The third day succeeding their knowledge of the par-
ticulars was so fine, so beautiful a Sunday, as to draw many
to Kensington Gardens, though it was only the second
week in March. Mrs. Jennings and Elinor were of the
number; but Marianne, who knew that the Willoughbys
Were again in town, and had a constant dread of meeting
them, chose rather to stay at home, than venture into so
public a place.
An intimate acquaintance of Mrs. Jennings joined them
soon after they entered the Gardens ; and Elinor was not
sorry that by her continuing with them, and engaging all
Mrs. Jennings’s conversation, she was herself left to quiet
reflection. She saw nothing of the Willoughbys, nothing
of Edward, and for some time nothing of any body who
could by any chance, whether grave or gay, be interesting to
her. But at last she found herself, with some surprise, ac-
costed by Miss Steele, who, though looking rather shy, ex-
pressed great satisfaction in meeting them; and on receiving
encouragement from the particular kindness of Mrs. Jen-
nings, left her own party for a short time, to join theirs.
Mrs. Jennings immediately whispered to Elinor, —
** Get it all out of her, my dear. She will tell you any
thing, if you ask. You see I cannot leave Mrs. Clarke.”
It was lucky, however, for Mrs. Jennings’s curiosity and
Elinor’s too, that she would tell any thing without being
asked ; for nothing would otherwise have been learnt.
** I am so glad to meet you,” said Miss Steele, taking
her familiarly by the arm — “ for I wanted to see you of
all things in the world.” And then lowering her voice, “ I
suppose Mrs. Jennings has heard all about it. Isshe angry?”
“< Not at all, I believe, with you.”
“ That is a good thing. And Lady Middleton, is she
angry ?”’
** I cannot suppose it possible that she should.”
“ T am monstrous glad of it. Good gracious! I have
had such a time of it! I never saw Lucy in such a rage
in my life. She vowed at first she would never trim me up
a new bonnet, nor do any thing else for me again, so long as
she lived ; but now she is quite come to, and we are as good
friends as ever. Look, she made me this bow to my hat,
234 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
and put in the feather last night. There now, you are go-
ing to laugh at me too. But why should not I wear pink
ribands? I do not care if it is the Doctor's favourite
colour. JI am sure, {for my part, I should never have
known he did like it better than any other colour, if he had
not happened to say so. My cousins have been so plaguing
me! I declare, sometimes I do not know which way to
look before them.”
She had wandered away to a subject on which Elinor had
nothing to say, and therefore soon judged it expedient to
find her way back again to the first.
“Well, but Miss Dashwood,” speaking triumphantly,
“* people may say what they choose about Mr. Ferrars’s de-
claring he would not have Lucy, for it’s no such thing, I
can tell you ; and it’s quite a shame for such ill-natured re-
ports to be spread abroad. Whatever Lucy might think
about it herself, you know, it was no business of other peo-
ple to set it down for certain.”
“* J never heard any thing of the kind hinted at before,
I assure you,” said Elinor.
“Oh, did not you? But it was said, I know, very
well, and by more than one; for Miss Godby told Miss
Sparks, that nobody in their senses could expect Mr. Fer-
rars to give up a’ woman like Miss Morton, with thirty
thousand pounds to her fortune, for Lucy Steele, that had
nothing at all; and I had it from Miss Sparks myself.
And besides that, my cousin Richard said himself, that when
it came to the point, he was afraid Mr. Ferrars would be off ;
and when Edward did not come near us for three days, I
could not tell what to think myself; and I believe in my
heart Lucy gave it up all for lost; for we came away from
your brother’s Wednesday, and we saw nothing of him not
all Thursday, Friday, and Saturday, and did not know what
was become with him. Once Lucy thought to write to
him, but then her spirit rose against that. However, this
morning he came just as we came home from church ; and
then it all came out, how he had been sent for Wednesday
to Harley Street, and been talked to by his mother and all
of them, and how he had declared before them all that
he loved nobody but Lucy, and nobody but Lucy would he
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 235
have. And how he had been so worried by what passed,
that as soon as he had went away from his mother’s house,
he had got upon his horse, and rid into the country, some
where or other ; and how he had stayed about at an inn all
Thursday and Friday, on purpose to get the better of it.
And after thinking it all over and over again, he said, it
seemed to him as if, now he had no fortune, and no nothing
at all, it would be quite unkind to keep her on to the en-
gagement, because it must be for her loss, for he had no-
thing but two thousand pounds, and no hope of any thing
else ; and if he was to go into orders, as he had some
thoughts, he could get nothing but a curacy; and how was
they to live upon that? He could not bear to think of her
doing no better, and so he begged, if she had the least
mind for it, to put an end to the matter directly, and leave
him to shift for himself. I heard him say all this as plain
as could possibly be. And it was entirely for her sake,
and upon her account, that he said a word about being off,
and not upon his own. I will take my oath he never
dropt a syllable of being tired of her, or of wishing to
marry Miss Morton, or any thing like it. But, to be sure,
Lucy would not give ear to such kind of talking ; so she
told him directly (with a great deal about sweet and love,
you know, and all that—Oh, la! one can’t repeat such
kind of things you know)— she told him directly, she had
not the least mind in the world to be off, for she could live
with him upon a trifle, and how little soever he might have,
she should be very glad to have it all, you know, or some-
thing of the kind. So then he was monstrous happy, and
talked on some time about what they should do, and they
agreed he should take orders directly, and they must wait
to be married till he got a living. And just then I could
not hear any more, for my cousin called from below to tell
me Mrs. Richardson was come in her coach, and would take
one of us to Kensington Gardens; so I was forced to
go into the room and interrupt them, to ask Lucy if she
would like to go, but she did not care to leave Edward ; so
{ just run up stairs and put on a pair of silk stockings, and
came off with the Richardsons.”
“
escaped her memory by this time.”
*“ You wrong her exceedingly. Mrs. Ferrars is one of
the most affectionate mothers in the world.”
Elinor was silent.
“ We think now,’ said Mr. Dashwood, after a short
pause, ‘‘ of Robert’s marrying Miss Morton.”
Elinor, smiling at the grave and decisive importance of
her brothers tone, calmly replied, —
“ The lady, I suppose, has no choice in the affair.”
“* Choice ! how do you mean ?”
““T only mean that I suppose, from your manner of
speaking, it must be the same to Miss Morton whether she
marry Edward or Robert.”
** Certainly, there can be no difference ; for Robert will
now, to all intents and purposes, be considered as the eldest
son; and, as to any thing else, they are both very agree-
able young men: I do not know that one is superior to the
other.”
Elinor said no more, and John was also for a short time
silent. His reflections ended thus : —
“‘ Of one thing, my dear sister,” kindly taking her hand,
and speaking in an awful whisper, “I may assure you; and
I will do it, because I know it must gratify you. I have
- good reason to think — indeed I have it from the best au?
thority, or I should not repeat it ; for otherwise it would be
very wrong to say any thing about it, —but I have it from
the very best authority,— not that I ever precisely heard
Mrs. Ferrars say it herself, but her daughter did, and I
have it from her,— that, in short, whatever objections there
might be against a certain — a certain connection, you un-
derstand me,— it would have been far preferable to her, —
it would not have given her half the vexation that this
does. I was exceedingly pleased to hear that Mrs. Ferrars
considered it in that light ; a very gratifying circumstance,
you know, to us all. ‘ It would have been beyond compa-
rison,’ she said, ‘ the least evil of the two ; and she would
be glad to compound now for nothing worse.’ But, how-
ever, all that is quite out of the question, —not to be
thought of, or mentioned. As to any attachment, you
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 257
know, it never could be: all that is gone by. But I
thought I would just tell you of this, because I knew how
much it must please you. Not that you have any reason
to regret, my dear Elinor: there is no doubt of your doing
exceedingly well, — quite as well, or better, perhaps, all
things considered. Has Colonel Brandon been with you
lately ?”
Elinor had heard enough, if not to gratify her vanity
and raise her self-importance, to agitate her nerves and fill
her mind ; and she was therefore glad to be spared from
the necessity of saying much in reply herself, and from
the danger of hearing any thing more from her brother, by
the entrance of Mr. Robert Ferrars. After a few mo-
ments chat, John Dashwood, recollecting that Fanny was
yet uninformed of his sister's being there, quitted the room
in quest of her; and Elinor was left to improve her
acquaintance with Robert, who, by the gay unconcern, the
happy self-complacency of his manner, while enjoying so
unfair a division of his mother’s love and liberality, to the
prejudice of his banished brother, earned only by his own
dissipated course of life and that brother’s integrity, was
confirming her most unfavourable opinion of his head. and
heart.
They had scarcely been two minutes by themselves, be-
fore he began to speak of Edward ; for he, too, had heard of
the living, and was very inquisitive on the subject. Elinor
repeated the particulars of it, as she had given them to
John; and their effect on Robert, though very different,
was not less striking than it had been on him. He
laughed most immoderately. The idea of Edward's being
a clergyman, and living in a small parsonage-house, di-
verted him beyond measure ; and when to that was added
the fanciful imagery of Edward reading prayers in a white
surplice, and publishing the banns of marriage between
John Smith and Mary vidoe he could conceive nothing
more ridiculous.
Elinor, while she waited in silence and immovable gra-
vity the conclusion of such folly, could not restrain her eyes
from being fixed on him with a look that spoke all the con-
tempt it excited. It was a look, however, very well be-
s
258 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
stowed ; for it relieved her own feelings, and gave no
intelligence to him. He was recalled from wit to wisdom,
not by any reproof of hers, but by his own sensibility.
““ We may treat it as a joke,” said he, at last, recovering
from the affected laugh which had considerably lengthened
out the genuine gaiety of the moment; “ but, upon my
soul, it is a most serious business. Poor Edward! he is
ruined for ever. Jam extremely sorry for it; for I know
him to be a very good-hearted creature, — as well-meaning
a fellow, perhaps, as any in the world. You must not
judge of him, Miss Dashwood, from your slight acquaint-
ance. Poor Edward! His manners are certainly not the
happiest in nature. But we are not all born, you know,
with the same powers, — the same address. Poor fellow!
to see him in a circle of strangers! ‘To be sure it was
pitiable enough ; but, upon my soul, I believe he has as
good a heart as any in the kingdom; and I declare and
protest to you, I never was so shocked in my life as when
it all burst forth. I could not believe it. My mother was
the first person who told me of it; and_I, feeling myself
called on to act with resolution, immediately said to her,—
‘My dear madam, I do not know what you may intend to
do on the occasion ; but as for myself, I must say, that if
Edward does marry this young woman, J never will see
him again.’ That was what I said immediately. I was
most uncommonly shocked, indeed. Poor Edward! he has
done for himself completely, — shut himself out for ever
from all decent society! But, as I directly said to my mo-
ther, I am not in the least surprised at it: from his style of
education, it was always to be expected. My poor mother
was half frantic.”
“* Have you ever seen the lady Pn
*“ Yes; once, while she was staying in this house, I
happened to drop in for ten minutes; and I saw quite
enough of her: the merest awkward country girl, with-
out style, or elegance, and almost without beauty. I
remember her perfectly. Just the kind of girl I should
suppose likely to captivate poor Edward. I offered imme-
diately, as soon as my mother related the affair to me, to
talk to him myself, and dissuade him from the match ; but
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 259
it was too late then, I found, to do any thing; for, un-
luckily, I was not in the way at first, and knew nothing of
it till after the breach had taken place, when it was not for
me, you know, to interfere. But, had I been informed of
it a few hours earlier, I think it is most probable that
something might have been hit on. I certainly should have
represented it to Edward in a very strong light. ‘ My
dear fellow,’ I should have said, ‘ consider what you are
doing. You are making a most disgraceful connection,
and such a one as your family are unanimous in disap-
proving.’ I cannot help thinking, in short, that means
might have been found ; but now it is all too late. He
must be starved, you know, that is certain; absolutely
starved.”
He had just settled this point with great composure,
when the entrance of Mrs. John Dashwood put an end to
the subject. But though she never spoke of it out of her
own family, Elinor could see its influence on her mind in
the something like confusion of countenance with which she
entered, and an attempt at cordiality in her behaviour to
herself. She even proceeded so far as to be concerned to find
that Elinor and her sister were so soon to leave town, as she
had hoped to see more of them; an exertion in which her
husband, who attended her into the room, and hung en-
amoured over her accents, seemed to distinguish every thing
that was most affectionate and graceful.
CHAPTER VI.
One other short call in Harley Street, in which Elinor
received her brother’s congratulations on their travelling so
far towards Barton without any expense, and on Colonel
Brandon's being to follow them to Cleveland in a day or
two, completed the intercourse of the brother and sisters
in town; and a faint invitation from Fanny, to come to
Norland whenever it should happen to be in their way,
8 2
260 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
which of all things was the most unlikely to occur, with
a more warm, though less public, assurance, from John to
Elinor, of the promptitude with which he should come to
see her at Delaford, was all that foretold any meeting in
the country.
It amused her to observe that all her friends seemed
determined to send her to Delaford; a place, in which,
of all others, she would now least choose to visit, or wish
to reside; for not only was it considered as her future
home by her brother and Mrs. Jennings, but even Lucy,
when they parted, gave her a préssing invitation to visit
her there.
Very early in April, and tolerably early in the day, the
two parties from Hanover Square and Berkeley Street set
out from their respective homes, to meet, by appointment,
on the road. For the convenience of Charlotte and her
child, they were to be more than two days on their journey ;
and Mr. Palmer, travelling more expeditiously with Colonel
Brandon, was to join them at Cleveland soon after their
arrival.
Marianne, few as had been her hours of comfort in
London, and eager as she had long been to quit it, could
not, when it came to the point, bid adieu to the house in
which she had for the last time enjoyed those hopes, and
that confidence, in Willoughby, which were now extin-
guished for ever, without great pain. Nor could she leave
the place in which Willoughby remained, busy in new
engagements, and new schemes, in which she could have
no share, without shedding many tears.
Elinor’s satisfaction, at the moment of removal, was
more positive. She had no such object for her lingering
thoughts to fix on; she left no creature behind, from whom
it would give her a moment’s regret to be divided for
ever ; she was pleased to be free herself from the persecu-
tion of Lucy’s friendship ; she was grateful for bringing
her sister away unseen by Willoughby since his marriage ;
and she looked forward with hope to what a few months
of tranquillity at Barton might do towards restoring Ma-
rianne’s peace of mind, and confirming her own.
Their journey was safely performed. The second day
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 261
brought them into the cherished, or the prohibited, county
of Somerset ; for as such was it dwelt on by turns in Ma.
rianne’s imagination; and in the forenoon of the third
they drove up to Cleveland.
Cleveland was a spacious, modern-built house, situated
on a sloping lawn. It had no park, but the pleasure-
grounds were tolerably extensive; and, like every other
place of the same degree of importance, it had its open
shrubbery, and closer wood walk ; a road of smooth gravel,
winding round a plantation, led to the front ; the lawn was
dotted over with timber; the house itself was under the
guardianship of the fir, the mountain-ash, and the acacia,
and a thick screen of them altogether, interspersed with
tall Lombardy poplars, shut out the offices.
Marianne entered the house with a heart swelling with
emotion from the consciousness of being only eighty miles
from Barton, and not thirty from Combe Magna; and
before she had been five minutes within its walls, while the
others were busily helping Charlotte to show her child to
the housekeeper, she quitted it again, stealing away through
the winding shrubberies, now just beginning to be in
beauty, to gain a distant eminence ; where, from its Gre-
cian temple, her eye, wandering over a wide tract of coun-
try to the south-east, could fondly rest on the farthest ridge
of hills in the horizon, and fancy that from their summits
Combe Magna might be seen.
In such moments of precious, of invaluable misery, she
rejoiced in tears of agony to be at Cleveland; and as she
returned by a different circuit to the house, feeling all the
happy privilege of country liberty, of wandering from
_place to place in free and luxurious solitude, she resolved
to spend almost every hour of every day, while she remained
with the Palmers, in the indulgence of such solitary
rambles.
She returned just in time to join the others, as they
quitted the house, on an excursion through its more im-
mediate premises ; and the rest of the morning was easily
whiled away in lounging round the kitchen garden, ex-
amining the bloom upon its walls, and listening to the
gardener’s lamentations upon blights, —in dawdling through
s 3
262 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
the greenhouse, where the loss of her favourite plants, un-
warily exposed, and nipped by the lingering frost, raised
the laughter of Charlotte,— and in visiting her poultry-
yard, where, in the disappointed hopes of her dairy-maid,
by hens forsaking their nests, or being stolen by a fox, or
in the rapid decease of a promising young brood, she
found fresh sources of merriment.
The morning was fine and dry, and Marianne, in her
plan of employment abroad, had not calculated for any
change of weather during their stay at Cleveland. With
great surprise, therefore, did she find herself prevented, by
a settled rain, from going out again after dinner. She
had depended on a twilight walk to the Grecian temple,
and perhaps all over the grounds, and an evening merely
cold or damp would not have deterred her from it; but a
heavy and settled rain even she could not fancy dry o7
pleasant weather for walking.
Their party was small, and the hours passed quietly
away. Mrs. Palmer had her child, and Mrs. Jennings
her carpet-work: they talked of the friends they had left
behind; arranged Lady Middleton’s engagements, and
wondered whether Mr. Palmer and Colonel Brandon would
get farther than Reading that night. Elinor, however
little concerned in it, joined in their discourse; and Ma-
rianne, who had the knack of finding her way in every
house to the library, however it might be avoided by the
family in general, soon procured herself a book.
