V»"«?' ^S^'t/JI-^Ri^ o^x /.l^ . (, \ '■' .-v^ /•'i* V^ "L I B RARY OF THE UNIVLRSITY Of ILLINOIS I8\l V.I SENSE AND SENSIBILITY A NOVEL. IN THREE VOLUMES. BY A LADY. VOL. I. Xontion: PRINTED FOR THE AUTHOR, By C. Rovcorlh, Bdl-yard, TempU-bar, AND PUBLISHED BY T. EGERTONj WHITEHALL. 1811. t I 3f V. I SENSE & SENSIBILITY. CHAPTER L i-r The family of Dash wood had been long settled in Sussex. Their estate was large, and their residence was at Norland Park, in the centre of their property, where, for many genera- tions, they had lived in so respectable \k manner, as to engage the general r ; good opinion of their surrounding acquaintance. The last owner but Cone, 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 house- keeper in his sister. But her death, ^. VOL. 1. » which ( 2 ) 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 Gen- tleman'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 com- fort which his age could receive; and the cheerfulness of the children added a relish to his existence. By a former marriage, Mr. Henry Dashwood had one son : by his pre- sent Lady, three daughters. The son, ( 3 ) son, a steady respectable young man, was amply provided for by the for- tune of his mother, which had been large, and half of which devolved on him on his coming of age. By his own marriage, likewise, which hap- pened soon afterwards, he added to his wealth. His wife had something considerable at present, and some- thing still more to expect hereafter from her mother, her only surviving parent, who had much to give. To him, therefore, the succession to the Norland estate was not so really im- portant as to his sisters ; for their for- tune, independent of what might arise to them from their father's inhe- riting that property, could be but small. Their mother had nothing, and their father only seven thousand pounds in his own disposal; for the remaining moiety of his first wife's fortune was also secured to her chile}, B 2 and ( 4 ) 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 di- vision of 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 fa- ther C 5 ) ther and mother at Norland, had so far gained on the affection of his uncle, by such attractions as are by no means unusual in children of two or three years old ; an imperfect arti- culation, 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 atten- tion which, for years, he had received from his niece and her daughters. He meant not to be unkind however, and, as a mark of his affection for the three girls, he left them a thousand pounds a-piece. Mr. Dashwood's disappointment was, at first, severe ; but his temper was cheerful and sanguine, and he might reasonably hope to live many years, and by living economically, lay by a considerable sum from the pro- duce of an estate already large, and capable of almost immediate im- B 3 provement. ( 6 > provement. But the fortune, which had been so tardy in coming-, was his only one twelvemonth. He survived his uncle no longer; and ten thou- sand pounds, including the late lega- cies, was all that remained for his widow and daughters. His son was sent for, as soon as hish danger was known, and to him Mr. Dashwood recommended, with all the strength and urgency which ill- ness could command^ the interest of his mother-in-law and sisters. Mr. John Dashwood had not the strong feelings of the rest of the fa- mily; but he was affected by a re- commendation of such a nature at such a time, and he promised to do every thing in his power to make them comfortable. His father was rendered easy by such an assurance, and Mr. John Dashwood had then leisure to consider how much there might ( 7 ^ 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-dis- posed : 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 stiJl more respectable than he was: — he might even nav^ 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 carica- ture of himself; — more narrow-mind- ed and selfish. When he gave his promise to his father, he meditated within himself to increase the fortunes of his sisters by the present of a thousand pounds a-piece. He then really thought him- B 4 self ( 8 ) self equal to it. The prospect of four thousand a year, in addition to his present income, besides the remain- ing half of his own mother's fortune, warmed his heart, and made him fee] capable of generosity. — " Yes, he would give them three thousand pounds: it would be liberal and handsome ! It would b^ enough to make them completely easy. Three thousand pound* ' ^c could spare so considerable a sum with little incon- venience." — 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 in- tention to her mother-in-law, arrived with her child and their attendants. No one could dispute her right to come; the house was her husband's from the moment of his father's de- cease ; ( 9 ) cease; but the indelicacy of her con- duct was so much the greater, and, to a woman in Mrs. Dashwood's situ- ation, with only common feelings, must have been highly unpleasing; — but in her mind there was a sense of honour so keen, a generosity so ro- mantic, that any offence of the kind, by whomsoever given or received, was to her a source of immoveable 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 shewing them with how little at- tention to the comfort of other peo- ple she could act when occasion re- quired it. So acutely did Mrs. Dashwood feel this ungracious behaviour, and so earnestly did she despise her daughter-in-law for it, that, on the arrival of the latter, she would have B 5 quitted ( 10 ) quitted the house for ever, had not the entreaty of her eldest girl in- duced her first to reflect on the pro- priety of going, and her own tender love for all her three children deter- mined her afterwards to stay, and for their sakes avoid a breach with their brother. Elinor, this eldest daughter whose advice was so effectual, possessed a strength of understanding, and cool- ness 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. Dash wood which must generally have led to impru- dence. 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 ( 11 ) 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 soitows, her joys, could have no moderation. She was generous, amiable, interest- ing: she was every thing but pru- dent. The resemblance between her and her mother was strikingly great. Elinor saw, with concern, the ex- cess of her sister's sensibility ; but by Mrs. Dashwood it was valued and cherished. They encouraged each other now in the violence of their af- fliction. The agony of grief which overpowered them at first, was volun- tarily 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, B 6 and ( 12 ) and resolved against ever admitting consolation in future. Elinor, too, was deeply afflicted; but still she could struggle, she could exert her- self. She could consult v^^ith her brother, could receive her sister-in- law on her arrival, and treat her with every proper attention; and could strive to rouse her mother to similar exertion, and encourage her to simi- lar forbearance. Margaret, the other sister, was a good humoured well disposed girl; but as she had already imbibed a good deal of MarianneV 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 ( 13 ) CHAPTER II. Mrs. John Dashwood now installed herself mistress of Norland ; and her mother and sisters-in-law were de- graded to the condition of visitors. As such, however, they were treated by her with quiet civility; and by her husband with as much kindness as he could feel towards any body beyond himself, his wife, and their child. He really pressed them, with some earnestness, to consider Nor- land as their home; and, as no plan appeared so eligible to Mrs. Dash- wood as remaining there till she could accommodate herself with a house in the neighbourhood, his invitation was accepted. A continuance in a place where every ( 14 ) every thing reminded her of former delight, was exactly what suited her mind. In seasons of cheerfulness, no temper could be more cheerful than hers, or possess, in a greater degree, that sanguine expectation of happiness which is happiness itself. But in sorrow she must be equally carried away by her fancy, and as far beyond consolation as in pleasure she was beyond alloy. Mrs. John Dashwood did not at all approve of what her husband in- tended to do for his sisters. To take three thousand pounds from the for- tune 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 ( 15 ) who were related to him only by half blood, which she considered as no relationship at all, have on his gene- rosity to so large an amount. It was very well known, that no affection was ever supposed to exist between the children of any man by different marriages ; and why was he to ruin himself, and their poor little Harry, by giving away all his money to his half sisters? " It was my father's last request to me," replied her husband, " that I should assist his widow and daugh- ters." " He did not know what he was talking of, I dare say ; ten to one but he was light headed at the time. Had he been in his right senses, he could not have thought of such a thing as begging you to give away half your fortune from your own child.'' "He ( 16 ) " He did not stipulate for any par- ticular sum, my dear Fanny, he only requested me, in general terms, to as- sist 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, there- fore, was given, and must be per- formed. Something must be done for them whenever they leave Nor- land and settle in a new home." *' Well, then, let something be done for them; but that something^ need not be three thousand pounds. Consider," she added, " that when the money is once parted with, it never can return. Your sisters will marry, and it will be gone for ever. If, ( 17 ) If, indeed, it could ever be restored to our poor little boy — " " Why, to be sure," said her hus- band, very gravely, " 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 fami- ly, 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 dimi- nished one half. — Five hundred pounds would be a prodigious in- crease 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 gene- rous spirit !" ". I would not wish to do any thing mean," ( 18 ) 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 ex- pect more." " There is no knowing what they may expect," said the Lady, " but we are not to think of their expecta- tions : the question is, what you can afford to do." " Certainly — and I think I may af- ford to give them five hundred pounds a-piece. 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 ad- dition at all. They will have ten thousand pounds divided amongst them. If they marry, they will be sure ( 19 ) sure of doing well, and if they do not, they may all live very comrorta- bly 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 advise- able to do something for their mother while she lives rather than for them —something of the annuity kind I mean. My sisters would feel the good effects of it as well as herself. A hundred a year would make them all perfectly comfortable." His wife hesitated a little, how- ever, in giving her consent to this plan. " To be sure," said she, " it is bet- ter than parting with 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 Fanny, her ( 20 ) her life cannot be ^yorth half* that purchase." " Certainly not; but if you ob- serve, 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 conies 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. ( 21 ) 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 mo- ther's disposal, without any restric- tion whatever. It has given me such an abhorrence of annuities, that I am sure I would not pin m} self down to the payment of one for all the world.'* " It is certainly an unpleasant thing," replied Mr. Dashwood, " to have those kind of yearly drains on one's income. One's fortune, as your mother justly says, is not one's own. To be tied down to the regular pay- ment 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 ( 22 ) no gratitude at all. If I were you, whatever I did should be done at my own discretion entirely. I would not bind myself to allow them any thing yearly. It may be very inconvenient some years to spare a hundred, or even fifty pounds from our own expences." " I believe you are right, my love; it will be better that there should be no annuity in the case ; whatever I may give them occasionally will be of far greater assistance than a yearly allowance, because they would only enlarge their style of living if they felt sure of a larger income, and would not be sixpence the richer for it at the end of the year. It will cer- tainly be much the best way. A present of fifty pounds, now and then, will prevent their ever being distressed for money, and will, I think, be amply discharging my pro- mise to my father.*' 'To ( 23 ) " To be sure it will. Indeed, to say the truth, I am convinced within myself that your father had no idea of your giving them any money at all. The assistance he thought of, I dare say, was only such as might be reasonably expected of you; for instance, such as looking out for a comfortable small house for them, helping them to move their things, and sending them presents of fish and game, and so forth, whenever they are in season. I'll lay my life that he meant nothing farther; indeed, it would be very strange and unreason- able if he did. Do but consider, my dear Mr. Dashwood, how ex- cessively comfortable your mother-in- law and her daughters may live on the interest of seven thousand pounds, besides the thousand pounds belong- ing to each of the girls, which brings them in fifty pounds a year a-piece, and. ( 24 ) and, of course, they will pay their mother for their board out of it. Al- together, they will have five hundred a year amongst them, and what on earth can four women want for more than that ? They will live so cheap ! Their house-keeping will be nothing at all. They will have no carriage, no horses, and hardly any servants ; they will keep no company, and can have no expences of any kind ! Only conceive how comfortable they will be ! Five hundred a year ! I am sure I cannot imagine how they will spend half of it ; and as to your giv- ing them more, it is quite absurd to think of it. They will be much more able to give you something." *' Upon my word," said Mr. Dash- wood, " I believe you are perfectly right. My father certainly could mean nothing more by his request to me than what you say. I clearly understand ( 25 ) understand it now, and I will strictly fulfil my engagement by such acts of assistance and kindness to them as you have described. When my mo- ther removes into another house my services shall be readily given to ac- commodate her as far I can. Some little present of furniture too may be acceptable then." " Certainly," returned Mrs. John Dashwood. " But, however, one thing must be considered. When your father and mother moved to Norland, though the furniture of Stanhill was sold, all the china, plate, and linen was saved, and is now left to your mother. Her house will therefore be almost completely fitted up as soon as she takes it." " That is a material consideration undoubtedly. A valuable legacy in- deed ! And yet some of the plate would have been a very pleasant addition to our own stock here." VOL. I. o " Yes; ( 26 ) " Yes; and the set of breakfast china is twice as handsome as what be- longs to this house. A great deal too handsome, in my opinion, for anyplace they can ever afford to live in. But, however, so it is. Your father thought only of them. And I must say this: that you owe no particular gratitude to him, nor attention to his wishes, for we very well know that if he could, he would have left almost every thing in the world to them'' This argument was irresistible. It gave to his intentions whatever of decision was wanting before; and he finally resolved, that it would be absolutely unnecessary, if not highly indecorous, to do more for the wi- dow and children of his father, than such kind of neighbourly acts as his own wife pointed out. CHAP- ( 27 ) CHAPTER III. Mrs. Dashwood remained at Nor- land several months; not from any disinclination to move when the sight of every well known spot ceased to raise the violent emotion which it produced for a while; for when her spirits began to revive, and her mind became capable of some other exertion than that of heighten- ing its affliction by melancholy re- membrances, she was