Nothing was wanting on Mrs. Palmer’s side that con-
stant and friendly good-humour could do, to make them
feel themselves welcome. ‘The openness and heartiness
of her manner more than atoned for that want of recol-
lection and elegance which made her often deficient in
the forms of politeness ; her kindness, recommended by so
pretty a face, was engaging; her folly, though evident,
was not disgusting, because it was not conceited; and
Elinor could have forgiven every thing but her laugh.
The two gentlemen arrived the next day to a very late
dinner, affording a pleasant enlargement of the party, and
a very welcome variety to their conversation, which a long
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 263
morning of the same continued rain had reduced very
low.
Elinor had seen so little of Mr. Palmer, and in that
little had seen so much variety in his address to her sister
and herself, that she knew not what to expect to find him
in his own family. She found him, however, perfectly
the gentleman in his behaviour to all his visiters, and only
occasionally rude to his wife and her mother; she found
him very capable of being a pleasant companion, and only
prevented from being so always, by too great an aptitude
to fancy himself as much superior to people in general,
as he must feel himself to be to Mrs. Jennings and Char-
lotte.. For the rest of his character and habits, they were
marked, as far as Elinor could perceive, with no traits at
all unusual in his sex and time of life. He was nice in
his eating, uncertain in his hours ; fond of his child, though
affecting to slight it; and idled away the mornings at
billiards, which ought to have been devoted to business.
She liked him, however, upon the whole, much better than
she had expected, and in her heart was not sorry that she
could like him no more; not sorry to be driven by the
observation of his epicurism, his selfishness, and his con-
ceit, to rest with complacency on the remembrance of
Edward’s generous temper, simple taste, and diffident
feelings.
Of Edward, or at least of some of his concerns, she now
received intelligence from Colonel Brandon, who had been
into Dorsetshire lately ; and who, treating her at once as
the disinterested friend of Mr. Ferrars, and the kind con-
fidant of himself, talked to her a great deal of the parson-
age at Delaford, described its deficiencies, and told her
what he meant'to do himself towards} removing them.
His behaviour to her in this, as well as in every other
particular, his open pleasure in meeting her after an absence
of only ten days, his readiness to converse with her, and
his deference for her opinion, might very well justify
Mrs. Jennings’s persuasion of his attachment, and would
have been enough, perhaps, had not Elinor still, as from
the first, believed Marianne his real favourite, to make her
suspect it herself. But as it was, such a notion had
s 4
264 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
scarcely ever entered her head, except by Mrs. Jennings’s
suggestion ; and she could not help believing herself the
nicest obseryer of the two: she watched his eyes, while
Mrs. Jennings thought only of his behaviour ; and while
his looks of anxious solicitude on Marianne’s feeling, in
her head and throat, the beginning of a heavy cold, be-
cause unexpressed by words, entirely escaped the latter
lady’s observation, —she could discover in them the quick
feelings, and needless alarm of a lover.
Two delightful twilight walks on the third and fourth
evenings of her being there, not merely on the dry gravel
of the shrubbery, but all over the grounds, and especially
in the most distant parts of them, where there was some-
thing more of wildness than in the rest, where the trees
were the oldest, and the grass was the longest and wettest,
had—assisted by the still greater imprudence of sitting
in her wet shoes and stockings— given Marianne a cold so
violent, as, though for a day or two trifled with or denied,
would force itself by increasing ailments on the concern of
every body, and the notice of herself. Prescriptions
poured in from all quarters, and, as usual, were all declined.
Though heavy and feverish, with a pain in her limbs, a
cough, and a sore throat, a good night’s rest was to cure
her entirely ; and it was with difficulty that Elinor pre-
vailed on her, when she went to bed, to try one or two of
the simplest of the remedies.
CHAPTER VII.
MARIANNE got up the next morning at her usual time; to
every enquiry replied that she was better, and tried to prove
herself so, by enaging in her accustomary employments. But
a day spent in sitting shivering over the fire with a book in
her hand, which she was unable to read, or in lying, weary
and languid, on a sofa, did’ not speak much in favour of her
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 265
amendment; and when, at last, she went early to bed,
more and more indisposed, Colonel Brandon was only as-
tonished at her sister's composure, who, though attending
and nursing her the whole day, against Marianne’s inclin-
ation, and forcing proper medicines on her at night, trusted,
like Marianne, to the certainty and efficacy of sleep, and
felt no real alarm.
A very restless and feverish night, however, disappointed
the expectation of both ; and when Marianne, after per-
sisting in rising, confessed herself unable to sit up, and
returned voluntarily to her bed, Elinor was very ready to
adopt Mrs. Jennings’s advice, of sending for the Palmers’
apothecary.
He came, examined his patient, and though encouraging
Miss Dashwood to expect that a very few days would re-
store her sister to health, yet, by pronouncing her disorder
to have a putrid tendency, and allowing the word “ infec-
tion’ to pass his lips, gave instant alarm to Mrs. Palmer,
on her baby’s account. Mrs. Jennings, who had been
inclined from the first to think Marianne’s complaint more
serious than Elinor, now looked very grave on Mr. Harris’s
report, and confirming Charlotte's fears and caution, urged
the necessity of her immediate removal with her infant ;
and Mr. Palmer, though treating their apprehensions as
idle, found the anxiety and importunity of his wife too
great to be withstood. Her departure, therefore, was fixed
on; and, within an hour after Mr. Harris’s arrival, she set
off, with her little boy and his nurse, for the house of a
near relation of Mr. Palmer’s, who lived a few miles on the
other side of Bath ; whither her husband promised, at her
earnest entreaty, to join her in a day or two; and whither
she was almost equally urgent with her mother to accompany
her. Mrs. Jennings, however, with a kindness of heart which
made Elinor really love her, declared her resolution of not
stirring from Cleveland as long as Marianne remained ill,
and of endeavouring, by her own attentive care, to supply
to her the place of the mother she had taken her from ;
and Elinor found her, on every occasion, a most willing and
active helpmate, desirous to share in all her fatigues, and
often, by her better experience in nursing, of material use,
206 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
Poor Marianne, languid and low from the nature of her
malady, and feeling herself universally ill, could no longer
hope that to-morrow would find her recovered ; and the.
idea of what to-morrow would have produced, but for this
unlucky illness, made every ailment more severe; for on
that day they were to have begun their journey home ; and,
attended the whole way by a servant of Mrs. Jennings,
were to have taken their mother by surprise on the follow-
ing forenoon. The little that she said was all in lament-
ation of this inevitable delay ; though Elinor tried to raise
her spirits, and make her believe, as she then really be-
lieved herself, that it would be a very short one.
The next day produced little or no alteration in the state
of the patient; she certainly was not better, and, except
that there was no amendment, did not appear worse. Their
party was now farther reduced ; for Mr. Palmer, though
very unwilling to go, as well from real humanity and good-
nature as from a dislike of appearing to be frightened away
by his wife, was persuaded at last, by Colonel Brandon, to
perform his promise of following her ; and while he was
preparing to go, Colonel Brandon himself, with a much
greater exertion, began to talk of going likewise. Here,
however, the kindness of Mrs. Jennings interposed most
acceptably ; for to send the Colonel away while his love
was in so much uneasiness on her sister's account would
be to deprive them both, she thought, of every comfort ;
and, therefore, telling him at once that his stay at Cleveland
was necessary to herself; that she should want him to play
at piquet of an evening, while Miss Dashwood was above
with her sister, &c. she urged him so strongly to remain,
that he, who was gratifying the first wish of his own heart
by a compliance, could not long even affect to demur ;
especially as Mrs. Jennings’s entreaty was warmly seconded
by Mr. Palmer, who seemed to feel a relief to himself in
leaving behind him a person so well able to assist or advise
Miss Dashwood in any emergence.
Marianne was, of course, kept in ignorance of all these
arrangements. She knew not that she had been the means
of sending the owners of Cleveland away, in about seven
days from the time of their arrival, It gave her no sur-
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 2967
prise that she saw nothing of Mrs. Palmer; and as it
gave her likewise no concern, she never mentioned her
name.
Two days passed away from the time of Mr. Palmer's
departure; and her situation continued, with little vari
ation, the same. Mr. Harris, who attended her every day,
still talked boldly of a speedy recovery ; and Miss Dash-
wood was equally sanguine; but the expectation of the
others was by no means so cheerful. Mrs. Jennings had
determined, very early in the seizure, that Marianne would
never get over it; and Colonel Brandon, who was chiefly
of use in listening to Mrs. Jennings’s forebodings, was not
in a state of mind to resist their influence. He tried to
reason himself out of fears, which the different judgment
of the apothecary seemed to render absurd ; but the many
hours of each day in which he was left entirely alone were
but too favourable for the admission of every melancholy
idea; and he could not expel from his mind the persuasion
that he should see Marianne no more.
On the morning of the third day, however, the gloomy
anticipations of both were almost done away; for when
Mr. Harris arrived, he declared his patient materially
better. Her pulse was much stronger, and every symptom
more favourable than on the preceding visit. Elinor, con-
firmed in every pleasant hope, was all cheerfulness ; re-
_joicing that, in her letters to her mother, she had pursued
her own judgment rather than her friend’s, in making very
light of the indisposition which delayed them at Cleveland ;
and almost fixing on the time when Marianne would be
able to travel.
But the day did not close so auspiciously as it began.
Towards the evening Marianne became ill again, growing
more heavy, restless, and uncomfortable than before. Her
sister, however,) still sanguine, was willing to attribute the
change to nothing more than the fatigue of having sat up
to have her bed made; and carefully administering the
cordials prescribed, saw her, with satisfaction, sink at last
into a slumber, from which she expected the most bene-
ficial effects. Her sleep, though not so quiet as Elinor
wished to see it, lasted a considerable time ; and anxious
268 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
to observe the result of it herself, she resolved to sit with
her during the whole of it. Mrs. Jennings, knowing no-
thing of any change in the patient, went unusually early to
bed ; her maid, who was one of the principal nurses, was
recreating herself in the housekeeper’s room, and Elinor
remained alone with Marianne.
The repose of the latter became more and more dis-
turbed ; and her sister, who watched, with unremitting at-
tention, her continual change of posture, and heard the
frequent but inarticulate sounds of complaint which passed
her lips, was almost wishing to rouse her from so painful a
slumber, when Marianne, suddenly awakened by some acci-
dental noise in the house; started hastily up, and, with
feverish wildness, cried out, —
** Is mamma coming ?” hay ~
** Not yet,” replied the other, concealing her terror, and
assisting Marianne to lie down again; ‘* but she will be
here, I coe before it is long. It is a great way, you
know, from hence to Barton.”
** But she must not go round by London,” cried Ma-
rlanne, in the same hurried manner. “ I shall never see
her, if she goes by London.”
Elinor perceived, with alarm, that she was not quite her-
self, and, while attempting to soothe her, eagerly felt her
pulse. It was lower and quicker than ever. And Ma.
rianne, still talking wildly of mamma, her alarm increased
so rapidly, as to determine her on sending instantly for Mr.
Harris, and despatching a messenger to Barton for her
mother. To consult with Colonel Brandon on the best
means of effecting the latter was a thought which imme-
diately followed the resolution of its performance ; and as
soon she had rung up the maid to take her place by her
sister, she hastened down to the drawing-room, where she
knew he was generally to be found at a much later hour
than the present.
It was no time for hesitation. Her fears and her diffi-
culties were immediately before him. Her fears, he had
no courage, no confidence, to attempt the removal of: he
listened to them in silent despondence; but her difficulties
were instantly obviated ; for, with a readiness that seemed
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 269
to speak the occasion, and the service pre-arranged in his
mind, he offered himself as the messenger who should
fetch Mrs. Dashwood. Elinor made no resistance that was
not easily overcome. She thanked him with brief, though
fervent gratitude ; and while he went to hurry off his
servant with a message to Mr. Harris, and an order for
post-horses directly, she wrote a few lines to her mother.
The comfort of such a friend at that moment as Colonel
Brandon, — of such a companion for her mother,— how
gratefully was it felt! a companion whose judgment would
guide, whose attendance must relieve, and whose friendship
might soothe her! As far as the shock of such a summons
could be lessened to her, his presence, his manners, his
assistance, would lessen it.
He, meanwhile, whatever he might feel, acted with all
the firmness of a collected mind, made every necessary ar-
rangement with the utmost despatch, and calculated with
exactness the time in which she might look for his return.
Not a moment was lost in delay of any kind. The horses
arrived, even before they were expected ; and Colonel
Brandon only pressing her hand with a look of solemnity,
and a few words spoken too low to reach her ear, hurried
into the carriage. It was then about twelve o'clock, and
she returned to her sister’s apartment to wait for the
arrival of the apothecary, and to watch by her the rest of
the night. It was a night of almost equal suffering to
both. Hour after hour passed away in sleepless pain and
delirium on Marianne’s side, and in the most cruel anxiety
on Elinor’s, before Mr. Harris appeared. Her apprehen-
sions once raised paid by their excess for all her former
security ; and the servant who sat up with her, for she
would not allow Mrs. Jennings to be called, only tortured
her more, by hints of what her mistress had always thought.
Marianne’s ideas were still, at intervals, fixed incohe-
rently on her mother; and whenever she mentioned her
name it gave a pang to the heart of poor Elinor, who, re-
proaching herself for having trifled with so many days of
illness, and wretched for some immediate relief, fancied
that all relief might soon be in vain, that every thing had
been delayed too long, and pictured to herself her suffer-
270 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
ing mother arriving too late to see this darling child, or to
see her rational. |
She was on the point of sending again for Mr. Harris,
or if ke could not come, for some other advice, when the
former — but not till after five o'clock — arrived. His
opinion, however, made some little amends for his delay;
for though acknowledging a very unexpected and unplea-
sant alteration in his patient, he would not allow the
danger to be material, and talked of the relief which a fresh
~ mode of treatment must procure, with a confidence which,
in a lesser degree, was communicated to Elinor. He pro-
mised to call again in the course of three or four hours ;
and left both the patient and her anxious attendant more
composed than he had found them.
With strong concern, and with many reproaches for not
being called to their aid, did Mrs. Jennings hear in the
morning of what had passed. Her former apprehensions,
now with greater reason restored, left her no doubt of the
event ; and though trying to speak comfort to Elinor, her
conviction of her sister’s danger would not allow her to
offer the comfort of hope. Her heart was really grieved.
The rapid decay, the early death of a girl so young, so
lovely as Marianne, must have struck a less interested per-
son with concern. On Mrs. Jennings’s compassion she had
other claims. She had been for three months her compa-
nion, was still under her care, and she was known to have
been greatly injured, and long unhappy. The distress of
her sister, too, particularly a favourite, was before her ;
and as for their mother, when Mrs. Jennings considered
that Marianne might probably be to her what Charlotte
was to herself, her sympathy in her sufferings was very
sincere.
Mr. Harris was punctual in his second visit ; but he
came to be disappointed in his hopes of what the last would
produce. His medicines had failed; the fever was un-
abated ; and Marianne only more quiet — not more herself
—— remained in a heavy stupor. Elinor, catching all, and
move than all, his fear in a moment, proposed to call in
farther advice. But he judged it unnecessary: he had
still something more to try, some fresh application, of
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 271
whose success he was almost as confident as the last ; and
his visit concluded with encouraging assurances which
reached the ear but could not enter the heart of Miss
Dashwood. She was calm, except when she thought of
her mother ; but she was almost hopeless ; and in this state
she continued till noon, scarcely stirring from her sister’s
bed, her thoughts wandering from one image of grief, one
suffering friend to another ; and her spirits oppressed to the
utmost by the conversation of Mrs. Jennings, who scrupled
not to attribute the severity and danger of this attack to
the many weeks of previous indisposition which Marianne’s
disappointment had brought on. Elinor felt all the rea.
sonableness of the idea, and it gave fresh misery to her
‘reflections.
About noon, however, she began — but with a caution
—a dread of disappointment which for some time kept
her silent even to her friend — to fancy, to hope she could
perceive a slight amendment in her sister’s pulse: she
waited, watched, and examined it again and again ; and at
last, with an agitation more difficult to bury under exterior
calmness than all her foregoing distress, ventured to com-
municate her hopes. Mrs. Jennings, though forced, on
examination, to acknowledge a temporary revival, tried to
_keep her young friend from indulging a thought of its
continuance ; and Elinor, conning over every injunction of
distrust, told herself likewise not to hope. But it was too
late. Hope had already entered; and feeling al its
anxious flutter, she bent over her sister to watch — she
hardly knew for what. Half an hour passed away, and
the favourable symptom yet blessed her. Others even arose
to confirm it. Her breath, her skin, her lips, all flattered
Elinor with signs of amendment ; and Marianne fixed her
eyes on her with a rational, though languid, gaze. Anxiety
and hope now oppressed her in equal degrees, and left her
no moment of tranquillity till the arrival of Mr. Harris at
four o'clock ; when his assurances, his felicitations on a
recovery in her sister even surpassing his expectation, gave
her confidence, comfort, and tears of joy.
Marianne was in every respect materially better ; and he
declared her entirely out of danger. Mrs, Jennings, per-
272 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
haps satisfied with the partial justification of her forebod-
ings which had been found in their late alarm, allowed
herself to trust in his judgment, and admitted, with un-
feigned joy, and soon with unequivocal cheerfulness, the
probability of an entire recovery.
Elinor could not be cheerful. Her joy was of a different
kind, and led to any thing rather than to gaiety. Marianne,
restored to life, health, friends, and to her doting mother,
was an idea to fill her heart with sensations of exquisite
comfort, and expand it in fervent gratitude; but it led
to no outward demonstrations of joy, no words, no smiles.
All within Elinor’s breast was satisfaction, silent and strong.
She continued by the side of her sister, with little in-
termission, the whole afternoon ; calming every fear, satis-
fying every enquiry of her enfeebled spirits, supplying
every succour, and watching almost every look and every
breath. The possibility of a relapse would, of course, in
some moments, occur to remind her of what anxiety was ;
but when she saw, on her frequent and minute examin-
ation, that every symptom of recovery continued, and saw
Marianne at six o'clock sink into a quiet, steady, and to
all appearance comfortable, sleep, she silenced every doubt.
The time was now drawing on when Colonel Brandon
might be expected back. At ten o'clock, she trusted, or at
least not much later, her mother would be relieved from
the dreadful suspense in which she must now be travelling
towards them. The Colonel, too!—perhaps scarcely less
an object of pity! Oh, how slow was the progress of time
which yet kept them in ignorance !
At seven o'clock, leaving Marianne still sweetly asleep,
she joined Mrs. Jennings in the drawing-room to tea. Of
breakfast she had been kept by her fears, and of dinner by
their sudden reverse, from eating much ; and the present
refreshment, therefore, with such feelings of content as
she brought to it, was particularly welcome. Mrs. Jennings
would have persuaded her, at its conclusion, to take some
rest before her mother’s arrival, and allow her to take her
place by Marianne ; but Elinor had no sense of fatigue,
no capability of sleep at that moment about her, and she
was not to be kept away from her sister an unnecessary
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 273
instant. Mrs. Jennings, therefore, attending her up stairs
into the sick chamber, to satisfy herself that all continued
right, left her there again to her charge and her thoughts,
and retired to her own room to write letters and sleep.
The night was cold and stormy. The wind roared round
the house, and the rain beat against the windows; but
Elinor, all happiness within, regarded it not. Marianne
slept through every blast; and the travellers, they had a
rich reward in store, for every present inconvenience.
The clock struck eight. Had it been ten, Elinor would
have been convinced that at that moment she heard a car-
riage driving up to the house; and so strong was the per-
suasion that she did, in spite of the almost impossibility of
their being already come, that she moved into the adjoining
dressing-closet and opened a window shutter, to be satisfied of
the truth. She instantly saw that her ears had not deceived
her. The flaring lamps of a carriage were immediately in
view. By their uncertain light she thought she could
discern it to be drawn by four horses ; and this, while it
told the excess of her poor mother’s. alarm, gave some
explanation to such unexpected rapidity.
Never in her life had Elinor found_it so difficult to be
calm as at that moment. The knowledge of what her
mother must be feeling as the carriage stopped at the door,
—of her doubt —her dread,—perhaps her despair !—
and of what she had to tell! with such knowledge it was
impossible to be calm. All that remained to be done was
to be speedy ; and, therefore, staying only till she could
leave Mrs. Jennings’s maid with her sister, she hurried
down stairs.
The bustle in the vestibule, as she passed along an inner
lobby, assured her that they were already in the house.
She rushed forwards towards the drawing-room: she en-
tered it, — and saw only Willoughby.
QTA SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
CHAPTER VIII.
Exivor, starting back with a look of horror at the sight of
him, obeyed the first impulse of her heart in turning in-
stantly to quit the room; and her hand was already on
the lock, when its action was suspended by his hastily
advancing, and saying, in a voice rather of command than
supplication, —
*‘ Miss Dashwood, for half an hour — for ten minutes
—TI entreat you to stay.”
“No, sir,” she replied with firmness, “I shall not stay.
Your business cannot be with me. The servants, I sup-
pose, forgot to tell you that Mr. Palmer’ was not in the
house.”
“ Had they told me,” he cried with vehemence, “ that
Mr. Palmer and all his relations were at the devil, it would
not have turned me from the door. My business is with
you, and only you.”
“ With me!” — in the utmost amazement : — “ well,
sir — be quick — and if you can — less violent.”
<* Sit down, and I will be both.”
She hesitated ; she knew not what to do. The possi-
bility of Colonel Brandon’s arriving and finding him there
came across her. But she had promised to hear him ; and
her curiosity no less than her honour was engaged. After
a moment’s recollection, therefore, concluding that prudence
required despatch, and that her acquiescence would. best
promote it, she walked silently towards the table, and sat
down. He took the opposite chair ; and for half a minute
not a word was said by either.
“* Pray be quick, sir,” said Elinor, impatiently ; “ I have
no time to spare.’
He was sitting in an attitude of deep meditate and
seemed not to ear her.
“ Your sister,” said he, with abruptness, a moment
afterwards, “is out of danger. JI heard it from the servant.
God be praised! But isit true? is it really true?”
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. aries)
Elinor would not speak. He repeated the enquiry with
yet greater eagerness.
** For God’s sake tell me, is she out of danger, or is she
not?”
“© We hope she is.”
He rose up, and walked across the room.
** Had I known as much half an hour ago; —but since I
am here,” speaking with a forced vivacity as he returned to
his seat, —“‘ what does it signify? For once, Miss Dash-
wood ——it will be the last time, perhaps — let us be cheer-
ful together. I am in a fine mood for gaiety. Tell me
honestly,” a deeper glow overspreading his cheeks, “ do you
think me most a knave or a fool?”
Elinor looked at him with greater astonishment than
ever. She began to think that he must be in liquor ; —
the strangeness. of such a visit, and of such manners,
seemed no otherwise intelligible ; and with this impression
she immediately rose, saying, —
“ Mr. Willoughby, I advise you, at present, to return to
Combe. I am not at leisure to remain with you longer.
Whatever your business may be with me, it will be better
recollected and explained to-morrow.”
“I understand you,” he replied, with an expressive smile,
and a voice perfectly calm; ‘‘ yes, I am very drunk. A
_pint, of porter with my cold beef at Marlborough was
enough to overset me.”
«« At Marlborough !” cried Elinor, more and more at a
loss to understand what he would be at.
« Yes —I left London this morning at eight o’clock,
and the only ten minutes I have spent out of my chaise
since that time procured me a nunchion at Marlborough.”
The steadiness of his manner, and the intelligence of his
eye as he spoke, convincing Elinor, that whatever other un-
pardonable folly might bring him to Cleveland, he was not
brought there by intoxication, she said, after a moment's
recollection,—
«© Mr, Willoughby, you ought to feel and I certainly do,
that after what has passed, your coming here in this man-
ner, and forcing yourself upon my natice, requires a very
particular excuse. What is it that you mean by it?”
T 2
276 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
“I mean,” said he, with serious energy, ‘ if I can, to
make you hate me one degree less than you do now. f
mean to offer some kind of .explanation, some kind of
apology, for the past ; to open my whole heart to you, and
by convincing you, that though I have been always a
blockhead, I have not been always a rascal, to obtain some-
thing like forgiveness from Ma from your sister.”
“* Is this the real reason of your coming ?”
“ Upon my soul it is,” was his answer, with a warmth
which brought all the former Willoughby to her remem-
brance, and, in spite of herself, made her think him sin-
cere.
‘“* If that is all, you may be satisfied already ; for Mari-
anne does, she has Jong forgiven you.”
“* Has she ?” he cried, in the same eager tone. “ Then
she has forgiven me before she ought to have done it.
But she shall forgive me again, and on more reasonable
grounds. Vow will you listen to me?”
Elinor bowed her assent.
“I do not know,” said he, after a pause of expectation
on her side, and thoughtfulness on his own, “ how you
may have accounted for my behaviour to your sister, or
what diabolical motive you may have imputed to me.
Perhaps you will hardly think the better of me, —#it is
worth the trial, however, —and you shall hear every thing.
When I first became intimate in your family, I had ne
other intention, no other view in the acquaintance, than to
pass my time pleasantly while I was obliged to remain in
Devonshire, more pleasantly than I had ever done before.
Your sister's lovely person, and interesting manners, could
not but please me; and her behaviour to me almost from the
first was of a kind —it is astonishing, when I reflect on what
it was, and what she was, that my heart should have been so
insensible! But at first, | must confess, my vanity only
was elevated by it. Careless of her happiness, thinking
only of my own amusement, giving way to feelings which
I had always been too much in the habit of indulging, I en-
deavoured, by every means in my power, to make myself
pleasing to her, without any design of returning her affec-
tion.”
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. S77
Miss Dashwood, at this point, turning her eyes on him
with the most angry contempt, stopped him, by saying, —
** It is hardly worth while, Mr. Willoughby, for you to
relate, or for me to listen any longer. Such a beginning
as this cannot be followed by any thing. Do not let me
be pained by hearing any thing more on the subject.”
** I insist on your hearing the whole of it,” he replied.
** My fortune was never large, and I had always been ex-
pensive, always in the habit of associating with people of
better income than myself. Every year since my coming
of age, or even before, I believe, had added to my debts ;
and though the death of my old cousin, Mrs. Smith, was to
set me free, yet that event being uncertain, and possibly far
distant, it had been for some time my intention to re-establish
my cireumstances by marrying a woman of fortune. To
attach myself to your sister, therefore, was not a thing to be
thought of ; and with a meanness, selfishness, cruelty,
which no indignant, no contemptuous look, even of yours,
Miss Dashwood, can ever reprobate too much,—lI was act-
ing in this manner, trying to engage her regard, without a
thought of returning it. But one thing may be said for
me: even in that horrid state of selfish vanity, I did not
_know the extent of the injury I meditated, because I did
not then know what it was to love. But have I ever known
it? Well may it be doubted; for, had I really loved,
could I have sacrificed my feelings to vanity, to avarice ?P
or, what is more, could I have sacrificed hers? But
I have done it. To avoid a comparative poverty, which
her affection and her society would have deprived of all its
horrors, I have, by raising myself to affluence, lost every
thing that could make it a blessing.”
“You did, then,” said Elinor, a little softened, “* be-
lieve yourself at one time attached to her ?” |
“To have resisted such attractions, to have withstood
such tenderness! Is there a man on earth who could
have done it? Yes, I found myself, by insensible de-
grees, sincerely fond of her; and the happiest hours of
my life were what I spent with her when I felt my inten-
tions were strictly honourable, and my feelings blameless.
Even then, however, when fully determined on paying my
7 3
Wi
278 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
addresses to her, I allowed myself most improperly to put
off, from day to day, the moment of doing it, from an un- |
willingness to enter into an engagement while my circum-
stances were so greatly embarrassed. I will not reason
here —nor will I stop for you to expatiate on the ab-
surdity, and the worse than absurdity, of scrupling to en-
gage my faith where my honour was already bound. The
event has proved that I was a cunning fool, providing with
great circumspection for a possible opportunity of making
myself contemptible and wretched for ever. At last, how-
ever, my resolution was taken ; and I had determined, as
soon as I could engage her alone, to justify the attentions
Thad so invariably paid her, and openly assure her of an
affection which I had already taken such pains to display.
But in the interim — in the interim of the very few hours
that were to pass before I could have an opportunity of
speaking with her in private — a circumstance occurred —
an unlucky circumstance — to ruin all my resolution, and
with it all my comfort. A discovery took place,’’— here
he hesitated and ‘looked down. ‘* Mrs. Smith had some-
how or other been informed, I imagine by some distant
relation, whose interest it was to deprive me of her favour,
of an affair, a connection — but I need not explain myself
farther,” he added, looking at her with’ a heightened co-
lour and an enquiring eye, —“‘ your particular intimacy —
you have probably heard the whole story long ago.”
** I have,” returned Elinor, colouring likewise, and
hardening her heart anew against any compassion for him,
“TI have heard it all; and how you will explain away
any part of your guilt in that dreadful business I confess
is beyond my comprehension.”
** Remember,” cried Willoughby, “‘ from whom you re-
ceived the account. Could it be an impartial one? I
acknowledge that her situation and her character ought to
have been respected by me. I do not mean to justify my-
self, but at the same time cannot leave you to suppose that
I have nothing to urge — that because she was injured she
was irreproachable, and because J was a libertine, she must
be a saint. If the violence of her passions, the weakness
of her understanding — I do not mean, however, to defend
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 279
myself. Her affection for me deserved better treatment ;
and I often, with great self-reproach, recall the tenderness
which, for a very short time, had the power of creating
any return. I wish —I heartily wish it had never been.
But I have injured more than herself ; and I have injured
one, whose affection for me (may I say it?) was scarcely
less warm than hers; and whose mind— oh, how in-
finitely superior!”
<< Your indifference, however, towards that unfortunate
girl — I must say it, unpleasant to me as the discussion of
such a subject may well be — your indifference is no
apology for your cruel neglect of her. Do not think your-
self excused by any weakness, any natural defect of un~
derstanding on her side, in the wanton cruelty so evident
on yours. You must have known, that while you were
enjoying yourself in Devonshire, pursuing fresh schemes,
always gay, always happy, she was reduced to the ex-
tremest indigence.”
« But, upon my soul, I did not know it,’’ he warmly
replied: “‘ I did not recollect that I had omitted to give
her my direction ; and common sense might have told her
how to find it out.”
_ © Well, sir, and what said Mrs. Smith ?”’
“‘ She taxed me with the offence at once, and my con-
fusion may be guessed. The purity of her life, the for-
mality of her notions, her ignorance of the world, — every
. thing was against me. The matter itself I could not deny,
and vain was every endeavour to soften it. She was pre~
viously disposed, I believe, to doubt the morality of my
conduct in general, and was, moreover, discontented with
the very little attention, the very little portion of my time
that I had bestowed on her in my present visit. In short,
it ended in a total breach. By one measure I might have
saved myself. In the height of her morality, good woman !
she offered to forgive the past, if I would marry Eliza.
That could not be; and I was formally dismissed from her
favour and her house. The night following this affair —I
was to go the next morning —was spent by me in deliber-~
ating on what my future conduct should be. The struggle
was great, but it ended too soon. My affection for Marianne,
T 4
280 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
my thorough conviction of her attachment to me — it was
all insufficient to outweigh that dread of poverty, or get the
better of those false ideas of the necessity of riches, which
I was naturally inclined to feel, and expensive society had
increased. I had reason to believe myself secure of my
present wife, if I chose to address her, and I persuaded
myself to think that nothing else in common prudence
remained for me to do. A heavy scene, however, awaited
me before I could leave Devonshire: I was engaged to
dine with you on that very day ; some apology was there-
fore necessary for my breaking the engagement. But
whether I should write this apology, or deliver it in person,
was a point of long debate. To see Marianne I felt would
be dreadful ; and I even doubted whether I could see her
again and keep to my resolution. In that point, however,
I undervalued my own magnanimity, as the event de-
clared ; for I went, I saw her, and saw her miserable, and
left her miserable ; — and left her hoping never to see her
again.”
“* Why did you call, Mr. Willoughby ?”’ said Elinor, re-
proachfully ; ‘* a note would have answered every purpose.
Why was it necessary to call?”
“* It was necessary to my own pride. I could not bear
to leave the country in a manner that might lead you, or
the rest of the neighbourhood, to suspect any part of what
had really passed between Mrs. Smith and myself, and I
resolved, therefore, on calling at the cottage, in my way to
Honiton. The sight of your dear sister, however, was-
really dreadful; and, to heighten the matter, I found her
alone. You were all gone I do not know where. I had
left her only the evening before, so fully, so firmly resolved
within myself on doing right! A few hours were to have
engaged her to me for ever ; and I remember how happy,
how gay were my spirits, as I walked from the cottage to
Allenham, satisfied with myself, delighted with every body!
But in this, our last interview of friendship, I approached
her with a sense of guilt that almost took from me the
power of dissembling. Her sorrow, her disappointment,
her deep regret, when I told her that I was obliged to
leave Devonshire so immediately — I never shall forget it-—
ee
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 281
united, too, with such reliance, such confidence in me!
Oh, God! what a hard-hearted rascal I was!”
They were both silent for a few moments. Elinor first
spoke.
** Did you tell her that you should soon return?”
**I do not know what I told her,’ he replied, impa-
tiently ; “ less than was due to the past, beyond a doubt,
and in all likelihood much more than was justified by the
future. I cannot think of it. It won’t do. Then came
your dear mother to torture me farther, with all her kind-
ness and confidence. Thank Heaven! it did torture me.
I was miserable. Miss Dashwood, you cannot have an idea
of the comfort it gives me to look back on my own misery.
I owe such a grudge to myself for the stupid, rascally folly
of my own heart, that all my past sufferings under it are
only triumph and exultation to me now. Well, I went, left
all that I loved, and went to those to whom, at best, I was
only indifferent. My journey to town—travelling with my
own horses, and therefore so tediously—no creature to
speak to—my own reflections so cheerful— when I looked
forward every thing so inviting !— when I looked back at
Barton, the picture so soothing !—oh, it was a blessed
journey !”
He stopped.
‘** Well, sir,” said Elinor, who, though pitying him, grew
impatient for his departure, “ and this is all?”
“« All!—no:—have you forgot what passed in town?
That infamous letter? Did she show it you?”
** Yes, I saw every note that passed.”
“¢ When the first of hers reached me, (as it immediately
did, for I was in town the whole time,) what I felt is, in
the common phrase, not to be expressed ; in a more simple
one, perhaps too simple to raise any emotion, my feelings
were very, very painful. Every line, every word, was—in
_ the hackneyed metaphor which their dear writer, were she
here, would forbid—a dagger to my heart. ‘To know that
Marianne was in town was, in the same language, a thun-
derbolt. Thunderbolts and daggers! what a reproof would
she have given me! Her taste, her opinions—TI believe
282 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. *
they are better known to me than my own, and I am sure
they are dearer.”
Ellinor’s heart, which had undergone many changes in
the course of this extraordinary conversation, was now soft-
ened again; yet she felt it her duty to check such ideas
in her companion as the last.