impatient to be gone, and indefatigable in her en- quiries for a suitable dwelling in the neighbourhood of Norland ; for to re- move far from tliat beloved spot was impossible. But she could hear of no situation that at once answered her notions of comfort and ease, and c2 suited ( 28 ) suited the prudence of her eldest daughter, whose steadier judgment rejected several houses as too large for their income, which her mother would have approved. Mrs. Dashwood had been inform- ed by her husband of the solemn promise on the part of his son in their favour, which gave comfort to his last earthly reflections. She doubt- ed the sincerity of this assurance no more than he had doubted it himself, and she thought of it for her daugh- ter s sake with satisfaction, though as for herself she was persuaded that a much smaller provision than 70001. would support her in affluence. For their brother's sake too, for the sake of his own heart she rejoiced ; and she reproached herself for being- unjust to his merit before, in believ- ing him incapable of generosity. His attentive behaviour to herself and his sisters ( 29 ) sisters convinced her that their wel- fare was dear to him, and, for a long time, she firmly relied on the liberality of his intentions. The contempt which she had, very early in their acquaintance, felt for her daughter-in-law, was very much encreased by the farther knowledge of her character, which half a year's residence in her family afforded ; and perhaps in spite of every considera- tion of politeness or maternal affec- tion on the side of the former, the two ladies might have found it im- possible to have lived together so long, had not a particular circum- stance occurred to give still greater eligibility, according to the opinions of Mrs. Dashwood, to her daughter's continuance at Norland. This circumstance was a growing attachment between her eldest girl and the brother of Mrs. John Dash- wood, a gentlemanlike and pleasing c 3 young ( 30 ) young' man, who was introduced to their acquaintance soon after his sister's establishment at Norland, and who had since spent the greatest part of his time there. Some mothers might have encou- raged the intimacy from motives of interest, for Edward Ferrars was the eldest son of a man who had died very rich; and some might have re-- pressed it from motives of prudence, for, except a trifling sum, the whole of kis fortune depended on the will of his mother. But Mrs. Dash- wood was alike uninfluenced by either consideration. It was enough for her that he appeared to be ami-% able, that he loved her daughter, and that Elinor returned the partiality. It was contrary to every doctrine of her's that difference of fortune should keep any couple asunder who were attracted by resemblance of disposi- tion ; and that Elinor's merit should not ( 31 ) not be acknowledged by every one who knew her, was to her compre- hension impossible. Edward Ferrars was not recom- mended to their good opinion by any peculiar graces of person or address. He was not handsome, and his man- ners required intimacy to make them pleasing. He was too diffident to do justice to himself; but when his na- tural shyness was overcome, his be- haviour gave every indication of an open affectionate heart. His under- standing was good, and his education had given it solid improvement. But he was neither fitted by abilities nor disposition to answer the wishes of his mother and sister, who longed to see him distinguished — as — they hardly knew what. They wanted him to make a fine figure in the world in some manner or other. His mother wished to interest him in political € 4 concerns, ( 32 ) concerns, to get him into parliament, or to see him connected with some of the great men of the day. Mrs. John Dashwood wished it likewise; but in the mean while, till one of these su- perior blessings could be attained, it would have quieted her ambition to see him driving a barouche. But Edward had no turn for great men or barouches. All his wishes center- ed in domestic comfort and the quiet of private life. Fortunately he had a younger brother who was more promising. Edward had been staying several weeks in the house before he en- gaged much of Mrs. Dashwood's at- tention ; for she was, at that time, in such affliction as rendered her care- less of surrounding objects. She saw only that he was quiet and un- obtrusive, and she liked him for it. He did not disturb the wretchedness of ( 33 ) of her mind by ill-timed conversation. She was first called to observe and approve him farther, by a reflection which Elinor chanced one day to make on the difference between him and his sister. It was a contrast which recommended him most forci- bly to her mother. " It is enough ;" said she, " to say that he is unlike Fanny is enough. It implies every thing amiable. I love him already." *' I think you will like him," said Elinor, " when you know more of him." " Like him !'' replied her mother with a smile. " I can feel no senti- timent of approbation inferior to love." " You may esteem him." " I have never yet known what it was to separate esteem and love." Mrs. Dash wood now took pains to c 5 get ( 34 ) get acquainted with him. Her man- ners were attaching and soon banish- ed his reserve. She speedily com- prehended all his merits ; the persua- sion of his regard for Elinor perhaps assisted her penetration; but she really felt assured of his worth : and even that quietness of manner which militated against all her established ideas of Avhat a youns: man's address ought to be, was no longer unin- teresting w^hen she knew his heart to be warm and his temper affec- tionate. No sooner did she perceive any symptom of love in his behaviour to Elinor, than she considered their se- rious attachment as certain, and look- ed forward to their marriage as ra- pidly approaching. " In a few months, my dear Mari- anne," said she, " Elinor will in all probability be settled for life. We shall ( 35 ) shall miss her; but she will be happy/' " Oh ! mama, how shall we do without her ?" " My love, it will be scarcely a separation. We shall live within a few miles of each other, and shall meet every day of our lives. You will gain a brother, a real, affec- tionate brother. I have the highest opinion in the world of Edward's heart. But you look grave, Mari- anne ; do you disapprove your sister's choice ?" " Perhaps," said Marianne, " I may consider it with some surprise. Edward is very amiable, and I love him tenderly. But yet — he is not the kind of young man — there is a something wanting— his figure is not striking; it has none of that grace which I should expect in the man who could seriously attach my sister. c 6 His ( 36 ) His eyes want all that spirit, that fire, which at once announce virtue and intelligence. And besides all this, I am afraid, mama, he has no real taste. Music seems scarcely to attract him, and though he admires Elinor's drawings very much, it is not the admiration of a person who can understand their worth. It is evident, in spite of his frequent atten- tion to her while she draws, that in fact he knows nothing of the matter. He admires as a lover, not as a con- noisseur. To satisfy me, those cha- racters must be united. I could not be happy with a man whose taste did not in every point coincide with my own. He must enter into all my feelings; the same books, the same music must charm us both. Oh ! mama, how spiritless, how tame was Edward's manner in reading to us last night ! I felt for my sister most geverelv. ( 37 ) severely. Yet she bore it with so much composure, she seemed scarce- ly to notice it. I could hardly keep my seat. To hear those beautiful lines which have frequently almost driven me wild, pronounced with such impenetrable calmness, such dreadful indifference !" — " He would certainly have done more justice to simple and elegant prose. I thought so at the time ; but you would give him Cowper." " Nay, mama, if he is not to be animated by Cowper ! — but we must allow^ for difference of taste. Elinor has not my feelings, and therefore she may overlook it, and be happy with him. But it would have broke my heart had I loved him, to hear him read with so little sensibility. Mama, the more I know of the world, the more am I convinced that I shall never see a man whom I can reallv ( 38 ) really love. I require so much ! He must have all Edward's virtues, and his person and manners must orna- ment his goodness with every possi- ble charm. " Remember, my love, that you are not seventeen. It is yet too early in life to despair of such an happi- ness. Why should you be less for- tunate than your mother? In one circumstance only, my Marianne, may your destiny be different from hers !" CHAP- ( 39 ) CHAPTER IV. " What a pity it is, Elinor," said Marianne, " that Edward should have no taste for drawing." " No taste for drawing," replied Elinor; why should you think so? He does not draw himself, indeed, but he has great pleasure in seeing the performances of other people, and I assure you he is by no means defi- cient in natural taste, though he has not had opportunities of improving it. Had he ever been in the way of learning, I think he would have drawn very well. He distrusts his own judgment in such matters so much, that he is always unwilling to give his opinion on any picture; but he has an innate propriety and sim- plicity ( 40 ) plicity of taste, which in general di- rect him perfectly right." Marianne was afraid of offending, and said no more on the subject; bnt the kind of approbation which Elinor described as excited in him by the drawings of other people, was very far from that rapturous delight, which, in her opinion, could alone be called taste. Yet, though smiling within herself at the mistake, she honoured her sister for that blind partiality to Edward which produced it. " I hope, Marianne," continued Elinor, " you do not consider him as deficient in general taste. Indeed, I think I may say that you cannot, for your behaviour to him is perfectly cordial, and if that were your opi- nion, 1 am sure you could never be civil to him." Marianne hardly knew what to say. ( 41 ) say. She would not wound the feel- ings of her sister on any account, and yet to say A\hat she did not be- lieve was impossible. At length she replied : " Do not be offended, Elinor, if my praise of him is not in every thing equal to your sense of his me- rits. I have not had so many oppor- tunities of estimating the minuter pro- pensities of his mind, his inclinations and tastes as you have; but I have the highest opinion in the world of his goodness and sense. I think him every thing that is worthy and ami- able." " I am sure," replied Elinor with a smile, " that his dearest friends could not be dissatisfied with such commendation as that. I do not perceive how you could express yourself more warmly." Mari- ( 42 ) Marianne was rejoiced to find her sister so easily pleased. " Of his sense and his goodness," continued Elinor, " no one can, I think, be in doubt, who has seen him often enough to engage him in unre- served conversation. The excellence of his undertanding and his princi- ples can be concealed only by that shyness which too often keeps him silent. You know enough of him to do justice to his solid worth. But of his minuter propensities as you call them, you have from peculiar circum- stances been kept more ignorant than myself. He and I have been at times thrown a good deal together, while you have been wholly engrossed on the most affectionate principle by my mother. I have seen a great deal of him, have studied his sentiments and heard his opinion on subjects of lite- rature ( 43 ) rature and taste; and, upon the whole, I venture to pronounce that his mind is well-informed, his enjoy- ment of books exceedingly great, his imagination lively, his observation just and correct, and his taste delicate and pure. His abilities in every re- spect improve as much upon acquain- tance as his manners and person. At iirst sight, his address is certainly not striking; and his person can hardly be called handsome, till the expres- sion of his eyes, which are uncom- monly good, and the general sweet- ness of his countenance, is perceived. At present, I know him so well, that I think him really handsome ; or, at least, almost so. What say you Ma- rianne ?" " I shall very soon think him liand- some, Elinor, if I do not now. When you tell me to love him as a brother, I sliall no more see imper- fection ( 44 ) fection in his face, than I now do in his heart." Elinor started at this declaration, and was sorry for the warmth she had been betrayed into, in speaking of him. She felt that Edward stood very high in her opinion. She be- lieved the regard to be mutual ; but she required greater certainty of it to make Marianne's conviction of their attachment agreeable to her. She knew that what Marianne and her mother conjectured one moment, they believed the next — that with them, to wish was to hope, and to hope was to expect. She tried to explain the real state of the case to her sister. " I do not attempt to deny," said she, " that I think very highly of him — that I greatly esteem, that I like him." Marianne here burst forth with in- dignation — " Esteem ( 45 ) *' Esteem him ! Like him ! Cold- hearted Elinor ! Oh ! worse than cold-hearted ! Ashamed of being otherwise. Use those words again and I will leave the room this mo- ment." Elinor could not help laughing. " Excuse me," said she, " and be assured that I meant no offence to you, by speaking, in so quiet a way, of my own feelings. Believe them to be stronger than I have declared ; believe them, in short, to be such as his merit, and the suspicion — the hope of his affection for me may war- rant, without imprudence or folly. But farther than this you must not believe. I am by no means assured of his regard for me. There are mo- ments when the extent of it seems doubtful ; and till his sentiments are fully known, you cannot wonder at my wishing to avoid any encourage- ment ( 46 ) ment of my own partiality, by be- lieving or calling it more than it is. In my heart I feel little — scarcely any doubt of his preference. But there are other points to be consider- ed besides his inclination. He is very far from being independent. What his mother really is we cannot know; but, from Fanny's occasional mention of her conduct and opinions, we have never been disposed to think her amiable; and I am very much mistaken if Edward is not himself aware that there would be many dif- ficulties in his way, if he were to wish to marry a woman who had not either a great fortune or high rank." Marianne was astonished to find how much the imagination of her mother and herself had outstripped the truth. " And you really are not engaged to him !" said she. " Yet it certainly soon ( 47 ) soon will happen. But two advan- tages will proceed from this delay. I shall not lose you so soon, and Edward will have greater opportuni- ty of improving that natural taste for your favourite pursuit which must be so indispensably necessary to your future felicity. Oh ! if he should be so far stimulated by your genius as to learn to draw himself, how de- lightful it would be !" Elinor had given her real opinion to her sister. She could not consi- der her partiality for Edward in so prosperous a state as Marianne had believed it. There was, at times, a want of spirits about him which, if it did not denote indifference, spoke a something almost as unpromising. A doubt of her regard, supposing him to feel it, need not give him more than inquietude. It would not be likely to produce that dejection of mind ( 48 ) mind which frequently attended him. A more reasonable cause might be found in the dependent situation which forbad the indulgence of his affection. She knew that his mother neither behaved to him so as to make his home comfortable at present, nor to give him any assurance that he might form a home for himself, with- out strictly attending to her views for his aggrandisement. With such a knowledge as this, it was impossible for Elinor to feel easy on the subject. She was far from depending on that result of his preference of her, which her mother and sister still considered as certain. Nay, the longer they were together the more doubtful seemed the nature of his regard ; and sometimes, for a few painful minutes, she believed it to be no more than friendship. But, whatever might really be its limits, ( 49 ) limits, it was enough, when perceived by his sister, to make her mieasy; and, at the same time, (which was still more common,) to make her un- civil. She took the first opportunity of affronting her mother-in-law on the occasion, talking to her so ex- pressively of her brother's great ex- pectations, of Mrs. Ferrars's resolu- tion that both her sons should marry well, and of the danger attending any young woman who attempted to draw him in ; that Mrs. Dashwood could neither pretend to be uncon- scious, nor endeavour to be calm. She gave her an answer which mark- ed her contempt, and instantly left the room, resolving, that whatever might be the inconvenience or ex- pence of so sudden a removal, her beloved EUnor should not be ex- posed another week to such insinua- tions. VOL. I. D In ( 50 ) In this state of her spu'its, a letter was delivered to her from the post, which contained a proposal particu- larly well timed. It was the offer of a small house, on very easy terms, belonging to a relation of her own, a Gentleman of consequence and pro- perty in Devonshire. The letter was from this Gentleman himself, and written in the true spirit of friendly accommodation. He understood that she was in need of a dwelling, and though the house he now offered her was merely a cottage, he assured her that every thing should be done to it V, hich she might think necessary, if the situation pleased her. He ear- nestly pressed her, after giving the particulars of the house and garden, to come with her daughters to Barton Park, the place of his own residence, from whence she might judge, herself, whether Barton Cottage, for the houses ( 51 ) houses were in the same parish, could, by any alteration, be made comfortable to her. He seemed really anxious to accommodate them, and the whole of his letter was wTit- ten in so friendly a style as could not fail of giving pleasure to his cousin; more especially at a moment when she was suffering under the cold and unfeeling behaviour of her nearer con- nections. She needed no time for deliberation or enquiry. Her resolu- tion was formed as she read. The si- tuation of Barton, in a county so far distant from Sussex as Devonshire, which, but a few^ hours before, would have been a sufficient objection to outweigh every possible advantage belonging to the place, was now its first recommendation. To quit the neighbourhood of Norland was no longer an evil ; it was an object of desire ; it was a blessing, in compari- D 2 son '■■■ — — ".«:Mn;jr ( 52 ) son of the misery of continuing her daughter-in-law's guest: and to re- move for ever from that beloved place would be less painful than to inhabit or visit it while such a woman was its mistress. She instantly wrote Sir John Middleton her acknowledge- ment of his kindness, and her accept- ance of his proposal; and then hastened to shew both letters to her daughters, that she might be secure of their approbation before her an- swer were sent. Elinor had always thought it would be more prudent for them to settle at some distance from Norland than im- mediately amongst their present ac- quaintance. On that head, therefore, it was not for her to oppose her mo- ther's intention of removing into De- vonshire. The house, too, as de- scribed by Sir John, wa^ on so simple a scale, and the rent so uncommonly moderate, ( 53 ) moderate, as to leave her no right of objection on either point; and, there- fore, though it was not a plan which brought any charm to her fancy, though it was a removal from the vi- cinity of Norland beyond her wishes, she made no attempt to dissuade her mother from sending her letter of ac- quiescence. D 3 CHAPTER ( 54 ) CHAPTER V. No sooner was her answer dispiatch- ed, than Mrs. Dashwood indulged herself in the pleasure of announcing to her son-in-law and his wife that^ she was provided with an house, and should incommode them no longer than till every thing were ready for her inhabiting it. They heard her with surprise. Mrs. John Dashwood said nothing; but her husband civilly hoped that she would not be settled far from Norland. She had great satisfaction in replying that she was going into Devonshire. Edward turned hastily towards her, on hear- ing this, and, in a voice of surprise and concern, which required no ex- planation ( 55 ) jplanation to her, repeated, " Devon- shire ! Are you, indeed, going there ? So far from hence! And to what part of it?" She explained the situ- ation. It was within four miles north- ward of Exeter. " It is but a cottage," she continu- ed, " but I hope to see many of my friends in it. A room or two can easily be added; and if my friends find no difficulty in travelling so far to see me, I am sure I will find none in accommodating them." She concluded with a very kind in- vitation to Mr. and Mrs. John Dash- wood to visit her at Barton ; and to Edward she gave one with still greater affection. Though her late conversation with her daughter-in-law had made her resolve on remaining at Norland no longer than was unavoid- able, it had not produced the smallest effect on her in that point to which D 4 it ( 56 ) it principally tended. To separate Edward and Elinor was as far from being her object as ever; and she wished to shew Mrs. John Dash wood by this pointed invitation to her bro- ther, how totally she disregarded her disapprobation of the match. Mr. John Dashw^ood told his mo- ther again and again how exceed- ingly sorry he was that she had ta- ken an house at such a distance from Norland as to prevent his being of any service to her in removing her furniture. He really felt conscien- tiously vexed on the occasion; for the very exertion to which he had limited the performance of his pro- mise to his father was by this ar- rangement rendered impracticable. The furniture was all sent round by water. It chiefly consisted of house- hold linen, plate, china, and books, with an handsome pianoforte of Ma- rianne's. ( 57 ) rianne's. Mrs. John Dashwood saw the packages depart with a sigh : she could not help feeling it hard that as Mrs. Dashwood's income would be so trifling in comparison with their own, she should have any handsome article of furniture. Mrs. Dashwood took the house for a twelvemonth; it was ready furnish- ed, and she might have immediate possession. No difficulty arose on either side in the agreement ; and she waited only for the disposal of her effects at Norland, and to determine her future household, before she set off for the west ; and this, as she was exceedingly rapid in the performance of every thing that interested her, was soon done. The horses which were left her by her husband, had been sold soon after his death, and an opportu- nity now offering of disposing of her carriage, she agreed to sell that like- D 5 wise ( 58 ) wise at the earnest advice of her eldest daughter. For the comfort of her children, had she consulted only her own wishes, she would have kept it; but the discretion of Elinor pre- vailed. Her wisdom too limited the number of their servants to three; two maids and a man, with whom they were speedily provided from amongst those who had formed their establishment at Norland. The man and one of the maids were sent off immediately into De- vonshire, to prepare the house for their mistress's arrival; for as Lady Middleton was entirely unknown to Mrs. Dashwood, she preferred going directly to the cottage to being a vi- sitor at Barton Park ; and she relied so undoubtingly on Sir John's de- scription of the house, as to feel no curiosity to examine it herself till she entered it as her own. Her eagerness to ( 59 ) to be gone from Norland was pre- served from diminution hj the evi- dent satisfaction of her daughter-in- law in the prospect of her removal; a satisfaction which was but feebly attempted to be concealed under a cold invitation to her to defer her de- parture. Now was the time Avhen her son-in-law's promise to his father might with particular propriety be fulfilled. Since he had neglected to do it on first coming to the estate, their quitting his house might be look- ed on as the most suitable period for its accomplishment. But Mrs. Dash- wood began shortly to give over eve- ry hope of the kind, and to be con- vinced, from the general drift of his discourse, that his assistance extend- ed no farther than their maintenance for six months at Norland. He so frequently talked of the increasing- expenses of housekeeping, and of the D G perpetual ( 60 ) perpetual demands upon his purse which a man of any consequence in the world was beyond calculation ex- posed to, that he seemed rather to stand in need of more money himself than to have any design of giving mo- ney away. In a very few weeks from the day which brought Sir John Middleton's first letter to Norland, every thing was so far settled in their future abode as to enable Mrs. Dash wood and her daughters to begin their journey. Many were the tears shed by them in their last adieus to a place so much beloved. " Dear, dear Norland !" said Marianne, as she wandered alone before the house, on the last evening of their being there, " when shall I cease to regret you ! — when learn ta feel a home elsewhere! — Oh ! happy house, could you know what I suffer in now viewing you from this spot, from ( 61 ) from whence perhaps I may view you no more ! — And you, ye well-known trees! but you will continue the same. No leaf will decay because Ave are removed, nor any branch be- come motionless although we can ob- serve you no longer ! — No ; you will continue the same; unconscious of the pleasure or the regret you occa- sion, and insensible of any change in those who walk under your shade! — But who will remain to enjoy you ?" CHAP- ( 02 ) CHAPTER VI. The first part of their journey wai? performed in too melancholy a dis- position to be other^vise than tedious and unpleasant. But as they drew towards the end of it, their interest in the appearance of a country Avhich they were to inhabit overcame their dejection, and a view of Barton Val- ley" as they entered it gave them cheerfulness. It was a pleasant fer- tile spot, well wooded, and rich in pasture. After winding along it for more than a mile, they reached their own house. A small green court was the whole of its demesne in front ; and a neat wicket gate admitted them into it. As ( 63 ) As a house, Barton Cottage, though small, was comfortable and compact; but as a cottage it was defective, for the building was regular, the roof was tiled, the window shutters were not painted green, nor were the walls co- vered with honeysuckles. A narrow passage led directly through the house into the garden behind. On each side of the entrance was a sitting room, about sixteen feet square; and be- yond them were the offices and the stairs. Four bed-rooms and two gar- rets formed the rest of the house. It had not been built many years and was in good repair. In comparison of Norland, it was poor and small in- deed ! — but the tears which recollec- tion called forth as they entered the house were soon dried away. They were cheered by the joy of the ser- vants on their arrival, and each for the sake of the others resolved to ap- pear ( 64 ) pear happy. It was very early in September; the season was fine, and from first seeing the place under the advantage of good weather, they re- ceived an impression in its favour, which was of material service in re- commending it to their lasting appro- bation. The situation of the house was good. High hills rose immediately behind, and at no great distance on each side; some of which were open downs, the others cultivated and woody. The village of Barton was chiefly on one of these hills, and formed a pleasant view from the cot- tage windows. The prospect in front was more extensive; it commanded the whole of the valley, and reached into the country beyond. The hills which surrounded the cottage termi- nated the valley in that direction; under another name, and in another course, ( 65 ) course, it branched out again between two of the steepest of them. With the size and furniture of the house Mrs. Dashwood was upon the whole w ell satisfied ; for though her former stile of life rendered many ad- ditions to the latter indispensable, yet to add and improve was a delight to her; and she had at this time rea- dy money enough to supply all that was wanted of greater elegance to the apartments. " As for the house it- self, to be sure," said she, ** it is too small for our familv, but we will make ourselves tolerably comfortable for the present, as it is too late in the year for improvements. Perhaps in the spring, if I have plenty of money, as I dare say I shall, we may think about building. These parlours are both too small for such parties of our friends as I hope to see often collect- ed here; and I have some thoughts* of ( 66 ) of throwing the passage into one of them with perhaps a part of the other, and so leave the remainder of that other for an entrance; this, with a new drawing-room which may be easily added, and a bed-chamber and garret above, will make it a very snug little cottage. I could wish the stairs were handsome. Bat one must not expect every thing; though I suppose it would be no difficult matter to wi- den them. I shall see how much I am before-hand with the world in tlie spring, and we will plan our im- provements accordingly. In the mean time, till all these al- terations could be made from the sav- ings of an income of five hundred a year by a woman who never saved in her life, they were wise enough to be contented with the house as it Avas; and each of them was busy in ar- ranging their particular concerns, and endeavouring, ( 67 ) endeavouring, by placing around them their books and other possessions, to form themselves a home. Marianne's pianoforte was unpacked and proper- ly disposed of; and Elinor's drawings were affixed to the walls of their sit- ting room. In such employments as these they were interrupted soon after breakfast the next day by the entrance of their landlord, who called to welcome them to Barton, and to offer them every accommodation from his own house and garden in which their's might at present be deficient. Sir John Mid- dleton was a good looking man, about forty. He had formerly visited at Stanhill, but it was too long ago for his young cousins to remember him. His countenance was thoroughly good- humoured; and his manneis were as friendly as the stile of his letter. Their arrival seemed to afford him real ( 68 ) real satisfaction, and their comfort to be an object of real solicitude to him. He said much of his earnest desire of their living in the most sociable terms with his family, and pressed them so cordially to dine at Barton Park every day till they were better settled at home, that, though his en- treaties were carried to a point of perseverance beyond civility, they could not give offence. His kindness was not confined to words; for with- in an hour after he left them, a large basket full of garden stuff and fruit arrived from the park, which was fol- lowed before the end of the day by a present of game. He insisted more- over on conveying all their letters to and from the post for them, and would not be denied the satisfaction of sending them his newspaper every day. Lady Middleton had sent a very Qivil ( 69 ) civil message by him, denoting her intention of waiting on Mrs. Dash- wood as soon as she could be assured that her visit would be no inconve- nience; and as this message was an- swered by an invitation equally po- lite, her ladyship was introduced to them the next day. They were of course very anxious to see a person on whom so much of their comfort at Barton must depend; and the elegance of her appearance was favourable to their wishes. La- dy Middleton was not more than six or seven and twenty; her face was handsome, her figure tall and striking, and her address graceful. Her man- ners had all the elegance which her husband's wanted. But they would have been improved by some share of his frankness and warmth;, and her visit was long enough to detract something from their first admiration, by ( 70 ) by shewing that though perfectly well bred, she was reserved, cold, and had nothing to say for herself beyond the most common-place enquiry or re- mark. Conversation however was not wanted, for Sir John was very chatty, and Lady Middleton had taken the wise precaution of bringing with her their eldest child, a fine little boy about six years old, by which means