« This is not right; Mr. Willoughby. Remember that
you are married. Relate only what in your conscience you
think necessary for me to hear.”
«¢ Marianne’s note, by assuring me that I was still as
dear to her as in former days, —that in spite of the many,
many weeks we had been separated, she was as constant in
her own feelings, and as full of faith in the constancy of
mine as ever, — awakened all my remorse. I say awakened,
because time and London, business and dissipation, had in
some measure quieted it, and I had been growing a fine
hardened villain, fancying myself indifferent to her, and
choosing to fancy that she too must have become indifferent
to me; talking to myself of our past attachment as a mere
idle, trifling, business; shrugging up my shoulders in proof
of its being so, and silencing every reproach, overcoming
every scruple, by secretly saying now and then, ‘I shall
be heartily glad to hear she is well married.’ But this note
made me know myself better. I felt that she was infi-
nitely dearer to me than any other woman in the world,
and that I was using her infamously. But every thing was —
then just settled between Miss Grey and me. To retreat
was impossible. All that I had to do was to avoid you
both. I sent no answer to Marianne, intending by that
means to preserve myself from her farther notice ; and for
some time I was even determined not to call in Berkeley
Street ; but at last, judging it wiser to affect the air of a
cool, common acquaintance than any thing else, I watched
you all safely out of the house one morning, and left my
name.
** Watched us out of the house !”’
** Even so. You would be surprised to hear how often
I watched you, how often I was on the point of falling in
with you. I have entered many a shop to avoid your
sight as the carriage drove by. Lodging as I did in Bond
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 283
Street, there was hardly a day in which I did not catch a
glimpse of one or other of you ; and nothing but the most
constant watchfulness on my side, a most invariably pre-
vailing desire to keep out of your sight, could have separ-
ated us so long. I avoided the Middletons as much as
possible, as well as every body else who was likely to
‘prove an acquaintance in common. Not aware of their
being in town, however, I blundered on Sir John, I
believe, the first day of his coming, and the day after I
had called at Mrs. Jennings’s. He asked me to a party, a
dance at his house in the evening. Had he not told me as
an inducement that you and your sister were to be there, I
should have felt it too certain a thing to trust myself near
him. The next morning brought shottier short note from
Marianne — still Ph xiowate; open, artless, confiding —
every thing that could make my conduct most hateful. I
could not answer it. I tried — but could not frame a
‘sentence. But I thought of her, I believe, every moment
of the day. If you can pity me, Miss Dashwood, pity my
situation as it was then. With my head and heart full of
your sister, I was forced to play the happy lover to an-
other woman! ‘Those three or four weeks were worse
than all. Well, at last, as I need not tell you, you were
forced on me; and what a sweet figure I cut! what an
evening of agony it was! Marianne, beautiful as an
angel on one side, calling me Willoughby in such a tone!
Oh, God! holding out her hand to me, asking me for an
explanation, with those bewitching eyes fixed. in such
speaking solicitude on my face ! and Sophia, jealous as the
devil on the other hand, looking all that was — Well, it
does not signify; it is over now. Such anevening! I
ran away from you all as soon as I could ; but not before
I had seen Marianne’s sweet face as white asdeath. That
was the last, last look I ever had of her ; the last manner
in which she appeared to me. It was a horrid sight! . Yet
when I thought of her to-day as really dying, it was a kind
of comfort to me to imagine that I knew exattly how she
would appear to those who saw her last in this world. She
was before me, constantly before me, as I travelled, in the
same look and hue.”
284 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
A short pause of mutual thoughtfulness succeeded.
Willoughby first rousing himself, broke it thus : —
«* Well, let me make haste and be gone. Your sister is
certainly better, certainly out of danger?”
“© We are assured of it.”
« Your poor mother too! doting on Marianne.”
“* But the letter, Mr. Willoughby, your own letter: have
you any thing to say about that?”
“Yes, yes, shat in particular. Your sister wrote to
me again, you know, the very next morning. You saw
what she said. I was breakfasting at the LEllisons,
—and her letter, with some others, was brought to me
there from my lodgings. It happened to catch Sophia’s
eye before it caught mine; — and its size, the elegance of
the paper, the handwriting altogether, immediately gave her
a suspicion. Some vague report had reached her before of
my attachment to some young lady in Devonshire, and
what had passed within her observation the preceding even-
ing had marked who the young lady was, and made her
more jealous than ever. Affecting that air of playfulness,
therefore, which is delightful in a woman oné loves, she
opened the letter directly, and read its contents. She was
well paid for her impudence. She read what made her
wretched. Her wretchedness I could have borne, but her
passion — her malice — at all events it must be appeased.
And, in short, what do you think of my wife’s style of
letter-writing ? — delicate — tender — truly feminine —
was it not?”
* Your wife! The letter. was in your own hand-
writing.” —
“Yes, but I had only the credit of servilely copying
such sentences as I was ashamed to put my name to. The
original was all her own — her own happy thoughts and
gentle diction. But what could I do? We were engaged,
every thing in preparation, the day almost fixed — but I
am talking like a fool. Preparation! Day! In honest
words, her money was necessary to me, and in a situation
like mine any thing was to be done to prevent a rupture.
And after all, what did it signify to my character, in the
opinion of Marianne and her friends, in what language my
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 285
answer was couched? It must have been only to one end.
My business was to declare myself a scoundrel ; and
whether I did it with a bow or a bluster was of little
importance. ‘I am ruined for ever in their opinion,’
said I to myself: < I am shut out for ever from their so-
ciety ; they already think me an unprincipled fellow ; this
letter will only make them think me a blackguard one.’
Such were my reasonings as, in a sort of desperate careless-
ness, I copied my wife’s words, and parted with the last
relics of Marianne. Her three notes, — unluckily they
were all in my pocket-book, or I should have denied their
existence, and hoarded them for ever, — I was forced to
put them up, and could not even kiss them. And the
lock of hair — that, too, I had always carried about me in
the same pocket-book, which was now searched by madam
with the most ingratiating virulence, — the dear lock, —
all, every memento was torn from me.”
“You are very wrong, Mr. Willoughby ; very blam-
able,” said Elinor ; while her voice, in spite of herself,
betrayed her compassionate emotion ; “‘ you ought not to
speak in this way, either of Mrs. Willoughby or my sister.
You have made your own choice. It was not forced on
you. Your wife has a claim to your politeness, to your
respect, at least. She must be attached to you, or she
would not have married you. To treat her with unkind-
ness, to speak of her slightingly, is no atonement to
Marianne; nor can I suppose it a relief to your own
conscience.”
“Do not talk to me of my wife,” said he with a heavy
sigh ; “ she does not deserve your compassion. She knew
I had no regard for her when we married. Well, married
we were, and came down to Combe Magna to be happy,
and afterwards returned to town to be gay. And now do
you pity me, Miss Dashwood? Or have I said all this
to no purpose? Am I,—be it only one degree,—am I less
guilty in your opinion than I was before? My intentions
were not always wrong. Have I explained away any part
of my guilt?”
“Yes, you have certainly removed something — a little.
You have proved yourself, on the whole, less faulty than I
286 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
had believed you. You have proved your heart less wicked,
much less wicked. But I hardly know — the misery that
you have inflicted — I hardly know what could have made
it worse.”
<< Will you repeat to your sister, when she is recovered,
what I have been telling you? Let me be a little lightened,
too, in her opinion as well as in yours. You tell me that
she has forgiven me already. Let me be able to fancy that
a better knowledge of my heart, and of my present feelings,
will draw from her a more spontaneous, more natural,
more gentle, less dignified, forgiveness. Tell her of my
misery and my penitence ; —tell her that my heart was
never inconstant to her; and, if you will, that at this
moment she is dearer to me than ever.”
** I will tell her all that is necessary to what may com-
paratively be called your justification. But you have not -
explained to me the particular reason of your coming now,
nor how you heard of her illness.”
“‘ Last night, in Drury Lane lobby, I ran against Sir
John Middleton ; and when he saw who I was, for the first
time these two months, he spoke to me. That he had cut
me ever since my marriage, I had seen without surprise or
resentment. Now, however, his good-natured, honest,
stupid soul, full of indignation against me, and concern for
your sister, could not resist the temptation of telling me
what he knew ought to, though probably he did not think
it would, vex me horridly. As bluntly as he could speak
it, therefore, he told me that Marianne Dashwood was dying
of a putrid fever at Cleveland—a letter that morning re-
ceived from Mrs. Jennings declared her danger most im-
minent — the Palmers all gone off in a fright, &c. I was
too much shocked to be able to pass myself off as insensible
even to the undiscerning Sir John. His heart was softened
in seeing mine suffer ; and so much of his ill-will was done
away, that when we parted, he almost shook me by the
hand while he reminded me cf an old promise about a
pointer puppy. What I felt on hearing that your sister
was dying, and dying, too, believing me the greatest villain
upon earth, scorning, hating me in her latest moments —
for how could I tell what horrid projects might not have
?
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 287
been imputed? One person I was sure would represent
me as capable of any thing. What I felt was dreadful!
__ My resolution was soon made, and at eight o'clock this
morning I was in my carriage. Now you know all.”
Elinor made no answer. Her thoughts were silently
fixed on the irreparable injury which too early an inde-
pendence, and its consequent habits of idleness, dissipation,
and luxury, had made in the mind, the character, the hap-
piness, of a man who, to every advantage of person and
talents, united a disposition naturally open and honest, and
a feeling, affectionate temper. The world had made him
extravagant and vain—extravagance and vanity had made
him cold-hearted and selfish. Vanity, while seeking its
own guilty triumph at the expense of another, had involved
him in a real attachment, which extravagance, or at least
its offspring, necessity, had required to be sacrificed. Each
faulty propensity in leading him to evil, had led him like-
wise to punishment. The attachment, from which against
honour, against feeling, against every better interest he had
outwardly torn himself, now, when no longer allowable,
governed every thought; and the connection, for the sake
of which he had, with little scruple, left her sister to
misery, was likely to prove a source of unhappiness to
himself of a far more incurable nature. From a reverie of
this kind she was recalled at the end of some minutes by
Willoughby, who, rousing himself from a reverie at least
equally painful, started up in preparation for going, and
said, -—
‘“< There is no use in staying here ; I must be off.”
«* Are you going back to town?”
““ No — to Combe Magna. I have business there ; from
thence to town in a day or two. Good-by.”
He held out his hand. She could not refuse to give him
hers: he pressed it with affection.
« And you do think something better of me than you
did?” said he, letting it fall, and leaning against the
mantel-piece, as if forgetting he was to go.
Elinor assured him that she did ;—-that she forgave,
pitied, wished him well — was even interested in his hap~
_.piness — and added some gentle counsel as to the behaviour
288 " §ENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
most likely to promote it. His answer was not very
encouraging.
“* As to that,” said he, “ I must rub through the world
as well as I can. Domestic happiness is out of the question.
If, however, I am allowed to think that you and yours feel
an interest in my fate and actions, it may be the means — ©
it may put me on my guard —at least it will be something
to live for. Marianne, to be sure, is lost to me for ever.
Were I even by any blessed chance at liberty again _
Elinor stopped him with a reproof.
«* Well,” he replied, “‘ once more good-by. I shall now
go away and live in dread of one event.”
‘© What do you mean?”
** Your sister’s marriage.”
** You are very wrong. She can never be more lost to
you than she is now.”
‘“* But she will be gained by some one else. And if that
some one should be the very he whom, of all others, I
could least bear — but I will not stay to rob myself of all
your compassionate good-will, by showing that where I
have most injured I can least forgive. Good-by, — God
bless you !”
And with these words he almost ran out of the room.
CHAPTER IX.
Exinor, for some time after he left her, for sometime even
after the sound of his carriage had died away, remained
too much oppressed by a crowd of ideas, widely differing
in themselves, but of which sadness was the general result,
to think even of her sister.
Willoughby, — he whom only half an hour ago she had
abhorred as the most worthless of men,— Willoughby, in
spite of all his faults, excited a degree of commiseration
for the sufferings produced by them, which made her think
of him as now separated for ever from her family, with a
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 289
tenderness, a regret, rather in proportion, as she soon ac-
knowledged within herself, to his wishes than to his merits.
She felt that his influence over her mind was heightened
by circumstances which ought not in reason to have weight :
by that person of uncommon attraction, that open, affec-
tionate, and lively manner, which it was no merit to pos-
sess ; and by that still ardent love for Marianne, which it
was not even innocent to indulge. But she felt that it was
so, long, long before she could feel his influence less.
When at last she returned to the unconscious Marianne,
she found her just awaking, refreshed by so long and sweet
a sleep to the extent of her hopes. Elinor’s heart was full.
The past, the present, the future, Willoughby’s visit,
Marianne’s safety, and her mother’s expected arrival, threw
her altogether into an agitation of spirits which kept off
every indication of fatigue, and made her only fearful of
betraying herself to. her sister. Short was the time, how-
ever, in which that fear could affect her ; for within half
an hour after Willoughby’s leaving the house, she was
again called down stairs by the sound of another carriage.
Eager to save her mother from every unnecessary mo-
ment’s horrible suspense, she ran immediately into the
hall, and reached the outward door just in time to receive
and support her as she entered it.
Mrs. Dashwood, whose terror as they drew near the
house had produced almost the conviction of Marianne’s
being no more, had no voice to enquire after her, no voice
even for Elinor: but she, waiting neither for salutation nor
enquiry, instantly gave the joyful relief; and her mother,
catching it with all her usual warmth, was in a moment as
much overcome by her happiness as she had been before by
her fears. She was supported into the drawing-room. be-
tween her daughter and her friend ; and there, shedding
tears of joy, though still unable to speak, embraced Elinor
again and again, turning from. her at intervals to press
Colonel Brandon’s hand, with a look which spoke at once
her gratitude, and her conviction of his sharing with her-
self in the bliss of the moment. He shared it, however, in
a silence even greater than her own.
‘As soon as Mrs. Dashwood had recovered herself, to see
U
290 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
Marianne was her first desire ; and in two minutes she was
with her beloved child, rendered dearer to her than ever
by absence, unhappiness, and danger. Elinor’s delight, as
she saw what each felt in the meeting, was only checked by
an apprehension of its robbing Marianne of farther sleep:
but Mrs. Dashwood could be calm, could be even prudent,
when the life of a child was at stake ; and Marianne, satis
fied in knowing her mother was near her, and conscious of
being too weak for conversation, submitted readily to the
silence and quiet prescribed by every nurse around her.
Mrs. Dashwood would sit up with her all night; and Eli-
nor, in compliance with her mother’s entreaty, went to bed.
But the rest, which one night entirely sleepless, and many
hours of the most wearing anxiety seemed to make requi-
site, was kept off by irritation of spirits. Willoughby,
** poor Willoughby,” as she now allowed herself to call
him, was constantly in her thoughts: she would not but
have heard his vindication for the world, and now blamed, |
now acquitted herself for having judged him so harshly
before. But her promise of relating it to her sister was
invariably painful. She dreaded the performance of it,
dreaded what its effect on Marianne might be; doubted
whether, after such an explanation, she could ever be happy
with another ; and for a moment wished Willoughby a
widower. Then, remembering Colonel Brandon, reproved
herself, felt that to his sufferings and his constancy, far
more than to his rival’s, the reward of her sister was due,
and wished any thing rather than Mrs. Willoughby’s death.
The shock of Colonel Brandon’s errand at Barton had
been much softened to Mrs. Dashwood by her own previous
alarm ; for so great was her uneasiness about Marianne,
that she had already determined to set out for Cleveland
on that very day, without waiting for any farther intelli-
gence, and had so far settled her journey before his ar-
rival, that the Careys were then expected every moment to
fetch Margaret away, as her mother was unwilling to take
her where there might be infection.
Marianne continued to mend every day; and the brilliane
cheerfulness of Mrs. Dashwood’s looks and spirits proved
her to be, as she repeatedly declared herself, one of the
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 291
happiest women in the world. Elinor could not hear the
declaration, nor witness its proofs, without sometimes won-
dering whether her mother ever recollected Edward. But
Mrs. Dashwood, trusting to the temperate account of her
own disappointment, which Elinor had sent her, was led
away by the exuberance of her joy to think only of what
would increase it. Marianne was restored to her, from a
danger in which, as she now began to feel, her own mis-
taken judgment in encouraging the unfortunate attachment
to Willoughby had contributed to place her; and in her
recovery she had yet another source of joy, unthought of
by Elinor. It was thus imparted to her, as soon as any
opportunity of private conference between them occurred.
“«* At last we are alone. My Elinor, you do not yet know
all my happiness. Colonel Brandon loves Marianne. He
has told me so himself.” ;
Her daughter, feeling by turns both pleased and pained,
surprised and not surprised, was all silent attention.
“You are never like me, dear Elinor, or I should won-
der at your composure now. Had I sat down to wish for
any possible good to my family, I should have fixed on
Colonel Brandon’s marrying one of you, as the object most
desirable ; and I believe Marianne will be the most happy
with him of the two.”
_» Elinor was half inclined to ask her reason for thinking
so, because satisfied that none, founded on an impartial con-
sideration of their age, characters, or feelings, could be
given: but her mother must always be carried away by
her imagination, on any interesting subject; and, therefore,
instead of an enquiry, she passed it off with a smile.
““ He opened his whole heart to me yesterday as we
travelled. It came out quite unawares, quite undesignedly.
I, you may well believe, could talk of nothing but my
child:—he could not conceal his distress; I saw that it
equalled my own; and he, perhaps thinking that mere
friendship, as the world now goes, would not justify so
warm a sympathy ; or rather, not thinking at all, I suppose,
giving way to irresistible feelings, made me acquainted
with his earnest, tender, constant, affection for Marianne.
u 2
2902 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
He has loved her, my Elinor, ever since the first moment of
seeing her.”
Here, however, Elinor perceived, not the language,
not the professions of Colonel Brandon, .but the natural
embellishments of her mother’s active fancy, which fashion-
ed every thing delightful to her as it chose.
“* His tebe for her, infinitely surpassing any thing that
Willoughby ever felt or feigned, as much more warm, as
more sincere or constant, whichever we are to call it, has
subsisted through all the knowledge of dear ‘os
unhappy prepossession for that worthless young man! and
without selfishness, without encouraging a hope! could
he have seen her happy with another. Such a noble mind!
such openness, such sincerity! No one can be deceived in
him.”
*“ Colonel Brandon’s character,” said Elinor, “as an
excellent man, is well established.”
“« T know it is,”’ replied her mother, seriously, “‘ or, after
such a warning, J should be the last to encourage such af-
fection, or even to be pleased by it. But his coming for
me, ashe did, with such active, such ready friendship, is
enough to prove hin one of the worthiest of men.”’
«* His character, however,’ answered Elinor, “ does not
rest on one act of kindness, to which his affection for Ma-
rianne, were humanity out of the case, would have prompted
him. To Mrs. Jennings, to the Middletons, he has been
long and intimately known: they equally love and respect
him ; and even my own knowledge of him, though lately
acquired, is very considerable ; and so highly do J value
and esteem him, that if Marianne can be happy with him,
I shall be as ready as yourself to think our connection the |
greatest blessing to us in the world. What answer did you
give him? Did you allow him to hope ?”’
“Oh, my love! I could not then talk of hope to him or
to myself. Marianne might, at that moment, be dying. But
he did not ask for hope, or encouragement. His was an
involuntary confidence, an irrepressible effusion to a sooth-
ing friend, not an application to a parent. Yet, after a
time, I did say, for, at first, I was quite overcome, that if
she lived, as I. trusted she might, my greatest happiness.
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 293
would lie in promoting their marriage; and since our ar-
rival, since our delightful security, I have repeated it to
him more fully, have given him every encouragement in
my power. ‘Time, a very little time, I tell him, will do
every thing ; Marianne’s heart is not to be wasted for ever
on such a man as Willoughby. His own merits must soon
secure it.” |
“To judge from the Colonel’s spirits, however, you
have not yet made him equally sanguine.”
“No. He thinks Marianne’s affection too deeply
rooted for any change in it under a great length of time;
and even supposing her heart again free, is too diffident of
himself to believe, that with such a difference of age and
disposition he could ever attach her. There, however, he
is quite mistaken. His age is only so much beyond hers
as to be an advantage, as to make his character and prin-
ciples fixed; and his disposition, I am well convinced,
is exactly the very one to make your sister happy. And
his person, his manners, too, are all in his favour. My
partiality does not blind me: he certainly is not so hand-
some as Willoughby; but, at the same time, there is
something much more pleasing in his countenance. There
was always a something, if you remember, in Willoughby’s
eyes at times, which I did not like.”
Elinor could not remember it; but her mother, with-
out waiting for her assent, continued, —
' © And his manners, the Colonel’s manners are not only
more pleasing to me than Willoughby’s ever were, but
they are of a kind I well know to be more solidly attach-
ing to Marianne. Their gentleness, their genuine atten-
tion to other people, and their manly unstudied simplicity,
is much more accordant with her real disposition than the
liveliness, often artificial, and often ill-timed, of the other.
I am’ very sure myself, that had Willoughby turned out
as really amiable, as he has proved himself the contrary,
Marianne would yet never have been so happy with him
as she will be with Colonel Brandon.”
‘She paused. Her daughter could not quite agree with
her; but her dissent was not heard, and therefore gave no
offence. |
u 3
204 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
** At Delaford, she will be within an easy distance of
me,” added Mrs. Dashwood, “ even if I remain at Barton;
and in all probability, — for I hear it is a large village, —
indeed there certainly must be some small house or cottage
close by, that would suit us quite as well as our present
situation.”
Poor Elinor ! — here was a new scheme for getting her
to Delaford !— but her spirit was stubborn.
“* His fortune too !— for at my time of life, you know,
every body cares about that ; — and though I neither know,
nor desire to know, what it really is, I am sure it must be
a good one.”
Here they were interrupted by the entrance of a third
person ; and Elinor withdrew to think it all over in private,
to wish success to her friend, and yet, in wishing it, to feel
a pang for Willoughby.
CHAPTER X.
Marianne’s illness, though weakening in its kind, had not
been long enough to make her recovery slow ; and with
youth, natural strength, and her mother’s presence in aid,
it proceeded so smoothly as to enable her to remove, within
four days after the arrival of the latter, into Mrs. Palmer’s
dressing-room. When there, at her own particular re-
quest, for she was impatient to pour forth her thanks to
him for fetching her mother, Colonel Brandon was invited
to visit her.
His emotion in entering the room, in seeing her altered
looks, and in receiving the pale hand which she immediately
held out to him, was such as, in Elinor’s conjecture, must
arise from something more than his affection for Marianne,
or the consciousness of its being known to others ; and she
soon discovered, in his melancholy eye and varying com-
plexion as he looked at her sister, the probable recurrence
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 205
of many past scenes of misery to his mind, brought back
by that resemblance between Marianne and Eliza already
acknowledged, and now strengthened by the hollow eye,
the sickly skin, the posture of reclining weakness, and the
warm acknowledgment of peculiar obligation.
Mrs. Dashwood, not less watchful of what passed than
her daughter, but with a mind very differently influenced,
and therefore watching to very different effect, saw nothing
in the Colonel’s behaviour but what arose from the most
simple and self-evident sensations, while in the actions and
words of Marianne she persuaded herself to think that
something more than gratitude already dawned.
At the end of another day or two, Marianne growing
visibly stronger every twelve hours, Mrs. Dashwood, urged
equally by her own and her daughter’s wishes, began to
' talk of removing to Barton. On her measures depended
those of her two friends: Mrs. Jennings could not quit
Cleveland during the Dashwoods’ stay ; and Colonel Bran-
don was soon brought, by their united request, to consider
his own abode there as equally determinate, if not equally
indispensable. At his and Mrs. Jennings’s united request
in return, Mrs. Dashwood was prevailed on to accept the
use of his carriage on her journey back, for the better ac-
commodation of her sick child ; and the Colonel, at the
‘joint invitation of Mrs. Dashwood and Mrs. Jennings,
whose active good-nature made her friendly and hospitable
for other people as well as herself, engaged with pleasure
to redeem it by a visit at the cottage, in the course of a
few weeks.
The day of separation and departure arrived; and
Marianne, after taking so particular and lengthened a
leave of Mrs. Jennings, one so earnestly grateful, so full
of respect and kind wishes as seemed due to her own
heart from a secret acknowledgment of past inattention, and
bidding Colonel Brandon farewell with the cordiality of a
friend, was carefully assisted by him into the carriage,
of which he seemed anxious that she should engross at
least half. Mrs. Dashwood and Elinor then followed, and
the others were left by themselves, to talk of the travel-
lers, and feel their own dulness, till Mrs. Jennings was
u 4
296 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
summoned to her chaise to take comfort in the gossip of
her maid for the loss of her two young companions; and
Colonel Brandon immediately afterwards took his solitary
way to Delaford.
The Dashwoods were two days on the road, and Mari-
anne bore her journey on both without essential fatigue.
Every thing that the most zealous affection, the most
solicitous care, could do to render her comfortable, was
the office of each watchful companion, and each found
their reward in her bodily ease, and her calmness of
spirits. To Elinor, the observation of the latter was
particularly grateful. She, who had seen her week after
week so constantly suffering, oppressed by anguish of heart
which she had neither courage to speak of, nor fortitude
to conceal, now saw with a joy, which no other could
equally share, an apparent composure of mind, which, in
being the result, as she trusted, of serious reflection, must
eventually lead her to contentment and cheerfulness.
As they approached Barton, indeed, and entered on
scenes, of which every field and every tree brought some
peculiar, some painful recollection, she grew silent and
thoughtful, and turning away her face from their notice,
sat earnestly gazing through the window. But here,
Elinor could neither wonder nor blame; and when she
saw, as she assisted Marianne from the carriage, that she
had been crying, she saw only an emotion too natural in
itself to raise any thing less tender than pity, and in ‘its
unobtrusiveness entitled to praise. In the whole of her
subsequent manner, she traced the direction of a mind
awakened to reasonable exertion ; for no sooner had they
entered their common sitting-room, than Marianne turned
her eyes around it with a look of resolute firmness, as
if determined at once to accustom herself to the sight of
every object with which the remembrance of Willoughby
could be connected. She said little, but every sentence
aimed at cheerfulness; and though a sigh sometimes
escaped her, it never passed away without the atonement
of a smile. After dinner she would try her piano-forte.
She went toit ; but the music on which her eye first rested
was an opera, procured for her by Willoughby, containing
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 2907
some of their favourite duets, and bearing on its outward
leaf her own name in his hand-writing. That would not
do.. She shook her head, put the music aside, and,
after running over the keys for a minute, complained of
feebleness in her fingers, and closed the instrument again ;
declaring, however, with firmness, as she did so, that she
should in future practise much.
The next morning produced no abatement in these happy
symptoms. On the contrary, with a mind and body alike
strengthened by rest, she looked and spoke with more
genuine spirit, anticipating the pleasure of Margaret’s
return, and talking of the dear family party which would
then be restored, of their mutual pursuits and cheerful
society, as the only happiness worth a wish.
“ When the weather is settled, and I have recovered
my strength,” said she, “ we will take long walks to-
gether every day. We will walk to the farm at the
edge of the down, and see how the children go on; we
will walk to Sir John’s new plantations at Barton Cross,
and the Abbeyland ; and we will often go to the old ruins
of the Priory, and try to trace its foundations as far as we
are told they once reached. I know we shall be happy. I
know the summer will pass happily away. I mean never
to be later in rising than six, and from that time till dinner
I shall divide every moment between music and reading.
I have formed my plan, and am determined to enter on a
course of serious study. Our own library is too well
known to me, to be resorted to for any thing beyond mere
amusement. But there are many works well worth read-
ing at the Park; and there are others of more modern
production, which I know I can borrow of Colonel Bran- .
don. By reading only six hours a day, I shall gain in the
course of a twelvemonth a great deal of instruction which
I now feel myself to want.”
Elinor honoured her for a plan which originated so nobly
as this; though smiling to see the same eager fancy which
had been leading her to the extreme of languid indolence
and selfish repining now at work in introducing excess
into a scheme of such rational employment and virtuous
self-control. Her smile, however, changed to a sigh when
298 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
she remembered that her promise to Willoughby was yet
unfulfilled, and feared she had that to communicate which
might again unsettle the mind of Marianne, and ruin, at
least for a time, this fair prospect of busy tranquillity.
Willing therefore to delay the evil hour, she resolved to
wait till her sister's health were more secure, before she
appointed it. But the resolution was made only to be
broken.
Marianne had been two or three days at home before
the weather was fine enough for an invalid like herself. to
venture out. But at last a soft, genial morning appeared,
such as might tempt the daughter's wishes and the mo-
ther’s confidence ; and Marianne, leaning on Elinor’s arm,
was authorised to walk as long as she could without
fatigue, in the lane before the house.
The sisters set out at a pace, slow as the feebleness of
Marianne in an exercise hitherto untried since her illness
required ; and they had advanced only so far beyond the
house as to admit a full-view of the hill, the important hill
behind, when pausing with her eyes turned towards it,
Marianne calmly said,—
*« There, exactly there,” pointing with one hand, “ on
that projecting mound, there I fell ; and there I first saw
Willoughby.”
Her voice sunk with the word, but presently reviving,
she added, —
“TY am thankful to find that I can look with so little
pain on the spot! Shall we ever talk on that subject, Eli-
nor?” hesitatingly it was said. “‘ Or will it be wrong?
I can talk of it now, I hope, as I ought to do.”
Elinor tenderly invited her to be open.
‘‘ As for regret,’ said Marianne, “‘ I have done with
that, as far as he is concerned. I do not mean to talk to
you of what my feelings have been for him, but what they
are now. At present, if I could be satisfied on one point,
if I could be allowed to think that he was not always act-
ing a part, not always deceiving me; but above all, if I
could be assured that he never was so very wicked as my
fears have sometimes fancied him, since the story of that
unfortunate girl i
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 299
She stopped. Elinor joyfully treasured her words as she
answered ,—
** If you could be assured of that, you think you should
be easy.”
** Yes. My peace of mind is doubly involved in it ;
for not only is it horrible to suspect a person, who has been
what he has been to me, of such designs, but what must
it make me appear to myself? What, in a situation like
mine, but a most shamefully unguarded affection could ex-
pose me to ——”
“* How, then,” asked her sister, ‘‘ would you account for
his behaviour ?”
** I would suppose him—oh, how gladly would I sup-
pose him !—only fickle, very, very fickle.”
Elinor said no more. She was debating within herself
on the eligibility of beginning her story directly, or postpon-
ing it till Marianne were in stronger health; and they crept
on for a few minutes in silence.
“IT am not wishing him too much good,” said Mari-
anne at last, with a sigh, ‘‘ when I wish his secret reflec-
tions may be no more unpleasant than my own. He will
suffer enough in them.”
“Do you compare your conduct with his?”
““ No. I compare it with what it ought to have been ;
I compare it with yours.”
** Our situations have borne little resemblance.”
** They have borne more than our conduct. Do not,
my dearest Elinor, let your kindness defend what I know
your judgment must censure. My illness has made me
think. It has given me leisure and calmness for seri-
ous recollection. Long before I was enough recovered to
talk, I was perfectly able to reflect. I considered the past:
I saw in my own behaviour, since the beginning of our ac-
quaintance with him last autumn, nothing but a series of
imprudence towards myself, and want of kindness to others.
I saw that my own feelings had prepared my sufferings,
and that my want of fortitude under them had almost led
me to the grave. My illness, I well knew, had been en-
tirely brought on by myself by such negligence of my own
health, as I had felt, even at the time, to be wrong.
300 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
Had I died, it would have been self-destruction. I did not.
know my danger till the danger was removed ; but with
such feelings as these reflections gave me, I wonder at my re-
covery, — wonder that the very eagerness of my desire to live,
to have time for atonement to my God, and to you all, did
not kill me at once. Had I died, in what peculiar misery
should I have left you, my nurse, my friend, my sister!
You, who had seen all the fretful selfishness of my latter
days; who had known all the murmurings of my heart!
How should I have lived in your remembrance! My mo-
ther, too! How could you have consoled her! I cannot
express my own abhorrence of myself. Whenever I looked
towards the past, I saw some duty neglected, or some fail-
ing indulged. Every body seemed injured by me. The
kindness, the unceasing kindness, of Mrs. Jennings, I had
repaid with ungrateful contempt. To the Middletons, the
Palmers, the Steeles, to every commen acquaintance even,
I had been insolent and unjust; with a heart hardened
against their merits, and a temper irritated by their very
attention. To John, to Fanny, yes, even to them, little
as they deserve, I had given less than their due. But you,
you above all, above my mother, had been wronged by
me. I, and only I, knew your heart and its sorrows ;
yet, to what did it influence me? —not to any compassion
that could benefit you or myself. Your example was be-
fore me; but to what avail? Was I more considerate of
you and your comfort? Did I imitate your forbearance,
or lessen your restraints, by taking any part in those offices
of general complaisance or particular gratitude which you
had hitherto been left to discharge alone? No; not less
when I knew you to be unhappy, than when I had believed
you at ease, did I turn away from every exertion of duty
or friendship ; scarcely allowing sorrow to exist but with
me, regretting only that heart which had deserted and
wronged me, and leaving you, for whom I professed an
unbounded affection, to be miserable for my sake.”
Here ceased the rapid flow of her self-reproving spirit ;
and Elinor, impatient to soothe, though too honest to flatter,
gave her instantly that praise and support which her frank-
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 301
ness and her contrition so well deserved. Marianne pressed
her hand and replied, —
** You are very good. The future must be my proof. I
have laid down my plan, and if I am capable of adhering to
it, my feelings shall be governed and my temper improved.
They shall no longer worry others, nor torture myself. I
shall now live solely for my family. You, my mother, and
Margaret, must henceforth be all the world to me; you
will share my affections entirely between you. From you,
from my home, I shall never again have the smallest in-
citement to move; and if I do mix in other society, it
will be only to show that my spirit is humbled, my heart
amended, and that I can practise the civilities, the lesser
duties of life, with gentleness and forbearance. As for
Willoughby, to say that I shall soon, or that I shall ever
forget him, would be idle. His remembrance can be over-
come by no change of circumstances or opinions. But it
shall be regulated, it shall be checked by religion, by reason,
by constant employment.”
She paused —and added, in a lower voice, “ If I could
but know his heart, every thing would become easy.”
Elinor, who had now been for some time reflecting on
the propriety or impropriety of speedily hazarding her nar-
ration, without feeling at all nearer decision than at first,
heard this; and perceiving that as reflection did nothing
resolution must do all, soon found herself leading to the
fact.
She managed the recital, as she hoped, with address ;
prepared her anxious listener with caution ; related simply
and honestly the chief points on which Willoughby grounded
his apology ; did justice to his repentance, and softened
only his protestations of present regard. Marianne said
not a word. She trembled: her eyes were fixed on the
ground; and her lips became whiter than even sickness had
left them. A thousand enquiries sprung up from her heart,
but she dared not urge one. She canght every syllable
with panting eagerness: her hand, unknowingly to herself,
closely pressed her sister’s, and tears covered her cheeks.