there was one subject always to be recurred to by the ladies in case of extremity, for they had to inquire his name and age, admire his beauty, and ask him questions which his mother answered for him, while he hung about her and held down his head, to the great surprise of her ladyship, who wondered at his being so shy be- fore company as he could make noise enough at home. On every formal visit, a child ought to be of the par- ty, ( 71 ) ty, by way of provision for discourse. In the present case, it took up ten minutes to determine whether the boy were most like his father or mo- ther, and in what particular he re- sembled either, for of course every body differed, and every body Avas astonished at each other's opinion. An opportunity was soon to be gi- ven to the Dashwoods of debating on the rest of the children, as Sir John would not leave the house without securing their promise of dining at the park the next day. CHAPTER ( 72 ) CHAPTER VII. Barton Park was about half a mile from the cottage. The ladies had passed near it in their way along the valley, but it was screened from their view at home by the projection of an hill. The house was large and handsome; and the Middletons lived in a stile of equal hospitality and ele- gance. The former was for Sir John's gratification, the latter for that of his lady. They were scarcely ever with- out some friends staying with them in the house, and they kept more company of every kind than any other family in the neighbourhood. It was necessary to the happiness of both ; for however dissimilar in tem- per and outward behaviour, they strongly ( 73 ) strangly resembled each other in that total want of talent and taste which confined their employments, uncon- nected with such as society produced, within a very narrow compass. Sir John was a sportsman, Lady Mid- dleton a mother. He hunted and shot, and she humoured her children ; and these were their only resources. Lady Middleton had the advantage of being able to spoil her children all the year round, while Sir John's indepen- dent employments were in existence only half the time. Continual en- gagements at home and abroad how- ever, supplied all ^he deficiencies of nature and education; supported the good spirits of Sir John, and gave ex- ercise to the good breeding of his wife- Lady Middleton piqued herself upon the elegance of her table, and of all her domestic arrangements; VOL. I. E and ( 74 ) land from this kind of vanity was her greatest enjoyment in any of their parties. But Sir John's satisfaction in society was much more real; he delighted in collecting about him more young people than his house would hold, and the noisier they were the better was he pleased. He was a blessing to all the juvenile part of the neighbourhood, for in summer he was for ever forming parties to eat cold ham and chicken out of doors, and in winter his private balls were numerous enough for any young lady who was not suffering under the in- satiable appetite of fifteen. The arrival of a new family in the country was always a matter of joy to him, and in every point of view he was charmed with the inliabitants he had now procured for his cottage at Barton. The Miss Dashwoods were yomig, pretty, and unaffected. It wa8 ( 75 ) • was enough to secure his good opi- nion; for to be unaffected was all that a pretty girl could want to make her mind as captivating as her per- son. The friendliness of his disposi- tion made him happy in accommo- dating tliose, whose situation might be considered, in comparison with the past, as unfortunate. In shewing kindness to his cousins therefore he had the real satisfaction of a good heart ; and in settling a family of fe- males only in his cottage, he had all the satisfaction of a sportsman; for a sportsman, though he esteems only those of his sex who are sportsmen likewise, is not often desirous of en- couraging their ta^te by admitting them to a residence within his own manor. Mrs. Dashwood and her daughters were met at the door of the house by Sir John, who welcomed them to K 2 Bailou ( 76 ) Barton Park with unaffected since- rity; and as he attended them to the drawing room repeated to the young ladies the concern which the same subject had drawn from him the day before, at being unable to get any smart young men to meet them. They would see, he said, only one gentleman there besides himself; a particular friend who was staying at the park, but who was neither very young nor very gay. He hoped they would all excuse the smallness of the party, and could assure them it should never happen so again. He had been to several families that morning in hopes of procuring some addition to their number, but it was moonlight and every body was full of engagements. Luckily Lady Mid- dleton's mother had arrived at Bar- ton within the last hour, and as she Avas a very cheerful agreeable woman, he ( 77 ) he hoped the young ladies would not find it so very dull as they might imagine. The young ladies, as well as their mother, were perfectly satis- tied with having two entire strangers of the party, and wished for no more. Mrs. Jennings, Lady Middleton's mother, was a good humoured, mer- ry, fat, elderly woman, who talked a great deal, seemed very happy, and rather vulgar. She was full of jokes and laughter, and before dinner w as over had said many witty things on the subjects of lovers and husbands ; hoped they had not left their hearts behind them in Sussex, and pretend- ed to see them blush whether they did or not. Marianne was vexed at it for her sister's sake, and turned her eyes towards Elinor to see how she bore these attacks, with an earnest- ness which gave Elinor far more pain than could arise from such common- place raillery as Mrs. Jennings's. E 3 Colonel ( 78 ) Colonel Brandon, the friend of Sir John, seemed no more adapted by resemblance of manner to be his friend,^ than Lady Middleton was to be his wife, or Mrs. Jennings to be Lady Middleton's mother. He was silent and grave. His appearance however was not unpleasing, in spite of his being in the opinion of Mari- anne and Margaret an absolute old bachelor, for he was on the wrong side of five and thirty ; but though iiis face w as not handsome his coun- tenance w as sensible, and his address was particularly gen tlemanlike^ There was nothing in any of the party which could recommend them as companions to the Dash woods; but the cold insipidity of Lady Mid- dleton was so particularly repulsive, that in comparison of it the gravity of Colonel Brandon, and even the bois- terous mirth of Sir John and his mo- ther-in-law was interesting. Lady Middleton ( 79 ) Middletoii seemed to be roused ia enjoyment only by the entrance of her four noisy children after dinner, who pulled her about, tore her clothes, and put an end to every kind of discourse except what related to themselves. In the evening, as Marianne was discovered to be musical, she was in- vited to play. The instrument was unlocked, every body prepared to be charmed, and Marianne, who sang ve- yy well, at their request went through the chief of the songs which Ladf Middleton had brought into the fa- mily on her marriage, and which per- haps had lain ever since in the same position on the pianoforte, for her la- dyship had celebrated that event by giving up music, although by her mo- ther's account she had played ex- tremely well, and by her own was ve- ry fond of it. E 4 Mariannes ( 80 ) Marianne's performance was highly applauded. Sir John was loud in his admiration at the end of every song, and as loud in his conversation with the others while every song lasted* Lady Middleton frequently called him to order, wondered how any one's attention could be diverted from music for a moment, and asked Ma- rianne to sing a particular song which Marianne had just finished. Colonel Brandon alone, of all the party, heard her without being in raptures. He paid her only the compliment of at- tention; and she felt a respect for him on the occasion, which the others had reasonably forfeited by their shame- less want of taste. His pleasure in music, though it amounted not to that extatic delight which alone could sympathize with her own, was esti- mable when contrasted against the horrible insensibility of the others; and ( 81 ) and she was reasonable enough to allow that a man of five and thirty might well have outlived all acute- ness of feeling and every exquisite power of enjoyment. She was per- fectly disposed to make every allow- ance for the colonel's advanced state of life which humanity required. E o CHAPTER ( 62 ) CHAPTER VIIL Mrs. Jennings was a widow, with an ample jointure. She had only two daughters, both of whom she had lived to see respectably married, and she had now therefore nothing to do but to marry all the rest of the world. In the promotion of this object she was zealously active, as far as her ability reached; and missed no opportunity of projecting weddings among all the young people of her acquaintance. She w^as remarkably quick in the dis- covery of attachments, and had en- joyed the advantage of raising the blushes and the vanity of many a young lady by insinuations of her power over such a young man; and this C 83- ) tiiis kind of discernment enabled her soon after her arrival at Barton de- cisively to pronounce that Colonel Brandon was very much in love with Marianne Dashwood. She rather suspected it to be so, on the very first evening of their being together, from his listening so attentively while she Sang to them; and when the visit was returned by the Middletons' dining at the rottvith it. But they learnt, on inquiry, that its possessor, an elderly lady of Tery good character, was unfortu- nately too infirm to mix with the world, and never stirred from home. The whole country about them abounded in beautiful walks. The high downs which invited them from almost every window of the cottage to seek the exiquisite enjoyment of air on their summits, were an happy alternative when the dirt of the val- leys beneath shut up their superior beauties; and towards one of these hills did Marianne and Margaret one memorable morning direct tlieir steps, attracted by the partial sunshine of a showery sky, and unable longer to bear the confinement which the set- tled rain of the two preceding days had occasioned. The weather Avas not tempting enough to draw the two others from their pencil and their book, ( 9.3 ) book, in spite of Marianne's declara- tion that the day would be lastingly fair, and that every threatening cloud would be dra^vn off from their hills; and the two girls set off together. They gaily ascended the downs, rejoicing in their own penetration at every glimpse of blue sky; and when they caught in their faces the ani- mating gales of an high south-wester- ly wind, they pitied the fears which had prevented their mother and Eli- nor from sharing such delightful sen- sations. " Is there a felicity in the world," «aid Marianne, " superior to this? — Margaret, we will walk here at least two hours." Margaret agreed, and they pursued their way against the wind, resisting it with laughing delight for about twenty minutes longer, when sudden- ly the clouds united over their heads, and ( 96 ) and a driving rain set full in their face. Chagrined and surprised, they were obliged, though unwillingly, to turn back, for no shelter was nearer than their own house. One consola- tion however remained for them, to which the exigence of the moment gave more than usual propriety; it was that of running with all possible speed down the steep side of the hill w hich led immediately to their garden gate. They set off. Marianne had at first the advantage, but a false step brought her suddenly to the ground, and Mar- garet, unable to stop herself to assist her, was involuntarily hurried along, and reached the bottom in safety. A gentleman carrying a gun, with two pointers playing round him, was passing up the hill and within a few yards of Marianne, when her acci- dent happened. He put down his gun and ran to her assistance. She had ( 97 ) bad raised herself from the ground, but her foot had been twisted in the fall, and she was scarcely able to stand. The gentleman offered his services, and perceiving that her mo- desty declined what her situation ren- dered necessary, took her up in his arms without farther delay, and car- ried her down the hill. Then pass- ing through the garden, the gate of which had been left open by Marga- ret, he bore her directly into the house, whither Margaret was just ar- rived, and quitted not his hold till he had seated her in a chair in the par- lour. Elinor and her mother rose up in amazement at their entrance, and while the eyes of both were fixed on him with an evident wonder and a se- cret admiration which equally sprung from his appearance, he apologized for his intrusion by relating its cause, VOL. I. F in ( 98 ) in a manner so frank and so graceful, that his person, which was uncom- monly handsome, received additional charms from his voice and expres- sion. Had he been even old, ugly, and vulgar, the gratitude and kind- ness of Mrs. Dashwood would have been secured by any act of attention to her child; but the influence of youth, beauty, and elegance, gave an interest to the action which came home to her feelings. She thanked him again and again; and with a sweetness of address which always attended her, invited him to be seated. But this he declined, as he was dirty and wet. Mrs. Dash- wood then begged to know to whom she was obliged. His name, he re- plied, was Willoughby, and his pre- sent home was at Allenham, from whence he hoped she would allow him the honour of calling to-morrow to ( 99 ) to enquire after Miss Dashwood. The honour was readily granted, and he then departed, to make himself still more interesting, in the midst of an heavy rain. His manly beauty and more than common gracefulness were instantly the theme of general admiration, |and the laugh which his gallantry raised against Marianne, received particular spirit from his exterior attractions. Marianne herself had seen less of his person than the rest, for the confu- sion which crimsoned over her face, on his lifting her up, had robbed her of the power of regarding him after their entering the house. But she had seen enough of him to join in all the admiration of the others, and with an energy which always adorned her praise. His person and air were equal to what her fancy had ever drawn for the hero of a favourite sto- F 2 ry; ( 100 ) ry; and in his carrying her into the house with so little previous formal- ity, there was a rapidity of thought which particularly recommended the action to her. Every circumstance belonging to him was interesting. His name was good, his residence was in their favourite village, and she soon found out that of all manly dres- ses a shooting-jacket was the most becoming. Her imagination was bu- sy, her reflections were pleasant, and the pain of a sprained ancle was dis- regarded. Sir John called on them as soon as the next interval of fair weather that morning allowed him to ^et out of doors ; and Marianne's accident being related to him, he was eagerly asked whether he knew any gentleman of the name of Willoughby at Allen- ham. " Willoughby!" cried Sir John; " what. ( 101 ) ** what, is he in the country? That is good news however; I will ride over to-morrow, and ask him to dinner on Thursday." " You know him then," said Mrs. Dashwood. " Know him! to be sure I do. Why, he is down here every year." ** And what sort of a young man is he?" " As good a kind of fellow as ever lived, I assure you. A very decent ^hot, and there is not a bolder rider in England." " And is that all you can say for him?" cried Marianne, indignantly. ** But what are his manners on more intimate acquaintance? What his pur- suits, his talents and genius?" Sir John was rather puzzled. " Upon my soul," said he, "I do not know much about him as to all that. But he is a pleasant, good hu- moured fellow, and has got the nicest F 3 little ( 102 ) little black bitch of a pointer I ever saw. Was she out with him to-day?'