Elinor, dreading her being tired, led her towards home ;
and till they reached: the door of the cottage, easily con-
302 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
jecturing what her curiosity must be, though no question
was suffered to speak it, talked of nothing but Willoughby,
and their conversation together ; and was carefully minute
in every particular of speech and look, where minuteness
could be safely indulged. As soon as they entered the
house, Marianne, with a kiss of gratitude, and. these two
words just articulate through her tears, “ Tell mamma,
withdrew from her sister, and walked slowly up stairs.
Elinor would not attempt to disturb a solitude so reasonable
as what she now sought ; and with a mind anxiously pre-
arranging its result, and a resolution of reviving the subject
again, should Marianne fail to do it, she turned into the
parlour to fulfil her parting injunction. .
CHAPTER XI.
Mrs. Dasuwoop did not hear, unmoved, the vindication of
her former favourite. She rejoiced in his being cleared
from ‘some part of his imputed guilt; she was sorry for
him; she wished him happy. But the feelings of the
past could not be recalled. Nothing could restore him
with a faith unbroken, a character unblemished, to Mari-
anne. Nothing could do away the knowledge of what the
latter had suffered through his means, nor remove the guilt
of his conduct towards Eliza. Nothing could replace him, ~
therefore, in her former esteem, nor injure the interests of
Colonel Brandon. .
Had Mrs. Dashwood, like her daughter, heard Wil-
loughby’s story from himself, —had she witnessed his dis-
tress, and been under the influence of his countenance and
his manner,—it is probable that, her compassion would
have been greater. But it was neither in Elinor’s power,
nor in her wish, to rouse such feelings in another, by her
retailed explanation, as had at first been called forth in
herself. Reflection had given calmness to her judgment,
and sobered her own opinion of Willoughby’s deserts ;
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 803
she wished, therefore, to declare only the simple truth, and
lay open such facts as were really due to his character,
without any embellishment of tenderness to lead the fancy
astray.
In the evening, when they were all three together,
Marianne began voluntarily to speak of him again; but
that it was not without an effort, the restless, unquiet
thoughtfulness in which she had been for some time pre-
viously sitting, her rising colour, as she ete and her
unsteady voice, plainly showed.
“I wish to assure you both,” said une, “that I see
every thing as you can desire me to do.”
Mrs. Dashwood would have interrupted her instantly
with soothing tenderness, had not Elinor, who really wished
to- hear her sister's unbiassed opinion, by an eager sign,
engaged her silence. Marianne slowly continued, —
“It is a great relief to me, what Elinor told me this
morning; I have now heard exactly what I wished to hear.”
For some moments her voice was lost; but recovering
herself, she added, and with greater calmness than before,
—‘*JI am now perfectly satisfied, I wish for no change.
I never could have been happy with him, after knowing, as
sooner or later I must have known, all this. I should have
had no confidence, no esteem. Nothing could have done it
away to my feelings.”
“1 know it, I know it,” cried her mother. “ Happy
with a man of libertine practices! With one who had so
injured the peace of the dearest of our friends, and the best
of men! “No—my Marianne has not a heart to be made
happy with such a man! Her conscience, her sensitive
vonscience, would have felt all that the conscience of her
husband ought to have felt.”
Marianne sighed, and repeated, “ I wish for no change.”
“¢ You consider the matter,” said Elinor, “ exactly as a
good mind and a sound understanding must consider it ;
and I dare say you perceive, as well as myself, not only in
this, but in many other circumstances, reason enough to be
convinced that your marriage must have involved you in
many certain troubles and disappointments, in which you
would have been poorly supported by an affection, on his
304 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
side, much less certain. Had you married, you must have
been always poor. His expensiveness is acknowledged
even by himself ; and his whole conduct declares, that self-
denial is a word hardly understood by him. His demands,
and your inexperience together, on a small, very small in-
come, must have brought on distresses which would not be
the /ess grievous to you, from having been entirely unknown
and unthought of before. Your sense of honour and honesty
would have led you, I know, when aware of your situ-
ation, to attempt all the economy that would appear to you
possible ; and, perhaps, as long as your frugality retrenched
only on your own comfort, you might have been suffered to
practise it, but beyond that—and how little could the
utmost of your single management do to stop the ruin
which had begun before your marriage? beyond that,
had you endeavoured, however reasonably, to abridge his.
enjoyments, is it not to be feared, that instead of pre-
vailing on feelings so selfish to consent to it, you would have
lessened your own influence on his heart, and made him
regret the connection which had involved him in such
difficulties P”
Marianne’s lips quivered, and she repeated the word
** Selfish ?” in a tone that implied, “ Do you really think
him selfish ?”
*« The whole of his behaviour,” replied Elinor, “ from
the beginning to the end of the affair, has been grounded
on selfishness. It was selfishness which first made him
sport with your affections; which afterwards, when his
own were engaged, made him delay the confession of it,
and which finally carried him from Barton. His own
enjoyment, or his own ease, was, in every particular, his
ruling principle.”
“It is very true. My happiness never was his object.”
*¢ At present,” continued Elinor, ‘‘ he regrets what he
has done. And why does he regret it? Because he finds
it has not answered towards himself. It has not made
him happy. His circumstances are now unembarrassed
—he suffers from no evil of that kind; and he thinks
only that he has married a woman of a less amiable temper
than yourself, But does it thence follow that had he
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 305
married you, he would have been happy? The incon«
veniences would have been different. He would then
have suffered under the pecuniary distresses which, because
they are removed, he now reckons as nothing. He would
have had a wife of whose temper he could make no com-
plaint, but he would have been always necessitous— always
poor ; and probably would soon have learned to rank the
innumerable comforts of a clear estate and good income
as of far more importance, even to domestic happiness,
than the mere temper of a wife.”
«| have not a doubt of it,” said Marianne; “ and I
have nothing to regret —nothing but my own folly.”
N Rather s say your mother’s imprudence, my child,”’ said
Mrs. Dashwood: ‘ she must be answerable.”
Marianne would not let her proceed ; and Elinor, satis-
fied that each felt their own error, wished to avoid any
survey of the past that might weaken her sister’s spirits ;
she, therefore, pursuing ie first subject, immediately con-
tinued, —
“< One observation may, I think, be fairly drawn fron
the whole of the story—that all Willoughby’s difficulties
have arisen from the first offence against virtue, in his
behaviour to Eliza Williams. That crime has been the
origin of every lesser one, and of all his present dis-
contents.”
Marianne assented most feelingly to the remark; and
her mother was led by it to an enumeration of Colonel
Brandon’s injuries and merits, warm as friendship and
design could unitedly dictate. Her daughter did not look,
however, as if much of it were heard by her.
Elinor, according to her expectation, saw, on the two or
three following days, that Mariafne did not continue to
gain strength as she had done; but while her resolution
was unsubdued, and she still tried to appear cheerful and
easy, her sister could safely trust to the effect of time upon
her health.
Margaret returned, and the family were again all re-
stored to each other, again quietly settled at the cottage ;
and if not pursuing their usual studies with quite so much
x
306 SENSE AND SENSIBILI1Y.
vigour as when they first came to Barton, at least planning
a vigorous prosecution of them in future.
Elinor grew impatient for some tidings of Edward.
She had heard nothing of him since her leaving London,
nothing new of his plans, nothing certain even of his
present abode. Some letters had passed between her and
her brother, in consequence of Marianne’s illness ; and in
the first of John’s there had been this sentence: —‘* We
know nothing of our unfortunate Edward, and can make
no enquiries on so prohibited a subject, but conclude him
to be still at Oxford ;”” which was all the intelligence of
Edward afforded her by the correspondence, for his name
Was not even mentioned in any of the succeeding letters.
She was not doomed, however, to be long in ignorance of
his measures.
Their man-servant had been sent one morning to Exeter
on business; and when, as he waited at table, he had
satisfied the enquiries of his mistress as to the event of his
errand, this was his voluntary communication, —
** I suppose you know, maam, that Mr. Ferrars is
married.”
Marianne gave a violent start, fixed her eyes upon
Elinor, saw her turning pale, and fell back in her chair in
hysterics. Mrs. Dashwood, whose eyes, as she answered
the servant’s enquiry, had intuitively taken the same direc-
tion, was shocked to perceive, by Elinor’s countenance, how
much she really suffered; and, in a moment afterwards,
alike distressed by Marianne’s situation, knew not on
which child to bestow her principal attention.
The servant, who saw only that Miss Marianne was
taken ill, had sense enough to call one of the maids, who,
with Mrs. Dashwood’s assistance, supported her into the
other room. By that time Marianne was rather better ;
and her mother, leaving her to the care of Margaret and
the maid, returned to Elinor, who, though still much dis-
ordered, had so far recovered the use of her reason and
voice as to be just beginning an enquiry of Thomas, as to
the source of his intelligence. Mrs. Dashwood immedi-
ately took all that trouble on herself; and Elinor had the
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 307
benefit of the information without the exertion of seek-
ing it.
* Who told you that Mr. Ferrars was married, Thomas ?”’
“TI see Mr. Ferrars myself, ma’am, this morning in
Exeter, and his lady too, Miss Steele as was. They was
stopping in a chaise at the door of the New London Inn,
as I went there with a message from Sally at the Park to
her brother, who is.one of the post-boys. I happened
to look up as I went by the chaise, and so I see directly
it was the youngest Miss Steele; so I took off my hat,
and she knew me and called to me, and enquired after you,
ma'am, and the young ladies, especially Miss Marianne,
and bid me I should give her compliments and Mr. Fer-
rars’s, their best compliments and service, and how sorry
they was they had not time to come on and see you; but
they was in a great hurry to go forwards, for they was
going further down for a little while, but howsever, when
they come back, they'd make sure to come and see you.”
“* But did she tell you she was married, Thomas?”
“Yes, ma'am. She smiled, and said how she had
changed her name since she was in these parts. She was
always a very affable and free-spoken young lady, and
very civil behaved. So, I made free to wish her joy.”
_ Was Mr. Ferrars in the carriage with her?”
- Yes, ma'am, I just see him leaning back in it, but he
did not look up: he never was a gentleman much fer
talking.”
Elinor’s heart could easily account for his not putting
himself forward ; and Mrs. Dashwood probably found the
same explanation.
«© Was there no one else in the carriage P”
« No, ma'am, only they two.”
* Do you know where they came from ?”’
““ They come straight from town, as Miss Lucy — Mrs.
Ferrars told me.”
*« And are going farther westward ?”
*« Yes, ma’'am—but not to bide long. They will soon
be back again, and then they’d be sure and call here.”
Mrs. Dashwood now lcoked at her daughter ; but Elinor
knew better than to expect them. She recognised the
x 2
308 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
whole of Lucy in the message, and was very confident
that Edward would never come near them. She observed,
in a low voice, to her mother, that they were probably
going down to Mr. Pratt's, near Plymouth.
Thomas’s intelligence seemed over. Elinor looked as if
she wished to hear more.
“‘ Did you see them off, before you came away?”
“ No, ma’am—the horses was just coming out, but I
could not bide any longer ; I was afraid of being late.”
*< Did Mrs. Ferrars look well? ”
“Yes, ma'am, she said how she was very well; and
to my mind she was always a very handsome young lady
—and she seemed vastly contented.”
Mrs. Dashwood could think of no other question ; and
Thomas and the table-cloth, now alike needless, were soon
afterwards dismissed. Marianne had already sent to say,
that she should eat nothing more. Mrs. Dashwood’s and
Elinor’s appetites were equally lost ; and Margaret might
think herself very well off that, with so much uneasiness as
both her sisters had lately experienced, so much reason as
they had often had to be careless of their meals, she had
never been obliged to go without her dinner before.
When the dessert and the wine were arranged, and
Mrs. Dashwood and Elinor were left by themselves, they
remained long together in a similarity of thoughtfulness
and silence. Mrs. Dashwood feared to hazard any remark,
and ventured not to offer consolation. She now found that
she had erred in relying on Elinor’s representation of her-
self ; and justly concluded that every thing had been ex-
pressly softened at the time, to spare her from an increase
of unhappiness, suffering as she then had suffered for
Marianne. She found that she had been misled by the
careful, the considerate attention of her daughter, to think
the attachment, which once she had so well understood,
much slighter in reality than she had been wont to believe,
or than it was now proved to be. She feared that under
this persuasion she had been unjust, inattentive, nay, almost
unkind, to her Elinor ; that Marianne’s affliction, because
more acknowledged, more immediately before her, had too
much engrossed her tenderness, and led her away to forget
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 309
that in Elinor she might have a daughter suffering almost
as much, certainly with less self-provocation and greater
fortitude.
CHAPTER XII.
Ex1nor now found the difference between the expectation
of an unpleasant event, however certain the mind may be
told to consider it, and certainty itself. She now found
that, in spite of herself, she had always admitted a hope,
while Edward remained single, that something would occur
to prevent his marrying Lucy ; that some resolution of his
own, some mediation of friends, or some more eligible op~
portunity of establishment for the lady, would arise to assist
the happiness of all. But he was now married ; and she
condemned her heart for the lurking flattery which so much
heightened the pain of the intelligence.
That he should be married so soon, before (as she
imagined) he could be in orders, and consequently before
he could be in possession of the living, surprised her a little
at first ; but she soon saw how likely it was that Lucy, in
her self-provident care, in her haste to secure him, should
overlook every thing but the risk of delay. They were mar-
ried, — married in town, — and now hastening down to her
uncle’s. What had Edward felt on being within four
miles of Barton,—on seeing her mother’s servant, —on
hearing Lucy’s message !
They would soon, she supposed,.be settled at Delaford: —
Delaford, — that place in which so much conspired to give
her an interest ; which she wished to be acquainted with,
and yet desired to avoid. She saw them in an instant in
their parsonage-house: saw in Lucy the active, contriving
manager; uniting at once a desire of smart appearance
with the utmost frugality, and ashamed to be suspected of |
half her economical practices; pursuing her own interest in
x 3
810 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
every thought ; courting the favour of Colonel Brandon, of
Mrs. Jennings, and of every wealthy friend. In Edward,
she knew not what she saw, nor what she wished to see.
Happy or unhappy, nothing pleased her: she turned away
her head from every sketch of him.
Elinor flattered herself that some one of their connec-
tions in London would write to them to announce the
event, and give farther particulars; but day after day
passed off, and brought no letter, no tidings. Though
uncertain that any one were to blame, she found fault
with every absent friend. They were all thoughtless or
indolent.
“ When do you write to Colonel Brandon, ma’am ?”
was an enquiry which sprung from the impatience of her
mind to have something going on.
“* ] wrote to him, my love, last week, and rather expect
to see than to hear from him again. I earnestly pressed his
‘coming to us, and should not be surprised to see him walk
in to-day, or to-morrow, or any day.”
This was gaining something, — something to look for-
ward to. Colonel Brandon must have some information to
give.
Scarcely had she so determined it, when the figure of a
man on horseback drew her eyes to the window. He stop-
ped at their gate. It was a gentleman, — it was Colonel
Brandon himself. Now she should hear more, and she
trembled in expectation of it. But it was not Colonel Bran-
don ; neither his air, nor his height. Were it possible, she
should say it must be Edward. She looked again. He had
just dismounted: she could not be mistaken, —it was Ed-
ward. She moved away, and sat down. ‘‘ He comes from
Mr. Pratt’s purposely to see us. I will be calm,—I will be
mistress of myself.” |
In a moment she perceived that the others were likewise
aware of the mistake. She saw her mother and Marianne
change colour, — saw them look at herself, and whisper a
few sentences to each other. She would have given the
world to be able to speak, and to make them understand
that she hoped no coolness, no slight, would appear in their
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 311
behaviour to him; but she had no utterance, and was
obliged to leave all to their own discretion.
Not a syllable passed aloud. They all waited in silence.
for the appearance of their visiter. His footsteps were
heard along the gravel path: in a moment he was in the
passage, and in another he was before them.
His countenance, as he entered the room, was not too
happy, even for Elinor. . His complexion was white with
agitation ; and he looked as if fearful of his reception, and
conscious that he merited no kind one. Mrs. Dashwood,
however, conforming, as she trusted, to the wishes of that
daughter, by whom she then meant, in the warmth of her
heart, to be guided in every thing, met him with a look of
forced complacency, gave him her hand, and wished him
joy.
He coloured, and stammered out an unintelligible reply.
Elinor’s lips had moved with her mother’s ; and, when the
moment of action was over, she wished that she had shaken
hands with him too. But it was then too late; and, with
a countenance meaning to be open, she sat down again, and
talked of the weather.
Marianne had retreated as much as possible out of sight,
to conceal her distress ; and Margaret, understanding some
part, but not the whole of the case, thought it incumbent
on her to be dignified, and therefore took a seat as far from
him as she could, and maintained a strict silence.
When Elinor had ceased to rejoice in the dryness of the
season, a very awful pause took place. It was put an end
to by Mrs. Dashwood, who felt obliged to hope that he had
left Mrs. Ferrars very well. In a hurried manner, he
replied in the affirmative.
Another pause.
Elinor, resolving to exert herself, though fearing the
sound of her own voice, now said,—
“Is Mrs. Ferrars at Longstaple?”
‘SrAt Longstaple! ” he replied, with an air of surprise.
“No; my mother i is in town.’
a i meant,” said Elinor, taking up some work from the
table, “‘ to enquire after Mrs. Edward Ferrars.”