* But Marianne could no more sa- tisfy him as to the colour of Mr. Wil- loughby's pointer, than he could de- scribe to her the shades of his mind. " But who is he?" said Elinor. " Where does he come from? Has he a house at Allenham ?" On this point Sir John could give more certain intelligence; and he told them that Mr. Willoughby had no property of his own in the country;, that he resided there only while he was visiting the old lady at Allenham Court, to whom he was related, and whose possessions he was to inherit; adding, " Yes, yes, he is very well worth catching, I can tell you, Miss Dashwood; he has a pretty little es- tate of his own in Somersetshire be- sides; and if I were you, I would not give him up to my younger sister in spite ( 103 ) spite of all this tumbling down hills. Miss Marianne must not expect to have all the men to herself. Brandon will be jealous, if she does not take care." " I do not believe," said Mrs. Dash- wood, with a good humoured smile, " that Mr. Willoughby will be in- commoded by the attempts of either of my daughters towards what you call catching Jmn. It is not an em- ployment to which they have been brought up. Men are very safe with us, let them be ever so rich. I am glad to find, however, from what you say, that he is a respectable young man, and one whose acquaintance will not be ineligible." " He is as good a sort of fellow, I believe, as ever lived," repeated Sir John. " I remember last Christmas, at a little hop at the park, he danced from eight o'clock till four, without once sitting down." F 4 " Did ( 104 ) '* Did he indeed ?" cried Marianne, with sparkling eyes, " and with ele- gance, with spirit?" " Yes; and he was up again at eight to ride to covert." " That is what I like; that is what a young man ought to be. Whatever be his pursuits, his eagerness in them should know no moderation, and leave him no sense of fatigue." " Aye, aye, I see how it will be," said Sir John, " I see how it will be. You will be setting your cap at him now, and never think of poor Bran- don." " That is an expression. Sir John," said Marianne, warmly, " which I particularly dislike. I abhor every common-place phrase by which wit is mtended; and * setting one's cap at a man,' or ' making a conquest,' are the most odious of all. Their tendency is gross and illiberal; and if ( 105 ) if their construction could ever be deemed clever, time has long ago de- stroyed all its ingenuity." Sir John did not much understand this reproof; but he laughed as heart- ily as if he did, and then replied, " Aye, you will make conquests enough, I dare say, one way or other. Poor Brandon! he is quite smitten already, and he is very well worth setting your cap at, I can tell you, in spite of all this tumbling about and spraining of ancles." F.5 CHAP- ( 106 ) CHAPTER X. Marianne's preserver, as Margaret, with more elegance than precision, stiled Willoughby, called at the cot- tage early the next morning to make his personal enquiries. He was re- ceived by Mrs. Dashwood with more than politeness; with a kindness which Sir John's account of him and her own gratitude prompted; and every thing that passed during the visit, tended to assure him of the sense, elegance, mutual affection, and domestic comfort of the family to whom accident had now introduced him. Of their personal charms he had not required a second interview to be convinced. Miss ( 107 ) Miss Dashwood had a delicate complexion, regular features, and a remarkably pretty figure. Marianne was still handsomer. Her form, though not so correct as her sister's, in hav- ing the advantage of height, was more striking; and her face was so lovely, that when in the common cant of praise she was called a beautiful girl, truth was less violently outraged than usually happens. Her skin was very brown, but from its transparency, her complexion was uncommonly bril- liant; her features were all good; her smile was sweet and attractive, and in her eyes, which were very dark, there w^s a life, a spirit, an eagerness which could hardly be seen without delight. From Willoughby their ex- pression was at first held back, by the embarrassment which the remem- brance of his assistance created. But when this passed away, when her F 6 spirits ( 108 ) spirits became collected, when she saw that to the perfect good breeding of the gentleman, he united frankness and vivacity, and above all, when she heard him declare that of music and dancing he was passionately fond, she gave him such a look of appro- bation as secured the largest share of his discourse to herself for the rest of his stay. It was only necessary to mention any favourite amusement to engage her to talk. She could not be silent when such points were introduced, and she had neither shyness nor re- serve in their discussion. They speedily discovered that their enjoy- ment of dancing and music was mutual, and that it arose from a gene- ral conformity of judgment in all that related to either. Encouraged by this to a further examination of his opinions, she proceeded to question him ( 109 ) him on the subject of books; her fa- vourite authors were brought for- ward and dwelt upon with so raptu- rous a delight, that any young man of five and twenty must have been insensible indeed, not to become an immediate convert to the excellence of such works, however disregarded before. Their taste was strikingly alike. The same books, the same passages were idolized by each — or if any difference appeared, any objec- tion arose, it lasted no longer than till the force of her arguments and the brightness of her eyes could be displayed. He acquiesced in all her decisions, caught all her enthusiasm; and long before his visit concluded, they conversed with the familiarity of a long established acquaintance. " Well Marianne," said Elinor, as soon as he had left them, for one morniug I think you have done pretty well. ( 110 ) well. You have already ascertained Mr. Willoiighby's opinion in almost every matter of importance. You know what he thinks of Cowper and Scott ; you are certain of his estimat- ing their beauties as he ought, and you have received every assurance of his admiring Pope no more than is proper. But how is your acquaint- ance to be long supported, under such extraordinary dispatch of every subject for discourse ? You will soon have exhausted each favourite topic. Another meeting will suffice to ex- plain his sentiments on picturesque beauty, and second marriages, and then you can have nothing farther to ask."— " Elinor," cried Marianne, " is this fair? is this just? are my ideas so scanty ? But I see what you mean. I have been too much at my ease, too happy, . too frank. I have erred against ( 111 ) against every common place notion of decorum; I have been open and sincere where I ought to have been reserved, spiritless, dull, and deceit- ful: — had I talked only of the weather and the roads, and had I spoken only once in ten minutes, this re- proach would have been spared." — " My love," said her mother, " you must not be offended with Elinor — she v/as only in jest. I should scold her myself, if she were capable of wishing to check the delight of your conversation with our new friend." — Marianne was softened in a moment. Willoughby, on his side, gave every proof of his pleasure in their ac- quaintance, which an evident wish of improving it could offer. He came to them every day. To enquire after Marianne was at first his excuse; but the encouragement of his reception, to which every day gave greater kind- ness, ( 112 ) ness, made such an excuse unneces- sary before it had ceased to be possi- ble, by Marianne's perfect recovery. She was confined for some davs to the house; but never had any confinement been less irksome. Willoughby was a young man of good abilities, quick imagination, lively spirits, and open, affectionate manners. He was exactly formed to engage Marianne's heart, for with all this, he joined not only a captivating person, but a natural ardour of mind which was now roused and increased by the example of her own, and which recommended him to her affection beyond every thing else. His society became gradually her most exquisite enjoyment. They read, they talked, they sang together; his musical talents were considerable; and he read with all the sensibility and ( 113 ) and spirit which Edward had unfor- tunately wanted. In Mrs. Dashwood's estimation, he was as faultless as in Marianne's ; and Elinor saw nothing to censure in him but a propensity, in which he strongly resembled and peculiarly delighted her sister, of saying too much what he thought on every occasion, without attention to persons or circumstances. In hastily forming and giving his opi- nion of other people, in sacrificing general politeness to the enjoyment of undivided attention where his heart was engaged, and in slightmg too easily the forms of worldly propriety, he displayed a want of caution which Elinor could not approve, in spite of all that he and Marianne could say in its support. Marianne began now to perceive that the desperation vvliich had seized her ( 114 ) her at sixteen and a half, of ever see- ing a man who could satisfy her ideas of perfection, had been rash and un- justifiable. Willoughby was all that her fancy had delineated in that un- happy hour and in every brighter period, as capable of attaching her; and his behaviour declared his wishes to be in that respect as earnest, as his ability was strong. Her mother too, in whose mind not one speculative thought of their mar- riage had been raised, by his prospect of riches, was led before the end of a week to hope and expect it; and secretly to congratulate herself on having gained two such sons-in-law as Edward and Willoughby. Colonel Brandon's partiality for Marianne, which had so early been discovered by his friends, now first became perceptible to Elinor, when it ceased ( 115 ) ceased to be noticed by them. Their attention and wit were drawn off to his more fortunate rival; and the rail- lery which the other had incurred before any partiality arose, was re- moved when his feelings began really to call for the ridicule so justly annex- ed to sensibility. Elinor was obliged, though unwillingly, to believe that the sentiments which Mrs. Jennings had assigned him for her own satisfaction, were now actually excited by her sister; and that however a general resemblance of disposition between the parties might forward the affection of Mr. Willoughby, an ecjually strik- ing opposition of character was no hindrance to the regard of Colonel Brandon. She saw it with concern; for what could a silent man of five and thirty hope, when opposed by a very lively one of five and twenty? and as she ( 116 ) she could not even wish him success- ful she heartily wished him indiffe- rent. She liked him — in spite of his gravity and reserve, she beheld in him an object of interest. His manners, though serious, were mild; and his re- serve appeared rather the result of some oppression of spirits, than of any natural gloominess of temper. Sir John had dropt hints of past injuries and disappointments, which justified her belief of his being an unfortunate man, and she regarded him with re- spect and compassion. Perhaps she pitied and esteemed him the more because he was slighted by Willoughby and Marianne, who, prejudiced against him for being neither lively nor young, seemed re- solved to undervalue his merits. " Brandon is just the kind of man," said Willoughby one day, when they were talking of him together, " whom every ( 117 ) everybody speaks well of, and nobody cares about; whom all are delighted to see, and nobody remembers to talk to." " That is exactly what I think of him," cried Marianne. " Do not boast of it however," said Elinor, "for it is injustice in both of you. He is highly esteemed by all the family at the park, and I never see him myself without taking pains to converse with him." " That he is patronized by yoii^' re- plied Willoughby, " is certainly in his favour; but as for the esteem of the others, it is a reproach in itself. Who would submit to the indignity of being approved by such women as Lady Middleton and Mrs. Jennings, that could command the indifference of any body else?" " But perhaps the abuse of such people as yourself and Marianne, will make ( 118 ) make amends for the regard of Lady Middleton and her mother. If their praise is censure, your censure may be praise, for they are not more un- discerning, than you are prejudiced and unjust." " In defence of your proteg6 you can even be saucy." " My protege, as you call him, is a sensible man ; and sense will always have attractions for me. Yes, Marianne, even in a man between thirty and forty. He has seen a great deal of the world ; has been abroad ; has read, and has a thinking mind. I have found him capable of giving me inuch information on various subjects, and he has always answered my en- quiries with the readiness of good breeding and good nature." " That is to say, cried Marianne contemptuously, he has told you that in the East Indies the climate is hot, and the mosquitoes are troublesome." "He ( 119 ) " He wouldhawe told me so, I doubt not, had I made any such enquiries, but they happened to be points on which I had been previously in- formed." " Perhaps," said Willoughby, " his observations may have extended to the existence of nabobs, gold mohrs, and palanquins." " I may venture to say that his observations have stretched much far- ther than 7/ our candour. But why should you dislike him?" " I do not dislike him. I consider him, on the contrary, as a very respec- table man, who has every body's good word and nobody's notice; who has more money than he can spend, more time than he knows how to employ, and two new coats every year." " Add to which," cried Marianne, *'* that he has neither genius, taste, nor spirit. That his understanding has no ( 120 ) no brilliancy, his feelings no ardour, and his voice no expression." " You decide on his imperfections so much in the mass," replied Elinor, " and so much on the strength of your own imagination, that the commen- dation / am able to give of him is comparatively cold and insipid. I can only pronounce him to be a sen- sible man, well-bred, well-informed, of gentle address, and I believe pos- sessing an amiable heart." "Miss Dashwood," cried Willough- by> " y<^u ^I'G ^ow using me unkindly. You are endeavouring to disarm me by reason, and to convince me against my will. But it will not do. You shall find me as stubborn as you can be artfid. I have three unanswerable reasons for disliking Colonel Bran- don: he has threatened me with rain when I wanted it to be fine ; he has found fault with the hanging of my ( 121 ) my curricle, and I cannot persuade him to buy my brown mare. If it will be any satisfaction to you, how- ever, to be told, that I believe his character to be in other respects ir- reproachable, I am ready to confess it. And in return for an acknow- ledgment, which must give me some pain, you cannot deny me the privi- lege of disliking him as much as ever," VOL. I. G CHAPTER ( 122 ) CHAPTER XL Little had Mrs. Dashwood or her daughters imagined, when they first came into Devonshire, that so many engagements would arise to occupy their time as shortly presented them- selves, or that they should have such frequent invitations and such con- stant visitors as to leave them little leisure for serious employment. Yet such was the case. When Marianne was recovered, the schemes of amuse- ment at home and abroad, which Sir John had been previously forming, were put in execution. The private balls at the park then began; and parties on the water were made and accomplished as often as a showery October would allow. In every meet- ing ( 1-23 ) iiig of the kind Willoughby was in- cluded ; and the ease and familiarity which naturally attended these par- ties were exactly calculated to give increasing intimacy to his acquaint- ance with the Dashwoods, to afford him opportunity of witnessing the ex- cellencies of Marianne, of marking his animated admiration of her, and of receiving, in her behaviour to him- self, the most pointed assurance of jjer affection, Elinor could not be surprised at their attachment. She only wished that it were less openly shewn; and once or twice did venture to suggest the propriety of some self-command to Marianne. But Marianne abhor- red all concealment where no real disgrace could attend unreserve ; and to aim at the restraint of sentiments which were not in themselves illaud- able, appeared to her not merely an G 2 unneces- ( 124 ) unnecessary effort, but a disgraceful subjection of reason to common- place and mistaken notions. Wil- lougliby thought the same; and their behaviour, at all times, ^vas an illus- tration of their opinions. When he was present