She dared not look up; but her mother and Marianne
x 4
312 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
both turned their eyes on him. He coloured, seemed
perplexed, looked doubtingly, and, after some hesitation,
said, —
“* Perhaps you mean my brother: you mean Mrs.—
Mrs. Robert Ferrars.’
« Mrs. Robert Ferrars !” was Fepanchl by Marianne and
her mother in an accent of the utmost amazement; and
though Elinor could not speak, even her eyes were fixed on
him with the same impatient wonder. He rose from his
seat, and walked to the window, apparently from not know-
ing what to do; took up a pair of scissors that lay there ;
and, while spoiling both them and their sheath by cutting
the latter to pieces as he spoke, said, in a hurried voice,—
“Perhaps you do not know: you may not have heard
that my brother is lately married to—to the youngest —to
Miss Lucy Steele.”
His words were echoed with unspeakable astonishment
by all but Elinor, who sat, with her head leaning over her
work, in a state of such agitation as made her hardly know
where she was.
“Yes,” said he: “ they were married last week, and are
now at Dawlish.”
Elinor could sititno longer. She almost ran out of the
room ; and, as soon as the door was closed, burst into tears
of joy, which at first she thought would never cease. Ed-
ward, who had till then looked any where, rather than at
her, saw her hurry away, and perhaps saw, or even heard,
her emotion ; for immediately afterwards he fell into a
reverie, piick no remarks, no enquiries, no affectionate
address of Mrs. Dashwood could penetrate; and at last,
without saying a word, quitted the room, and walked out
towards the village, leaving the others in the greatest
astonishment and perplexity on a change in his situation so
wonderful and so sudden, — a perplexity which they had
no means of lessening but by their own conjectures.
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 313
‘ CHAPTER XIIL.
UnaccounTABLE, however, as the circumstances of his re~
lease might appear to the whole family, it was certain that
Edward was free; and to what purpose that freedom would
be employed was easily pre-determined by all ; —for after
experiencing the blessings of one imprudent engagement,
contracted without his mother’s consent, as he had already
done for more than four years, nothing less could be ex-
pected of him in the failure of that, than the immediate
contraction of another.
His errand at Barton, in fact, was asimple one. It
was only to ask Elinor to marry him ; and considering that
he was not altogether inexperienced in such a question, it
might be strange that he should feel so uncomfortable in
the present case as he really did, so much in need of en-
couragement and fresh air.
How soon he had walked himself into the proper reso-
lution, however, how soon an opportunity of exercising it
occurred, in what manner he expressed himself, and how
he was received, need not be particularly told. This only
need be said; — that when they all sat down to table at
four o'clock, about three hours after his arrival, he had
secured his lady, engaged her mother’s consent, and was
not only in the rapturous profession of the lover, but, in the
reality of reason and truth, one of the happiest of men.
His situation indeed was more than commonly joyful. He’
had more than the ordinary triumph of accepted love to
swell his heart, and raise his spirits. He was released,
without any reproach to himself, from an entanglement
which had long formed his misery, from a woman whom
he had long ceased to love ; and elevated at once to that
security with another, which he must have thought of
almost with despair, as soon as he had learned to consider
it with desire. He was brought, not from doubt or sus~
pense, but from misery to happiness; and the change
314 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
was openly spoken in such a genuine, flowing, grateful
cheerfulness, as his friends had never witnessed in him
before.
His heart was now open to Elinor ; all its weaknesses,
all its errors confessed, and his first boyish attachment to
Lucy treated with all the philosophic dignity of twenty-
four.
“< It was a foolish, idle inclination on my side,” said he,
“the consequence of ignorance of the world, and want
of employment. Had my mother given me some active
profession when I was removed at eighteen from the care
of Mr. Pratt, I think, nay, I am sure, it would never
have happened ; for though I left Longstaple with what I
thought, at the time, a most unconquerable preference for
his niece, yet, had I then had any pursuit, any object to,
engage my time and keep me at a distance from her for a
few months, I should very soon have outgrown the fancied
attachment, especially by mixing more with the world, as
in such a case I must have done. But instead of having
any thing to do, instead of having any profession chosen
for me, or being allowed to choose any myself, I returned
home to be completely idle ; and for the first twelvemonth
afterwards I had not even the nominal employment,
which belonging to the university would have given me,,
for I was not entered at Oxford till I wasnineteen. I had
therefore nothing in the world to do, but to fancy myself
in love; and as my mother did not make my home. in
every respect comfortable, as I had no friend, no companion
in my, brother, and disliked new acquaintance, it was not
unnatural for me to be very often at Longstaple, where I
always felt myself at home, and was always sure of a wel-
come ; and accordingly I spent the greatest part of my
time there from eighteen to nineteen: Lucy appeared every
thing that was amiable and obliging. She was pretty too
-— at least I thought so then ; and I had seen so little of
other women, that I could make no comparisons, and see
no defects. Considering every thing, therefore, I hope,
foolish as our engagement was, foolish as it has since in
every way been proved, it was not at the time an unnatural
or an inexcusable piece of folly.”
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 315
The change which a few hours had wrought in the minds
and the happiness of the Dashwoods, was such—so great—
as promised them all the satisfaction of a sleepless night.
Mrs. Dashwood, too happy to be comfortable, knew not how
to love Edward, nor praise Elinor enough, how to be
enough thankful for his release without wounding his de-
licacy, nor how at once to give them leisure for unrestrained
conversation together, and yet enjoy, as she wished, the
sight and society of both.
Marianne could speak her happiness only by tears.
Comparisons would occur—regrets would arise ; and her
joy, though sincere as her love for her sister, was of a kind
to give her neither spirits nor language.
But Elinor —how are her feelings to be described ?
From the moment of learning that Lucy was married
to another, that Edward was free, to the moment of his
justifying the hopes which had so instantly followed, she
was every thing by turns but tranquil. But when the second
moment had passed, when she found every doubt, every
solicitude removed, compared her situation with what so
lately it had been, —saw him honourably released from his
former engagement, —saw him instantly profiting by the re-
_ lease, to address herself and declare an affection as tender,
as constant as she had ever supposed it to be, — she was
oppressed, she was overcome by her own felicity; and
happily disposed as is the human mind to be easily fami-
liarised with any change for the better, it required several
_ hours to give sedateness to her spirits, or any degree of
tranquillity to her heart.
. Edward was now fixed at the cottage at least for
a week; for whatever other claims might be made on
him, it was impossible that less than a week should be
given up to the enjoyment of Elinor’s company, or suffice
to say half that was to be said of the past, the present, and
the future; for though a very few hours spent in the
hard labour of incessant talking will despatch more subjects
than can really be in common between any two rational
creatures, yet with lovers it is different. Between them no
subject is finished, no communication is even made, till it
has been made at least twenty times over.
316 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
Lucy’s marriage, the unceasing and reasonable wonder
among them all, formed of course one of the earliest discus-
sions of the lovers ; and Elinor’s particular knowledge of
each party made it appear to her, in every view, as one of the
most extraordinary and unaccountable circumstances she
had ever heard. How they could be thrown together, and by
what attraction Robert could be drawn on to marry a girl,
of whose beauty she had herself heard him speak without
any admiration, — a girl, too, already engaged to his bro-
ther, and on whose. account that brother had been thrown
off by his family,— it was beyond her comprehension to
make out. ‘To her own heart it was a delightful affair, to
her imagination it was even a ridiculous one, but to her
reason, her judgment, it was completely a puzzle.
Edward could only attempt an explanation by supposing,
that, perhaps, at first accidentally meeting, the vanity of
the one had been so worked on by the flattery of the other,
as to lead by degrees to all the rest. Elinor remembered
what Robert had told her in Harley Street, of his opinion
of what his own mediation in his brother’s affairs might
have done, if applied to in time. She repeated it to
Edward.
“* That was exactly like Robert,” was his immediate
observation. ‘ And that,” he presently added, “ might
perhaps be in his head when the acquaintance between
them first began. And Lucy, perhaps, at first might think
only of procuring his good offices in my favour. Other
designs might afterwards arise.”
How long it had been carrying on between them, how-
ever, he was equally at a loss with herself to make out ;
for at Oxford, where he had remained by choice ever since
bis quitting London, he had had no means of hearing of
her but from herself, and her letters to the very last were
neither less frequent nor less affectionate than usual. Not
the smallest suspicion, therefore, had ever occurred to pre-
pare him for what followed ; and when at last it burst
on him in a letter from Lucy herself, he had been for some
time, he believed, half stupified between the wonder, the
horror, and the joy of such a deliverance. He put the
letter into Elinor’s hands.
#
|
|
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 317
** Dear Sir,
“* Being very sure I have long lost your affections, I have
thought myself at liberty to bestow my own on another,
and have no doubt of being as happy with him as I once
used to think I might be with you; but I scorn to accept
a hand while the heart was another’s. Sincerely wish you
happy in your choice, and it shall not be my fault if we
are not always good friends, as our near relationship now
makes proper. I can safely say I owe you no ill-will,
and am sure you will be too generous to do us any ill
offices. Your brother has gained my affections entirely ;
and as we could not live without one another, we are just
returned from the altar, and are now on our way to Dawlish
for a few weeks ; which place your dear brother has great
curiosity to see, but thought I would first trouble you with
these few lines, and shall always remain,
** Your sincere wellwisher, friend, and sister,
* Lucy Frerrars.
**T have burnt all your letters, and will return your
picture the first opportunity. Please to destroy my scrawls
— but the ring with my hair you are very welcome to
keep.”
Elinor read and returned it without any comment.
“<< T will not ask your opinion of it as a composition,”
said Edward. <“‘ For worlds would not I have had a
letter of hers seen by you in former days. In a sister it
is bad enough, but in a wife! how I have blushed over
the pages of her writing! and I believe I may say that
since the first half year of our foolish business this is the
only letter I ever received from her, of which the sub-
sismce made me any amends for the defect of the style.”
*- However it may have come about,” said Elinor, after
a pause, ‘ they are certainly married; and your mo-
ther has brought on herself a most appropriate punish-
ment. The independence she settled on Robert, through
resentment against you, has put it in his power to make
his own choice ; and she has actually been bribing one son
with a thousand a year to do the very deed which she
disinherited the other for intending to do. She will hardly
x
318 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
be less hurt, I suppose, by Robert’s marrying Lucy, than
she would have been by your marrying her.”
“ She will be more hurt by it, for Robert always was
her ‘favourite. She will be more hurt by it, and on the
same principle will forgive him much sooner.”
In what state the affair stood at present between them
Edward knew not, for no communication with any of his
family had yet been attempted by him. He had quitted
Oxford within four-and-twenty hours after Lucy’s letter
arrived, and with only one object before him, the nearest
road to Barton, had had no leisure to form any scheme of
conduct, with which that road did not hold the most inti-
mate connection. He could do nothing till he were assured
of his fate with Miss Dashwood ; and by his rapidity in
seeking that fate, it is to be supposed, in spite of the
jealousy with which he had once thought of Colonel Bran- —
don, in spite of the modesty with which he rated his own
deserts, and the politeness with which he talked of his
doubts, he did not, upon the whole, expect a very cruel
reception. It was his business, however, to say that he
did, and he said it very prettily. What he might say on
the subject a.twelvemonth after must be referred to the
imagination of husbands and wives.
That Lucy had certainly meant to deceive, to go off
with a flourish of malice against him in her message by
Thomas, was perfectly clear to Elinor ; and Edward him-
self, now thoroughly enlightened on her character, had no
scruple in believing her capable of the utmost meanness of -
wanton ill-nature. Though his eyes had been long opened,
even before his acquaintance with Elinor began, to her
ignorance and a want of liberality in some of her opinions,
they had been equally imputed, by him, to her want of
education ; and till her last letter reached him, he had
always believed her to be a well-disposed, good-hearted
girl, and thoroughly attached to himself. Nothing but
such a persuasion could have prevented his putting an end
to an engagement, which, long before the discovery of it
laid him open to his mother’s anger, had been a continual
source of disquiet and regret to him.
“I thought it my duty,” said he, “ independent of my
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. ot 9
feelings, to give her the option of continuing the engage-
ment or not, when I was renounced by my mother, and
stood to all appearance without a friend in the world to
assist me. In such a situation as that, where there seemed
uothing to tempt the avarice or the vanity of any living
creature, how could I suppose, when she so earnestly, so
warmly insisted on sharing my fate, whatever it might be,
that any thing but the most disinterested affection was her
inducement? And even now, I cannot comprehend on
what motive she acted, or what fancied advantage it could
be to her, to be fettered to a man for whom she had not
the smallest regard, and who had only two thousand
pounds in the world. She could not foresee that Colonel
Brandon would give me a living.”
“No; but she might suppose that something would occur
in your favour ; that your own family might in time relent.
And at any rate, she lost nothing by continuing the engage-
ment, for she has proved that it fettered neither her inclin-
ation nor her actions. ‘The connection was certainly a
respectable one, and probably gained her consideration
among her friends; and, if nothing more advantageous
occurred, it would be better for her to marry you than be
single.”
Edward was, of course, immediately convinced that
nothing could have been more natural than Lucy’s conduct,
nor more self-evident than the motive of it.
Elinor scolded him, harshly as ladies always scold the
imprudence which compliments themselves, for having
spent so.much time with them at Norland, when he must
have felt his own inconstancy.
** Your behaviour was certainly very wrong,” said she ;
* because, to say nothing of my own conviction, our rela-
tions were all led away by it to fancy and expect what, as
you were then situated, could never be.”
He could only plead an ignorance of his own heart, and
a mistaken confidence in the force of his engagement.
«< T was simple enough to think, that because my faith
was plighted to another, there could be no danger in my
being with you; and that the consciousness of my engage-
ment was to keep my heart as safe and sacred as my honour
820 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
I felt that I admired you, but I told myself it was only
friendship ; and till I began to make comparisons between
yourself and Lucy, I did not know how far I was got.
After that, I suppose, I was wrong in remaining so much
in Sussex; and the arguments with which I reconciled
myself to the expediency of it were no better than these :
— The danger is my own; I am doing no injury to any
body but myself.”
Elinor smiled, and shook her head. °
Edward heard with pleasure of Colonel Brandon’s being
expected at the cottage, as he really wished, not only to be
better acquainted with him, but to have an opportunity of
convincing him, that he no longer resented his giving him
the living of Delaford. ‘‘ Which, at present,” said he, “‘after
thanks so ungraciously delivered as mine were on the occa-
sion, he must think I have never forgiven him for offering.”
Now he felt astonished himself that he had never yet
been to the place. But so little interest had he taken in
the matter, that he owed all his knowledge of the house,
garden, and glebe, extent of the parish, condition of the
land, and rate of the tithes, to Elinor herself, who had
heard so much of it from Colonel Brandon, and heard it
with so much attention, as to be entirely mistress of the
subject.
One question after this only remained undecided between ~
them ; one difficulty only was to be overcome. They were
brought together by mutual affection, with the warmest
approbation of their real friends; their intimate knowledge
of each other seemed to make their happiness certain, and
they only wanted something to live upon, Edward had
two thousand pounds, and Elinor one, which, with Dela-
ford living, was all that they could call their own ; for it
was impossible that Mrs. Dashwood should advance any
thing ; and they were neither of them quite enough in love
to think that three hundred and fifty pounds a year would
supply them with the comforts of life.
Edward was not entirely without hopes of some fayour-
able change in his mother towards him; and on that. he
rested for the residue of their income. But Elinor had no
such dependence ; for, since Edward would still be unable
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 321
to marry Miss Morton, and his choosing herself had been
spoken of in Mrs. Ferrars’s flattering language as only a
lesser evil than his choosing Lucy Steele, she feared that
Robert's offence would serve no other purpose than to
enrich Fanny.
About four days after Edward’s arrival Colonel Brandon
appeared, to complete Mrs. Dashwood’s satisfaction, and to
give her the dignity of having, for the first time since her
living at Barton, more company with her than her house
would hold. Edward was allowed to retain the privilege
of first comer, and Colonel Brandon, therefore, walked
every night to his old quarters at the Park; from whence
he usually returned in the morning, early enough to inter-
rupt the lovers’ first téte-a-téte before breakfast.
A three weeks’ residence at Delaford, where, in his
evening hours at least, he had little to do but to calculate
the disproportion between thirty-six and seventeen, brought
him to Barton in a temper of mind which needed all the
improvement in Marianne’s looks, all the kindness of her
welcome, and all the encouragement of her mother’s lan-
guage, to make it cheerful. Among such friends, however,
and such flattery, he did revive. No rumour of Lucy’s
marriage had yet reached him: he knew nothing of what
had passed ; and the first hours of his visit were conse-
quently spent in hearing and in wondering. Every thing
was explained to him by Mrs. Dashwood ; and he found
fresh reason to rejoice in what he had done for Mr. Ferrars,
since eventually it promoted the interest of Elinor.
It would be needless to say, that the gentlemen advanced
in the good opinion of each other, as they advanced in each
other’s acquaintance, for it could not be otherwise. Their
resemblance in good principles and good sense, in dispo-
sition and manner of thinking, would probably have been
sufficient to unite them in friendship, without any other
attraction ; but their being in love with two sisters, and
two sisters fond of each other, made that mutual regard
inevitable and immediate, which might otherwise have
waited the effect of time and judgment.
The letters from town, which a few days before would
have made every nerve in Elinor’s body thrill with trans-
Y
822 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
port, now arrived to be read with less emotion than mirth.
Mrs. Jennings wrote to tell the wonderful tale, to vent her
honest indignation against the jilting girl, and pour forth
her compassion towards poor Mr. Edward, who, she was
sure, had quite doted upon the worthless hussy, and was
now, by all accounts, almost broken-hearted, at Oxford.