she had no eyes for any one else. Every thing he did, was right. Every thing he said, was clever. If their evenings at the park were concluded with cards, he cheated himself and all the rest of the party to get her a good hand. If dancing formed the amusement of the night, they were partners for half the time; and when obliged to separate for a couple of dances, were careful to stand together and scarcely spoke a word to any body else. Such con- duct made them of course most 'ex- ceedingly laughed at; but ridicule could not shame, and seemed hardly to provoke them. Mrs. ( 125 ) Mrs. Dashwood entered into all their feelings with a warmth which left her no inclination for checking this excessive display of them. To her it was but the natural conse- quence of a strong affection in a young and ardent mind. This was the season of happiness to Marianne. Her heart was devoted to Willoughby, and the fond attach- ment to Norland, which she brought with her from Sussex, w^.s more likely to be softened than she had thought it possible before, by the charms which his society bestowed on her present home. Elinor's happiness was not so great. Her heart was not so much at ease, nor her satisfaction in their amuse- ments so pure. They afforded her no companion that could make amends for what she had left behind, nor that could teach her to think of Norland G 3 with ( 126 ) with less regret than ever. Neither Lady Middleton nor Mrs. Jennings could supply to her the conversation she missed ; although the latter was an everlasting talker, and from the first had regarded her with a kind- ness which ensured her a large share of her discourse. She had already repeated her own history to Elinor three or four times ; and had Elinor's memory been equal to her means of improvement, she might have known very early in their acquaintance, all the particulars of Mr. Jennings's last illness, and what he said to his wife a few minutes before he died. Lady Middleton was more agreeable than her mother, only in being more si- lent. Elinor needed little observa- tion to perceive that her reserve Avas a mere calmness of manner with which sense had nothing to do. To- wards her husband and mother she was ( 127 ) was the same as to them; and in- timacy was therefore neither to be looked for nor desired. She had no- thing to say one day that she had not said the day before. Her insipidity was invariable, for even her spirits were always the same; and though she did not oppose the parties ar- ranged by her husband, provided every thing were conducted in stile and her two eldest children attended her, she never appeared to receive more enjoyment from them, than she might have experienced in sitting at home ; — and so little did her presence add to the pleasure of the others, by any share in their conversation, that they were sometimes only reminded of her being amongst them by her so- licitude about her troublesome boys. In Colonel Brandon alone, of all her new acquaintance, did Elinor find a person who could in any degree G 4 claim ( 128 ) claim the respect of abilities, excite the interest of friendship, or give pleasure as a companion. Willough- by was out of the question. Her ad- miration and regard, even her sisterly regard, was all his own; but he was a lover; his attentions were wholly Marianne's, and a far less agreeable man might have been more generally pleasing. Colonel Brandon, unfortu- nately for himself, had no such en- couragement to think only of Mari- anne, and in conversing with Elinor he found the greatest consolation for the total indifference of her sister. Elinor's compassion for him en- creased, as she had reason to suspect that the misery of disappointed love had already been known by him. This suspicion was given by some words which accidentally dropt from him one evening at the park, when they were sitting down together by mutual ( 129 ) mutual consent, while the others were dancing. His eyes were fixed on Marianne, and, after a silence of some minutes, he said with a faint smile, " Your sister, I understand, does not approve of second attachments/' ** No," replied Elinor, " her opi- nions are all romantic." " Or rather, sts I believe, she con- siders them impossible to exist." " I believe she does. But how she contrives it without reflecting on the character of her own father, wlio had himself two wives, I .know not. A few years however will settle her opinions on the reasonable basis of common sense and observation; and then they may be more easy to define and to justify than they now are, by any body but herself." " This will probably be the case," he replied; " and yet there is some- thing so amiable in the prejudices of G 5 a ( 130 ) a young mind, that one is sorry to see them give way to the reception of more general opinions." " I cannot agree with you there," said Elinor. " There are inconve- niences attending such feelings as Marianne's, which all the charms of enthusiasm and ignorance of the world cannot atone for. Her systems have all the unfortunate tendency of setting propriety at nought; and a better acquaintance with the world is what I look forward to as her greatest possible advantage." After a short pause he resumed the conversation by saying — " Does your sister make no dis- tinction in her objections against a second attachment? or is it equally criminal in every body? Are those who have been disappointed in their first choice, whether from the incon- stancy of its object, or the perverse- ness ( 131 ) ness of circumstances, to be equally indifferent during the rest of their lives?" " Upon my word, J am not ac- quainted with the minutia of her prin- ciples. I only know that I never yet heard her admit any instance of a second attachment's being pardon- able." " This," said he, " cannot hold ; but a change, a total change of senti- ments — No, no, do not desire it, — for when the romantic refinements of a young mind are obliged to give way, how frequently are they succeeded by such opinions as are but too com- mon, and too dangerous ! I speak from experience. I once knew a lady who in temper and mind greatly re- sembled your sister, who thought and judged like her, but who from an inforced change — from a series of unfortunate circumstances" Here G 6 he ( 132 ) he stopt suddenly; appeared to think that he had said too much, and by his countenance gave rise to conjectures, which might not otherwise have en- tered Elinor's head. The lady would probably have passed without sus- picion, had he not convinced Miss Dashwood that what concerned her ought not to escape his lips. As it was, it required but a slight effort of fancy to connect his emotion with the tender recollection of passed re- gard. Elinor attempted no more. But Marianne, in her place, would not have done so little. The whole story would have been speedily form- ed under her active imagination; and every thing established in the most melancholy order of disastrous love. CHAP- ( 133 ) CHAPTER XII. As Elinor and Marianne were walk- ing together the next morning, the latter communicated a piece of news to her sister, which, in spite of all that she knew before of Marianne's imprudence and want of thought, surprised her by its extravagant testi- mony of both. Marianne told her, with the greatest delight, that Wil- loughby had given her a horse, one that he had bred himself on his estate in Somersetsiiire, and which was ex- actly calculated to carry a woman. Witliout considering that it was not in her mother's plan to keep any horse, that if she were to alter her resolution in favour of this gift, she must buy anotlier for the servant, and keep ( 134 ) keep a servant to ride it, and after all, build a stable to receive them, she had accepted the present without hesitation, and told her sister of it in raptures. " He intends to send his groom into Somersetshire immediately for it," she added, " and when it arrives, we will ride every day. You shall share its use with me. Imagine to yourself, my dear Elinor, the delight of a gallop on some of these downs." Most unwilling was she to awaken from such a dream of felicity, to comprehend all the unhappy truths which attended the affair; and for some time she refused to submit to them. As to an additional servant, the expence would be a trifle; mama she was sure would never object to it; and any horse would do for him; he might always get one at the park ; as to a stable, the merest shed would be ( 135 ) be sufficient. Elinor then ventured to doubt the propriety of her receiv- ing such a present from a man so little, or at least so lately known to her. This was too much. " You are mistaken, Elinor," said she warmly, *' in supposing I know but little of Willoughby. I have not known him long indeed, but I am much better acquainted with him, than I am with any other creature in the world, except yourself and mama. It is not time or opportunity that is to determine intimacy; — it is dispo- sition alone. Seven years would be insufficient to make some people ac- quainted with each other, and seven days are more than enough for others. I should hold myself guilty of greater impropriety in accepting a horse from my brother, than from Willoughby. Of John I know very little, though we have lived together for years; but of ( 136 ) of Willoughby, my judgment has long been formed." Elinor thought it wisest to touch that point no more. She knew her sister's temper. Opposition on so tender a subject would only attach her the more to her own opinion. But by an appeal to her affection for her mother, by representing the in- conveniences which that indulgent mother must draw on herself, if (as would probably be the case) she con- sented to this increase of establish- ment, Marianne was shortly sub- dued; and she promised not to tempt her mother to such imprudent kind- ness by mentioning the offer, and to tell Wiiloughby, when she saw him next, that it must be declined. She was faithful to her word ; and when Wiiloughby called at the cot- tage, the same day, Elinor heard her express her disappointment to him in a ( 137 ) a low voice, on being obliged to fore- go the acceptance of his present. The reasons for this alteration were at the same time related, and they were such as to make further en- treaty on his side impossible. His concern how ever was very apparent ; and after expressing it with earnest- ness, he added in the same low voice — " But, Marianne, the horse is still yours, though you cannot use it now. I shall keep it only till you can claim it. When you leave Bar- ton to form your own establishment in a more lasting home, Queen Mab shall receive you." This was all overheard by Miss Dashwood ; and in the whole of the sentence, in his manner of pronounc- ing it, and in his addressing her sister by her christian name alone, she in- stantly saw an intimacy so decided, a meaning so direct, as marked a per- fect ( 138 ) feet agreement between them. From that moment she doubted not of their being engaged to each other; and the belief of it created no other surprise, than that she, or any of their friends, should be left by tempers so frank, to discover it by accident. Margaret related something to her the next day, which placed this mat- ter in a still clearer light. Willoughby had spent the preceding evening with them, and Margaret, by being left some time in the parlour with only him and Marianne, had had oppor- tunity for observations, which, with a most important face, she commu- nicated to her eldest sister, when they were next by themselves. " Oh ! Elinor," she cried, " I have such a secret to tell you about Ma- rianne. I am sure she will be mar- ried to Mr. Willoughby very soon." " You have said so," replied Eli- nor, ( 139 ) nor, ** almost every day since they first met on High-church Down; and they had not known each other a week, I believe, before you were cer- tain that Marianne wore his picture round her neck ; but it turned out to be only the miniature of our great uncle." " But indeed this is quite another thing. I am sure they will be mar- ried very soon, for he has got a lock of her hair." " Take care, Margaret. It may be only the hair of some great uncle of Msr " But indeed, Elinor, it is Mari- anne's. I am almost sure it is, for I saw him cut it off. Last night after tea, when you and mama went out of the room, they were whispering and talking together as fast as could be, and he seemed to be begging some- thing of her, and presently he took ( 140 ) up her scissars and cut off a long lock of her hair, for it was all tum- bled down her back ; and he kissed it, and folded it up in a piece of white paper, and put it into his pocket- book." From such particulars, stated on such authority, Elinor could not with- hold her credit: nor was she disposed to it, for the circumstance was in per- fect unison with what she had heard and seen herself. Margaret's sagacity was not always displayed in a way so satisfactory to her sister. When Mrs. Jennings at- tacked her one evening at the park, to give the name of the young man who was Elinor's particular favourite, which had been long a matter of great curiosity to her, Margaret an- swered by looking at her sister, and saying, " I must not tell, may I, Eli- nor?' This ( 141 ) This of course made every body laugh ; and Elinor tried to laugli too. But the effort was painful. She was convinced that Margaret had fixed on a person whose name she could not bear with composure, to become a standing joke with Mrs. Jen- nings. Marianne felt for her most sincere- ly; but she did more harm than good to the cause, by turning very red, and saying in an angry manner to Mar- garet, " Remember that whatever your conjectures may be, you have no right to repeat them." " I never had any conjectures about it," replied Margaret; " it was you who told me of it yourself" This increased the mirth of the company, and Margaret was eagerly pressed to say something more." " Oh! pray, Miss Margaret, let us know ( 142 ) know all about it," said Mrs. Jen- nings. " What is the gentleman's name ?" " I must not tell ma'am. But I know very well what it is; and I know where he is too." " Yes, yes, we can guess where he is ; at his own house at Norland to be sure. He is the curate of the parish I dare say." " No, that he is not. He is of no profession at all." " Margaret," said Marianne with great waniith, " you know that all this is an invention of your own, and that there is no such person in ex- istence." " Well then he is lately dead, Marianne, for I am sure there was such a man once, and his name begins with an F." Most grateful did Elinor feel to Lady Middleton for observing at this moment. ( 143 ) moment, " that it rained very hard," though she believed the interruption to proceed less from any attention to her, than from her ladyship's great dislike of all such inelegant subjects of raillery as delighted her husband and mother. The idea however started by her, was immediately pur- sued bv Colonel Brandon, who was on every occasion mindful of the feel- ings of others; and much was said on the subject of rain by both of them. Willoughby opened the piano-forte, and asked Marianne to sit down to it; and thus amidst the various en- deavours of different people to quit the topic, it fell to the ground. But not so easily did Elinor recover from the alarm into which it had thrown her. A party was formed this evening for going on the following day to see a very fine place about twelve miles from ( 144 ) from Barton, belonging to a brother- in-law of Colonel Brandon, without whose interest it could not be seen, as the proprietor, who was then abroad, had left strict orders on that head. The grounds were declared to be highly beautiful, and Sir John, who was particularly warm in their praise, might be allowed to be a tolerable judge, for he had formed parties to visit them, at least, twice every sum- mer for the last ten years. They contained a noble piece of water; a sail on which was to form a great part of the morning's amusement: cold provisions were to be taken, open carriages only to be employed, and every thing conducted in the usual stile of a complete party of pleasure. To some few of the company, it appeared rather a bold under- taking, considering the time of year, and ( 145 ) and that it had rained every day for the last fortnight; — and Mrs. Dashwood, who had already a cold, was persuaded by Elinor to stay at homa ^L- Jf- H CHAP- ( 146 ) CHAPTER XIII. Their intended excursion to Whit- well turned out very differently from what Elinor had expected. She was prepared to be wet through, fatigued, and frightened; but the event was still more unfortunate, for they did not go at all. By ten o'clock the whole party were assembled at the park, where they were to breakfast. The morn- ing- was rather favourable, though it had rained all night, as the clouds were then dispersing across the sky, and the sun frequently appeared. They were all in high spirits and good humour, eager to be happy, and de- termined to submit to the greatest incon- ( 147 ) inconveniences and hardships rather than be otherwise. While they were at breakfast the letters were brought in. Among the rest there was one for Colonel Bran- don; — he took it, looked at the di- rection, changed colour, and immedi- ately left the room. " What is the matter Avith Bran- don ?" said Sir John. Nobody could tell. " I hope he has had no bad news," said Lady Middleton. *' It must be something extraordinary that could make Colonel Brandon leave my breakfast table so suddenly." In about five minutes he returned. " No bad news, Colonel, I hope ;" said Mrs. Jennings, as soon as he en- tered the room. " None at all, ma'am, I thank you." " Was it from Avignon? I hope H 2 it ( 148 ) it is not to say that your sister is worse/' " No, ma'am. It came from town, ^nd is merely a letter of business." " But how came the hand to dis- compose you so much, if it was only a letter of business? Come, come, this wo'nt do, Colonel ; so let us hear the truth of it." " My dear Madam," said Lady Middleton, " recollect what you are saying." " Perhaps it is to tell you that your cousin Fanny is married?" said Mrs. Jennings, without attending to her daughter's reproof. " No, indeed, it is not." " Well, then, I know who it is from. Colonel. And I hope she is well." " Whom do you mean, ma'am?" said he, colouring a little. " Oh ! you know who I mean." " I am ( 149 ) " I am particularly sorry, ma'am," said he, addressing Lady Middleton, " that I should receive this letter to- day, for it is on business which re- quires my immediate attendance in town." " In town!" cried Mrs. Jennings. " What can you have to do in town at this time of year ?" " My own loss is great," he conti- nued, " in being obliged to leave so agreeable a party ; but I am the more concerned, as I fear my presence is necessary to gain your admittance at Whitwell." What a blow upon them all was this! " But if you write a note to the housekeeper, Mr. Brandon," said Marianne eagerly, " will it not be sufficient?" He shook his head. " We must go," said Sir John.— H 3 "It ( 150 ) " It shall not be put off when we are so near it. You cannot go to town till to-morrow, Brandon, that is all." " I wish it could be so easily set- tled. But it is not in my power to delay my journey for one day !" *' If you would but let us know what your business is," said Mrs. Jen- nings, " we might see whether it could be put off or not." " You would not be six hours later," said Willoughby, ** if you were to defer your journey till our return." ** I cannot afford to lose one hour."— Elinor then heard Willoughby say in a low voice to Marianne, ** There are some people who can- not bear a party of pleasure. Bran- don is one of them. He was afraid of catching cold I dare say, and in- vented ( 151 ) vented this trick for getting out of it. I would lay fifty guineas the letter was of his own writing." " I have no doubt of it," replied Marianne. ** There is no persuading you to change your mind, Brandon, I know of old," said Sir John, " when once you are determined on anything. But, however, I hope you will think better of it. Consider, here are the two Miss Careys come over tromi^ov tun, the three Miss Dashwoods walked up from the cottage, and Mr. Wil- loughby got up two hours before his aisual time, on purpose to go to Whit- well." Colonel Brandon again repeated his sorrow at being the cause of dis- appointing the party ; but at the same time declared it to be unavoid- able. H 4 " Well ( 152 ) " Well then, when will you come back again?" " I hope we shall see you at Bar- ton," added her ladyship, " as soon as you can conveniently leave town; and we must put off the party to Whitwell till you return." " You are very obliging. But it is so uncei'tain, when I may have it in my power to return, that I dare not enoraae for it at all." " Oh! he must and shall oome back," cried Sir John. *' If he is not here by the end of the week, I shall go after him.'' " Aye, so do, Sir John," cried Mrs. Jennings, " and then perhaps you may find out what his business is." " I do not want to pry into other men's concerns. I suppose it is some- thing he is ashamed of." Colonel ( 153 ) Colonel Brandon's horses were an- nounced. " You do not go to town on horse- back, do you ?" added Sir John. " No. Only to Honiton. I shall then go post." " Well, as you are resolved to go, I wish you a good journey. But you had better change your mind." " I assure you it is not in my power." He then took leave of the whole party. " Is there no chance of my seeing you and your sisters in town this w in- ter. Miss Dash wood?" " I am afraid, none at all." " Then I must bid you farewell for a longer time than I should wish to do." To Marianne, he merely bowed and said nothing. " Come, Colonel," said Mrs. Jen- H 5 nings, ( 154 ) nings, " before you go, do let us know what you are going about." He wished her a good morning, and attended by Sir John, left the room. The complaints and lamentations which politeness had hitherto restrain- ed, now burst forth universally ; and they all agreed again and again how provoking it was to be so disap- pointed. " I can guess what his business is, however," said Mrs. Jennings exult- ingly. " Can you, ma'am?" said almost every body. " Yes ; it is about Miss Williams, I am sure." " And who is Miss Williams ?" asked Marianne. " What! do not you know who Miss Williams is ? I am sure you must have heard of her before. She is ( 155 ) is a relation of the Colonel's, my dear ; a very near relation. We will not say how near, for fear of shocking the young ladies." Then lowering her voice a little, she said to Elinor, ** She is his natural daughter.'' " Indeed!" " Oh ! yes ; and as like him as she can stare. I dare say the Colonel will leave her all his fortune." Lady Middleton's delicacy was shocked; and in order to banish so improper a subject as the mention of a natural daughter, she actually took the trouble of saying something her- self about the weather. When Sir John returned, he joined most heartily in the general regret on so unfortunate an event; concluding however by observing, that as they were all got together, they- must do something by way of being happy; and after some consultation it was H 6 agreed, ( 156 ) agreed, that although happiness could only be enjoyed at Whitwell, they might procure a tolerable composure of mind by driving about the country. The carriages were then ordered; Willoughby's was first, and Marianne never looked happier than when she got into it. He drove through the park very fast, and they were soon out of sight; and nothing more of them was seen till their return, which did not happen till after the return of all the rest. They both seemed de~ lighted with their drive, but said only in general terms that they had kept in the lanes, while the others went on the downs. It was settled that there should be a dance in the evening, and that every body should be extremely merry all day long. Some more of the Careys came to dinner, and they had the pleasure of sitting down nearly twenty to ( 157 ) to table, which Sir John observed with great contentment. Willoughby took his usual place between the two elder Miss Dashwoods. Mrs. Jen- nings sat on Elinor's right hand; and they had not been long seated, before she leant behind her and Willoughby, and said to Marianne, loud enough for them both to hear, " I have found you out in spite of all your tricks. I know where you spent the morning." Marianne coloured, and replied very hastily, " AVhere, pray ?" — * " Did not you know," said Wil- loughby, " that we had been out in my curricle ?" " Yes, yes, Mr. Impudence, I know that very well, and I was determined to find out where you had been to. — I hope you like your house, Miss Ma- rianne. It is a very large one I know, and when I come to see you, I hope ( 158 ) hope you will have new-furnished it, for it wanted it very much, when I was there six years ago." Marianne turned away in great confusion. Mrs. Jennings laughed heartily; and Elinor found that in her resolution to know where they had been, she had actually made her own w Oman enquire of Mr. Willoughby's groom, and that she had by that method been informed that they had gone to iVllenham, and spent a con- siderable time there in walking about the garden and going all over the house. Elinor could hardly believe this to be true, as it seemed very unlikely that Willoughby should propose, or Marianne consent, to enter the house while Mrs. Smith was in it, with whom Marianne had not the smallest acquaintance. As ( 159 ) As soon as they left the dining- room, Elinor enquired of her about it; and great was her surprise when she found that every circumstance related by Mrs. Jennings was per- fectly true. Marianne was quite angry w ith her for doubting it. " Why should you imagine, Elinor, that we did not go there, or that we did not see the house? Is not it what you have often wished to do yourself?" ^ " Yes, Marianne, but I would not go while Mrs. Smith were there, and with no other companion than Mr. Willoughby." " Mr. Willoughby however is the only person who can have a right to shew that house; and as we went in an open carriage, it was impossible to have any other companion. I never spent a pleasanter morning in my life." '* I ( 160 ) "I am afraid," replied Elinor, ** that the pleasantness of an employ- ment does not always evince its pro- priety." " On the contrary, nothing can be a stronger proof of it, Elinor ; for if there had been any real impropriety in what I did, I should have been sensible of it at the time, for we always know when we are acting wrong, and with such a conviction I could have had no pleasure." " But, my dear Marianne, as it has already exposed you to some very impertinent remarks, do you not now begin to doubt the discretion of your own conduct?" " If the impertinent remarks of Mrs. Jennings are to be the proof of impropriety in conduct, we are all offending every moment of all our lives. I value not her censure any more than I should do her commen- dation. ( 161 ) dation. I am not sensible of having done any thing wrong in walking over Mrs. Smith's grounds, or in see- ing her house. They will one day be Mr. Willoughby's, and" " If they were one day to be your own, Marianne, you would not be justified in what you have done.'* She blushed at this hint; but it was even visibly gratifying to her; and after a ten minutes' interval of earnest thought, she came to her sister again, and said with great good humour, *' Perhaps, Elinor, it was rather ill- judged in me to go to Allenham ; but Mr. Willoughby wanted particu- larly to shew me the place ; and it is a charming house I assure you. — There is one remarkably pretty sit- ting room up stairs ; of a nice com- fortable size for constant use, and with modern furniture it would be delightful. It is a corner room, and has ( 162 ) has windows on two sides. On one side you look across the bowling- green, behind the house, to a beauti- ful hanging wood, and on the other you have a view of the church and village, and, beyond them, of those line bold hills that we have so often admired. I did not see it to advan- tage, for nothing could be more for- lorn than the furniture — but if it were newly fitted up a couple of hun- dred pounds, Willoughby says, w^ould make it one of the pleasantest sum- mer-rooms in England." Could Elinor have listened to her without interruption from the others, she would have described every room in the house with equal delight. CHAP- ( 163 ) CHAPTER XIV. The sudden termination of Colonel Brandon's visit at the park, with his steadiness in concealing its cause, filled the mind and raised the wonder of Mrs. Jennings for two or three days ; she was a great wonderer, as every one must be who takes a very lively interest in all the comings and goings of all their acquaintance. She wondered with little intermission what could be the reason of it ; was sure there must be some bad news, and thought over every kind of dis- tress that could have befallen him, with a fixed determination that he should not escape them all. "• Something very melancholy must be the matter I am sure," said she. " I ( 164 ) " I could see it in his face. Poor man ! I am afraid his circumstances may be bad. The estate at Delaford was never reckoned more than two thousand a year, and his brother left every thing sadly involved. I do think he must have been sent for about money matters, for what else can it be? I wonder whether it is so. I would give any thing to know the truth of it. Perhaps it is about Miss Williams — and, by the bye, I dare say it is, because he looked so conscious when I mentioned her. May be she is ill in town; nothing in the world more likely, for I have a notion she is al- ways rather sickly. I would lay any wager it is about Miss Williams. It is not so very likely he should be dis- tressed in his circumstances now, for he is a very prudent man, and to be sure must have cleared the estate by this time. I wonder what it can be ! May ( 165 ) May be his sister is worse at Avig- non, and has sent for him over. His setting off in such a hurry seems very like it. Well, I wish him out of all his trouble with all my heart, and a good wife into the bargain." So wondered, so talked Mrs. Jen* nings. Her opinion varying with every fresh conjecture, and all seem- ing equally probable as they arose. Elinor, though she felt really interest- ed in the welfare of Colonel Brandon, could not bestow all the wonder on his going so suddenly away, which Mrs. Jennings was desirous of her feeling ; for besides that the circum- stance did not in her opinion justify such lasting amazement or variety of speculation, her wonder was other- wise disposed of. It was engrossed by the extraordinary silence of her sister and Willoughby on the sub- ject, which they must know to be peculiarly ( "im ) peculiarly interesting to them all. As this silence continued, every day made it appear more strange and more incompatible with the disposi- tion of both. Why they should not openly acknowledge to her mother and herself, what their constant be- haviour to each other declared to have taken place, Elinor could not imagine. She could easily conceive that mar- riage might not be immediately in their power; for though Willoughby was independent, there was no rea- son to believe him rich. His estate had been rated by Sir John at about six or seven hundred a year; but he lived at an expense to which that in- come could hardly be equal, and he had himself often complained of his poverty. But for this strange kind of secrecy maintained by them relative to their engagement, which in fact con- ( 167 ) concealed nothing at all, she could not account; and it was so wholly contradictory to their general opinions and practice, that a doubt sometimes entered her mind of their being really engaged, and this doubt was enough to prevent her making any enquiry of Marianne. Nothing could be more expressive of attachment to them all, than Wil- loughby's behaviour. To Marianne it had all the distinguishing tender- ness which a lover's heart could give, and to the rest of the family it was the affectionate attention of a son and a brother. The cottage seemed to be considered and loved by him as his home; many more of his hours were spent there than at Allenham ; and if no general engagement collect- ed them at the park, the exercise which called him out in the morning was ( 168 ) was almost certain of ending there, where the rest of the day was spent by himself at the side of Marianne, and by his favourite pointer at her feet. One evening in particular, about a week after Colonel Brandon had left the country, his heart seemed more than usually open to evei-y feeling of attachment to the objects around him; and on Mrs. Dashwood's hap- pening to mention her design of im- proving the cottage in the spring, he