‘I do think,” she continued, ‘‘ nothing was ever car-
ried on so sly ; for it was but two days before Lucy called
and sat a couple of hours with me. Not a soul suspected
any thing of the matter, not even Nancy, who, poor soul !
came crying to me the day after, in a great fright for fear
of Mrs. Ferrars, as well as not knowing how to get to
Plymouth ; for Lucy, it seems, borrowed all her money
before she went off to be married, on purpose, we suppose,
to make a show with, and poor Nancy had not seven shil-
lings in the world ; so I was very glad to give her five
guineas to take her down to Exeter, where she thinks of
staying three or four weeks with Mrs. Burgess, in hopes,
as I tell her, to fall in with the Doctor again. And I
must say that Lucy’s crossness not to take her along with
them in the chaise is worse than all. Poor Mr. Edward !
I cannot get him out of my head, but you must send for
him to Barton, and Miss Marianne must try to comfort
him.” !
Mr. Dashwood’s strains were more solemn. Mrs. Fer-
rars was the most unfortunate of women — poor Fanny
had suffered agonies of sensibility — and he considered
the existence of each, under such a blow, with grateful
wonder. Robert's offence was unpardonable, but Lucy's
was infinitely worse. Neither of them was ever again to
be mentioned to Mrs. Ferrars; and even, if she might
hereafter be induced to forgive her son, his wife should
never be acknowledged as her daughter, nor be permitted
to appear in her presence. The secrecy with which every
thing had been carried on between them was rationally
treated as enormously heightening the crime,-because, had
any suspicion of it occurred to the others, proper mea-
sures would have been taken to prevent the marriage ;
aud he called on Elinor to join with him in regret-
ting that Lucy’s engagement with Edward had not rather
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 823
been fulfilled, than that she should thus be the means
of spreading misery farther in the family. He thus con-
tinued : —
«« Mrs. Ferrars has never yet mentioned Edward’s name,
which does not surprise us ; but, to our great astonishment,
not a line has been received from him on the occasion.
Perhaps, however, he is kept silent by his fear of offending ;
and I shall, therefore, give him a hint, by a line to Oxford,
that his sister and I both think a letter of proper submis-
sion from him, addressed perhaps to Fanny, and by her
shown to her mother, might not be taken amiss; for we
all know the tenderness of Mrs. Ferrars’s heart, and that.
she wishes for nothing so much as to be on good terms
with her children.” .
This paragraph was of some importance to the prospects
and conduct of Edward. It determined him to attempt a
reconciliation, though not exactly in the manner pointed
out by their brother and sister.
<< A letter of proper submission !” repeated he; “ would
they have me beg my mother’s pardon for Robert’s ingra-
titude to her, and breach of honour to me? JI can make
no submission. I am grown neither humble nor penitent
by what has passed. I am grown very happy; but that
would not interest. I know of no submission that is pro-
per for me to make.”
« You may certainly ask to be forgiven,” said Elinor,
*« because you have offended ; and I should think you might
now venture so far as to profess some concern for having
ever formed the engagement which drew on you your mo-
ther’s anger.”
He agreed that he might.
«« And when she has forgiven you, perhaps a little hu-
mility may be convenient while acknowledging a second
engagement, almost as imprudent in fer eyes as the first.”
He had nothing to urge against it, but still resisted the
idea of a letter of proper submission ; and, therefore, to
make it easier to him, as he declared a much greater wil-
lingness to make mean concessions by word of mouth than
on paper, it was resolved that, instead of writing to Fanny,
he should go to London, and personally entreat her good
yea
324 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
offices in his favour. ‘* And if they really do interest
themselves,” said Marianne, in her new character of can-
dour, “in bringing about a reconciliation, I shall think that
even John and Fanny are not entirely without merit.”
After a visit on Colonel Brandon’s side of only three or
four days, the two gentlemen quitted Barton together.
They were to go immediately to Delaford, that Edward
might have some personal knowledge of his future home,
and assist his patron and friend in deciding on what im-
provements were needed to it; and from thence, after
staying there a couple of nights, he was to proceed on his
journey to town.
CHAPTER XIV.
AFTER a proper resistance on the part of Mrs. Ferrars,
just so violent and so steady as to preserve her from that
reproach which she always seemed fearful of incurring, the
reproach of being too amiable, Edward was admitted to her
presence, and pronounced to be again her son. .
Her family had of late been exceedingly fluctuating.
For many years of her life she had had two sons ; but the
crime and annihilation of Edward, a few weeks ago, had
robbed her of one ; the similar annihilation of Robert had
left her for a. fortnight without any ; and now, by the re.
suscitation of Edward, she had one again.
In spite of his being allowed once more to live, however,
he did not feel the continuance of his existence secure till
he had revealed his present engagement; for the publi-
cation of that circumstance, he feared, might give a sudden
turn to his constitution, and carry him off as rapidly as be-
fore. With apprehensive caution, therefore, it was revealed ;
and he was listened to with unexpected calmness. Mrs.
Ferrars at first reasonably endeavoured to dissuade him
from marrying Miss Dashwood, by every argument in her
_
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 825
power ; told him, that in Miss Morton he would have a
woman of higher rank and larger fortune; and enforced
the assertion, by observing that Miss Morton was the
daughter of a nobleman with thirty thousand pounds,
while Miss Dashwood was only the daughter of a private
gentleman with no more than three ; but when she found
that, though perfectly admitting the truth of her represent-
ation, he was by no means inclined to be guided by it, she
judged it wisest, from the experience of the past, to sub-
mit; and, therefore, after such an ungracious delay as she
owed to her own dignity, and as served to, prevent every
suspicion of good-will, she issued her decree of consent to
the marriage of Edward and Elinor.
What she would engage to do towards augmenting their
income was next to be considered ; and here it plainly ap-
peared, that though Edward was now her only son, he was
by no means her eldest ; for while Robert was inevitably
endowed with a thousand pounds a year, not the smallest
objection was made. against Edward’s taking orders for the
sake of two hundred and fifty at the utmost; nor was any
thing promised either for the present or in future, beyond
the ten thousand pounds, which had been given with
Fanny.
It was as much, however, as was desired, and more than
was expected, by Edward and Elinor; and Mrs. Ferrars
herself, by her shuffling excuses, seemed the only person
surprised at her not giving more.
With an income quite sufficient to their wants thus
secured to them, they had nothing to wait for after Edward
was in possession of the living but the readiness of the
house, to which Colonel Brandon, with an eager desire for
the accommodation of Elinor, was making considerable
improvements ; and after waiting some time for their com-
pletion, — after experiencing, as usual, a thousand disap-
pointments and delays, from the unaccountable dilatoriness
of the workmen, — Elinor, as usual, broke through the first.
positive resolution, of not marrying till every thing was
ready ; and the ceremony took place in Barton church early »
in the autumn. :
« The first month after their marriage was spent with their
¥ 3
326 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
friend at the mansion-house ; from whence they could su-
perintend the progress of the parsonage, and direct every
thing as they liked on the spot ;, could choose papers, pro-
ject shrubberies, and invent a sweep. Mrs. Jennings’s
prophecies, though rather jumbled together, were chiefly
fulfilled ; for she was able to visit Edward and his wife in
their parsonage by Michaelmas ; and she found in Elinor
and her husband, as she really believed, one of the happiest
couple in the world. They had, in fact, nothing to wish |
for, but the marriage of Colonel Brandon and Marianne,
and rather better pasturage for their cows.
They were visited on their first settling by almost all
their'relations and friends. Mrs. Ferrars came to inspect
the happiness which she was almost ashamed of having
authorised ; and even the Dashwoods were at the expense
of a journey from Sussex to do them honour.
“* I will not say that I am disappointed, my dear sister,”
said John, as they were walking together one morning
before the gates of Delaford House, “‘ that would be saying
too much ; for certainly you have been one of the most for-
tunate young women in the world, as itis. But, I confess,
it would give me great) pleasure to call Colonel Brandon
brother. His property here, his place, his house, — every
thing in such respectable and excellent condition! And his
woods,— I have not seen such timber any where in Dorset~
shire as there is now standing in Delaford Hanger! And
though, perhaps, Marianne may not seem exactly the person
to attract him, yet I think it would altogether be advisable
for you to have them now frequently staying with you ; for,
as Colonel Brandon seems a great deal at home, nobody can
tell what may happen ;. for, when people are much thrown
together, and see little of any body else,— and it will
always be in your power to set her off to advantage, and so
forth. In short, you may as well give her a chance: you
understand me.”
But though Mrs. Ferrars did come to see them, and
always treated them with the make-believe of decent affec-
tion, they were never insulted by her real favour and pre-
ference. That was due to the folly of Robert, and the
cunning of his wife; and it was earned by them before
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 327
many months had passed away. The selfish sagacity of the
latter, which had at first drawn Robert into the scrape, was
the principal instrument of his deliverance from it ; for her
respectful humility, assiduous attentions, and endless flat-
teries, as soon as the smallest opening was given for their
exercise, reconciled Mrs. Ferrars to his choice, and re-
established him completely in her favour.
‘The whole of Lucy’s behaviour in the affair, and the
prosperity which crowned it, therefore, may be held forth
as a most encouraging instance of what an earnest, an
unceasing attention to self-interest, however its progress
may be apparently obstructed, will do in securing every
advantage of fortune, with no other sacrifice than that
of time and conscience. When Robert first sought her
acquaintance, and privately visited her in Bartlett's Build-
ings, it was only with the view imputed to him by his
brother. He merely meant to persuade her to give up the
engagement; and as there could be nothing to overcome
but the affection of both, he naturally expected that one
or two interviews would settle the matter. In that point,
however, and that only, he erred; for though Lucy soon
gave him hopes that his eloquence would convince her in
time, another visit, another conversation, was always wanted
to produce this conviction. Some doubts always lingered
in her mind when they parted, which could only be re-
moved by another half hour’s discourse with himself.
His attendance was by this means secured, and the rest
followed in course. Instead of talking of Edward, they
came gradually to talk only of Robert,—a subject on
which he had always more to say than on any other, and
in which she soon betrayed an interest even equal to his
own ; and, in short, it became speedily evident to both,
that he had entirely supplanted his brother. He was
proud of his conquest, proud of tricking Edward, and very
proud of marrying privately without his mother’s consent.
What immediately followed is known. They passed some
months in great happiness at Dawlish ; for she had many
relations and old acquaintance to cut—and he drew several
plans for magnificent cottages; and from thence returning
to town procured the forgiveness of Mrs. Ferrars, by the
. y 4
328 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
simple expedient of asking it, which, at Lucy’s instigation,
was adopted. The forgiveness, at first, indeed, as was
reasonable, comprehended only Robert; and Lucy, who
had owed his mother no duty, and therefore could have
transgressed none, still remained some weeks longer un-
pardoned. But perseverance in humility of conduct and
messages, in self-condemnation for Robert’s offence, and
gratitude for the unkindness she was treated with, pro-
cured her in time the haughty notice which overcame her
by its graciousness, and led soon afterwards, by rapid
degrees, to the highest state of affection and influence:
Lucy became as necessary to Mrs. Ferrars as either
Robert or Fanny ; and while Edward was never cordially
forgiven for having once intended to marry her, and Eli-
nor, though superior to her in fortune and birth, was
spoken of as an intruder, she was in every thing con-
sidered, and always openly acknowledged, to be a favourite
child. They settled in town, received very liberal assist-
ance from Mrs. Ferrars, were on the best terms imaginable
with the Dashwoods ; and, setting aside the jealousies and
ill-will continually subsisting between Fanny and Lucy,
in which their husbands of course took a part, as well as
the frequent domestic disagreements between Robert and
Lucy themselves, nothing could exceed the harmony in
which they all lived together.
What Edward had debe to forfeit the right of adil
son might have puzzled many people to find out; and
what Robert had done to succeed to it might have puzzled
them still more. It was an arrangement, however, jus-
tified in its effects, if not in its cause; for nothing ever
appeared in Robert’s style of living ‘or of talking to give a
suspicion of his regretting the extent of his income, as
either leaving his brother too little, or bringing himself
too much ; and if Edward might be judged from the ready
discharge of his duties in every particular, from an in-
creasing attachment to his wife and his home, and from
the regular cheerfulness of his spirits, he might be sup-
posed no less contented with his lot, no dil free toms
every wish of an exchange.
Elinor’s marriage divided her as little from her family
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 329
as could well be contrived, without rendering the cottage
at Barton entirely useless, for her mother and sisters
spent much more than half their time with her. Mrs.
Dashwood was acting on motives of policy as well as
pleasure in the frequency of her visits at Delaford ; for
her wish of bringing Marianne and Colonel Brandon to-
gether was hardly less earnest, though rather more liberal
than what John had expressed. It was now her darling
object. Precious as was the company of her daughter
to her, she desired nothing so much as to give up its
constant enjoyment to her valued friend ; and to see Ma-
rianne settled at the mansion-house was equally the wish
of Edward and Elinor. They each felt his sorrows, and
their own obligations, and Marianne, by general consent,
was to be the reward of all.
With such a confederacy against her—with a know-
ledge so intimate of his goodness——with a conviction of his
fond attachment to herself, which at last, though long
after it was observable to every body else-— burst on her —
what could she do?
Marianne Dashwood was born to an extraordinary fate.
She was. born to discover the falsehood of her own opi-
nions, and to counteract, by her conduct, her most favourite
maxims. She was born to overcome an affection formed
so late in life as at seventeen, and with no sentiment su-
perior to strong esteem and lively friendship, voluntarily
to give her hand to another !—and that other, a man who
had suffered no less than herself under the event of a
former attachment, whom, two years before, she had con-
sidered too old to be married,—and who still sought the
constitutional safeguard of a flannel waistcoat !
But so it was. Instead of falling a sacrifice to an ir-
resistible passion, as once she had fondly fiattered herself
with expecting, instead of remaining even for ever with
her mother, and finding her only pleasures in retirement
and study, as afterwards in her more calm and sober
judgment she had determined on, — she found herself at
nineteen submitting to new attachments, entering on new
duties, placed in a new home, a wife, the mistress of a
family, and the patroness of a village.
330 —r. SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
Colonel Brandon was now as happy as all those who
best loved him believed he deserved to be: in Marianne
he was consoled for every past affliction: her regard and
her society restored his mind to animation, and his spirits
to cheerfulness ; and that Marianne found her own hap-
piness in forming his, was equally the persuasion and
delight of each observing friend. Marianne could never
love by halves; and her whole heart became, in time, as
much devoted to her husband as it had once been to Wil-
loughby.
Willoughby could not hear of her marriage without a
pang ; and his punishment was soon afterwards complete,
in the voluntary forgiveness of Mrs. Smith, who, by stating
his marriage with a woman of character as the source, of
her clemency, gave him reason for believing that had he
behaved with honour towards Marianne he might at once
have been happy and rich. That his repentance of mis-
conduct, which thus brought its own punishment, was sin-
cere, need not be doubted; nor that he long thought of
Colonel Brandon with envy, and of Marianne with regret,
But that he was for ever inconsolable, that he fied from
society, or contracted an habitual gloom of temper, or died
of a broken heart, must not be depended on—for he did
neither. He lived to exert, and frequently to enjoy him-
self. His wife was not always out of humour, nor his
home always uncomfortable ; and in his breed of horses and
dogs, and in sporting of every kind, he found no inconsi-
derable degree of domestic felicity.
For Marianne, however, in spite of his incivility in sur-
viving her loss, he always retained that decided regard
which interested him in every thing that befell her, and
made her his secret standard of perfection in woman;
and many a rising beauty would be slighted by him in
after-days as bearing no comparison with Mrs. Brandon.
Mrs. Dashwood was prudent enough to remain at the
cottage without attempting a removal to Delaford; and,
fortunately for Sir John and Mrs. Jennings, when Ma-~
rianne was taken from them, Margaret had reached an age
highly suitable for dancing, and not very ineligible for
being supposed to have a lover.
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. eae 3
Between Barton and Delaford there was that constant
communication which strong family affection would na-
_turally dictate ; and among the merits and the happiness of
Elinor and Marianne, let it not be ranked as the least con-
siderable, that, though sisters, and living almost within
sight of each other, they could live without disagreement
between themselves, or producing coolness between their
husbands.
THE END.
‘ban, promt
Rea ‘ ¢
i a se As ee
cic pied io sift alae ie | é
A a re bate hen
BP wel ot ;
. b EPI SaS cath
tet - ~
i) 4: ‘ res
e , i
Phat MM
: Sy aE eo)
Aas ‘
/ , neh 1 ind
‘ (ia) Wr
x ‘
yy
Ly 7 }
Loxpon: it
y sinned A. & R, Spottisw eh:
th New-Street-Square. ca i
pe Fok
Ba
‘
BS
a
Aah glia
THE LIBRARY OF THE
UNIVERSITY OF
NORTH CAROLINA
AT CHAPEL HILL
@)
PRESENTED BY THE
WILLIAM A. WHITAKER
FOUNDATION
4
‘
Pmer pie fo
pats
heat SS
tee
ee nena
wipe Fn 2
25: eae
Seas spate Sareea
‘ nine Sad
pare pte =
i fo Saens
Fon hae bb Foe - (eset : ~ . 8 sor Saws 4 : ce te ; F
os d vt Seon a =ige = ~ a : ; aoe ~ = * oe : Sweets cors . : eases
Fe Bae * Ss = theists = - 2 ; Sh ohitiesd BRED one peers aret oe = ane : Se
_ ; ‘ S =
+
erieey ets eet ee
SO on Serene es far vee . tenn
eae Some . Pct y