warmly opposed every alteration of a place which affection had established as perfect with him. " What!" he exclaimed—" Im- prove this dear cottage! No. That I will never consent to. Not a stone must be added to its walls, not an inch to its size, if my feelings are re- garded." " Do ( 169 ) " Do not be alarmed," said Miss Dash wood, " nothing of the kind will be done; for my mother will never have money enough to attempt it." " I am heartily glad of it," he cried. " May she always be poor, if she can employ her riches no bet- ter." " Thank you, Willoughby. But you may be assured that I would not sacrifice one sentiment of local at- tachment of yours, or of any one whom I loved, for all the improve- ments in the world. Depend upon it that whatever unemployed sum may remain, when I make up my accounts in the spring, I would even rather lay it uselessly by than dispose of it in a manner so painful to you. But are you really so at- tached to this place as to see no de- fect in it?" VOL. I. I "I ( 170 ) " I am," said he. " To me it is faultless. Nay, more, I consider it as the only form of building in which happiness is attainable, and were I rich enough, I would instantly pull Combe down, and build it up again in the exact plan of this cottage." " With dark narrow stairs, and a kitchen that smokes, I suppose," said Elinor. " Yes," cried he in the same eager tone, " with all and every thing belonging to it; — in no one con- venience or niconvenience about it, should the least variation be percep- tible. Then, and then only, under such a roof, I might perhaps be as happy at Combe as I have been at Barton." " I flatter myself," replied Elinor, " that even under the disadvantage of better rooms and a broader staircase, you will hereafter find your own house ( 171 ) house as faultless as you now do this." " There certainly are circum- stances," said Willoughby, " which might greatly endear it to me; but this place will always have one claim on my affection, which no other can possibly share." Mrs. Dashwood looked with plea- vsure at Marianne, whose fine eyes were fixed so expressively on Wil- loughby, as plainly denoted how well she understood him. " How often did I wish," added he, " when I was at Allenham this time twelvemonth, that Barton cot- tage were inhabited ! I never passed within view of it without admiring its situation, and grieving that no one should live in it. How little did I then think that the very first news I should hear from Mrs. Smith, when I next came into the country, would 1 2 be ( 172 ) be that Barton cottage was taken: and I felt an immediate satisfaction and interest in the event, which no- thing but a kind of prescience of what happiness I should experience from it, can account for. Must it not have been so, Marianne ?" speak- ing to her in a lowered voice. Then continuing his former tone, he said, " And yet this house you would spoil, Mrs. Dashwood? You would rob it of its simplicity by imaginary im- provement! and this dear parlour, in which our acquaintance first began, and in which so many happy hours have been since spent by us together, you would degrade to the condition of a common entrance, and every body would be eager to pass through the room which has hitherto contain- ed, within itself, more real accommo- dation and comfort than any other apartment of the handsomest dimen- sions ( 173 ) sions in the world could possibly afford." Mrs. Dashwood again assured him that no alteration of the kind should be attempted. " You are a good woman/' he warmly replied. " Your promise makes me easy. Extend it a little farther, and it will make me happy. Tell me that not only your house will remain the same, but that I shall ever find you and yours as unchanged as your dwelling ; and that you will al- ways consider me with the Icindness which has made every thing belong- ing to you so dear to me." The promise was readily given, and Willoughby's behaviour during the whole of the evening declared at once his affection and happiness. *' Shall we see you to-morrow to dinner?" said Mrs. Dashwood when 1 3 he ( 174 ) he was leaving them. " I do not ask you to come in the morning, for we must walk to the park, to call on La- dy Middleton." He engaged to be with them by four o'clock. CHAPTER ( 175 ) CHAPTER XV. Mrs. Dashwood's visit to Lady Mid- dleton took place the next day, and two of her daughters went with her; but Marianne excused herself from being of the party under some trifling pretext of employment, and her mo- ther, who concluded that a promise had been made by Willoughby the night before of calling on her while they were absent, was perfectly satis- fied with her remaining at home. On their return from the park they found Willoughby's curricle and ser- vant in waiting at the cottage, and Mrs. Dashwood was convinced that her conjecture had been just. So far it was all as she had foreseen; but on entering the house she beheld what no I 4 fore- ( 176 ) foresight had taught her to expect. They were no sooner in the passage than Marianne came hastily out of the parlour apparently in violent af- fliction, with her handkerchief at her eyes; and without noticing them ran up stairs. Surprised and alarm- ed they proceeded directly into the room she had just quitted, where they found only Willoughby, who was leaning against the mantle-piece with his back towards them. He turned round on their coming in, and his countenance shewed that he strongly partook of the emotion which which overpowered Marianne. " Is any thing the matter with her?" cried Mrs. Dash wood as she entered — " is she ill ?" " I hope not," he replied, trying to look cheerful; and with a forced smile presently added, " It is I who may rather expect to be ill — for I am now suffering ( 177 ) .sufTering under a very heavy disap- pointment!" " Disappointment!" — " Yes, for I am unable to keep my engagement with you. Mrs. Smith has this morning exercised the privi- lege of riches upon a poor dependant cousin, by sending me on business to London. I have just received my dispatches, and taken my farewell of Allenham; and by way of exhilara- tion I am now come to take my fare- well of you." " To London ! — and are you going this morning?" " Almost this moment." '* This is very unfortunate. But Mrs. Smith must be obliged ; — and her business will not detain you from u& long I hope." He coloured as he replied. " You are very kind, but I have no idea of returning into Devonshire immediate- i5 I v. ( 178 ) ly. My visits to Mrs. Smith are never repeated within the twelvemonth." " And is Mrs. Smith your only friend ? Is Allenham the only house in the neighbourhood to which you will be welcome? For shame, Wil- loughby. Can you wait for an invi- tation here ?" His colour increased ; and with his eyes fixed on the ground he only re- plied, " You are too good." Mrs. Dashwood looked at Eli- nor with surprise. Elinor felt equal amazement. For a few moments every one was silent. Mrs. Dash- wood first spoke. " I have only to add, my dear Wil- loughby, that at Barton cottage you will always be w elcome ; for I will not press you to return here imme- diately because you only can judge how far that might be pleasing to Mrs. Smith ; and on this head I shall be ( 179 ) be no more disposed to question your judgment than to doubt your inclination." " My engagements at present," re- plied Willoughby confusedly, " are of such a nature — that — I dare not flatter myself" — He stopt. Mrs. Dashwood was too much astonished to speak, and another pause succeeded. This was broken by Willoughby, who said with a faint smile, " It is folly to linger in this manner. I will not torment my- self any longer by remaining among friends whose society it is impossible for me now to enjoy." He then hastily took leave of them all and left the room. They saw him step into his carriage, and in a mi- nute it was out of sight. Mrs. Dashwood felt too much for speech, and instantly quitted the par- I 6 lour ( 180 ) lour to give way in solitude to the concern and alarm which this sudden departure occasioned. Elinor's uneasiness was at least equal to her mother's. She thought of what had just passed with anxiety and distrust. Willoughby's behavi- our in taking leave of them, his embarrassment, and affectation of cheerfulness, and, above all, his un- willingness to accept her mother's invitation, a backwardness so unlike a lover, so unlike himself, greatly disturbed her. One moment she feared that no serious design had ever been formed on his side; and the next, that some unfortunate quarrel had taken place between him and her sister; — the distress in which Marianne had quitted the room was such as a serious quarrel could most reasonably account for, though when she ( 181 ) she considered what Marianne's love for him was, a quarrel seemed almost impossible. But whatever might be the parti- culars of their separation, her sister's affliction was indubitable; and she thought with the tenderest compas- sion of that violent sorrow which Marianne was in all probability not merely giving way to as a relief, but feeding and encouraging as a duty. In about half an hour her mother returned, and though her eyes were red, her countenance was not un- cheerful. " Our dear Willoughby is now some miles from Barton, Elinor,*' said she, as she sat down to work, " and with how heavy a heart does he travel?" " It is all very strange. So sud- denly to be gone! It seems but the work of a moment. And last night ( 182 ) night he was with us so happy, so cheerful, so affectionate? And now after only ten minutes notice — Gone too without intending to return ! — Something more than what he owned to us must have happened. He did not speak, he did not behave like himself You must have seen the dif- ference as well as I. What can it be? Can they have quarrelled ? Why else should he have shewn such un- willingness to accept your invitation here?"— " It was not inclination that he wanted, Elinor; I could plainly see that. He had not the power of ac- cepting it. I have thought it all over I assure you, and I can perfectly ac- count for every thing that at first seemed strange to me as well as to you." " Can you indeed ?" " Yes. I have explained it to my- self ( 183 ) self in the most satisfactory way;— but you, Elinor, who love to doubt where you can It will not satisfy you I know ; but you shall not talk me out of my trust in it. I am per- suaded that Mrs. Smith suspects his regard for Marianne, disapproves of it, (perhaps because she has other views for him,) and on that account is eager to get him away ; — and that the business which she sends him off to transact, is invented as an excuse to dismiss him. This is what I believe to have happened. He is moreover aware that she does disapprove the connection, he dares not therefore at present confess to her his engage- ment with Marianne, and he feels himself obliged, from his dependant situation, to give into her schemes, and absent himself from Devonshire for a while. You will tell me, I know, that this may, or may not have hap- pened ; ( iS4 ) pened ; but I will listen to no cavil, unless you can point out any other method of understanding the affair as satisfactory as this. And now, Eli- nor, what have you to say?" " Nothing, for you have anticipated my answer." " Then you would have told me, that it might or might not have hap- pened. Oh ! Elinor, how incompre- hensible are your feelings! You had rather take evil upon credit than good. You had rather look out for misery for Marianne and guilt for poor Willoughby, than an apology for the latter. You are resolved to think him blameable, because he took leave of us with less affection than his usual behaviour has shewn. And is no allowance to be made for inadver- tence, ot for spirits depressed by re- cent disappointment? Are no proba- bilities to be accepted, merely be- cause ( 185 ) cause they are not certainties? Is nothing due to the man ^vhom ^^'e have all so much reason to love, and no reason in the world to think ill of? To the possibility of motives unan- swerable in themselves, though una- voidably secret for a while? And, after all, what is it you suspect him of?" " I can hardly tell you myself. — But suspicion of something unplea- sant is the inevitable consequence of such an alteration as we have just witnessed in him. There is great truth, however, in what you have now urged of the allowances which ought to be made for him, and it is my wish to be candid in my judgment of every body. Willougliby may undoubtedly have very sufficient reasons for his conduct, and I will hope tliat he has. But it would have been more like Willou2:hbv to ackno\vled2:e them at once. ( 186 ) once. Secrecy may be advisable ; but still I cannot help wondering at its being practised by him." " Do not blame him, however, for departing from his character, where the deviation is necessary. But you really do admit the justice of what I have said in his defence?— J am hap- py — and he is acquitted." " Not entirely. It may be proper to conceal their engagement (if they are engaged) from Mrs. Smith — and if that is the case, it must be highly expedient for Willoughby to be but little in Devonshire at present. But this is no excuse for their concealing it from us." " Concealing it from us! my dear child, do you accuse Willoughby and Marianne of conceahnent? This is strange indeed, when your eyes have been reproaching them every day for incautiousness," " I ( 187 ) *• I want no proof of their affec- tion," said Elinor; ** but of their en- gagement I do." " 1 am perfectly satisfied of both." " Yet not a syllable has been said to you on the subject, by either of them." " I have not wanted syllables where actions have spoken so plainly. Has not his behaviour to Marianne and to all of us, for at least the last fort- night, declared that he loved and considered her as his future wife, and that he felt for us the attachment of the nearest relation? Have we not perfectly understood each other? Has not my consent been daily asked by his looks, his manner, his atten- tive and affectionate respect? My Elinor, is it possible to doubt their engagement? How could such a thought occur to you? How is it to be supposed that Willoughby, per- suaded ( i88 ) ?inaded as he must be of your sister's love, should leave her, and leave her perhaps for months, without telling her of his affection ; — that they should part without a mutual exchange of coniidence?" " I confess," replied Elinor, " that every circumstance except 07ie is in favour of their engagement; but that one is the total silence of both on the subject, and with me it almost out- weighs every other." " How strange this is ! You must think v/retchedly indeed of Willough- by, if after all that has openly passed between them, you can doubt the na- ture of the terms on which they are together. Has he been acting a part in his behaviour to your sister all this time? Do you suppose him really indifferent to her ?" " No, I cannot think that. He must and does love her I am sure." " But ( 189 ) ** But ^vith a strange kind of ten- derness, if he can leave her with such indifference, such carelessness of the future, as you attribute to him." " You must remember, my dear mother, that I have never considei^ed liiis matter as certain. I have had my doubts, 1 confess; but they are fainter than they were, and they may soon be entirely done away. If we find they correspond, every fear of mine will be removed." " A mighty concession indeed ! If you were to see them at the altar, you would suppose they were going to be married. Ungracious girl! But /require no such proof. Nothing in my opinion has ever passed to justify doubt; no secrecy has been attempt- ed ; all has been uniformly open and unreserved. You cannot doubt your sister's wishes. It must be Willough- by therefore whom you suspect. But whv ? ( 190 ) why ? Is he not a man of honour and feeling ? Has there been any incon- sistency on his side to create alarm? can he be deceitful?" " I hope not, I believe not," cried Elinor. " I love Willoughby, sin- cerely love him ; and suspicion of his integrity cannot be more painful to yourself than to me. It has been in- voluntary, and I will not encourage it. I was startled, I confess, by the alteration in his manners this morn- ing; — he did not speak like himself, and did not return your kindness with any cordiality. But all this may be explained by such a situation of his affairs as you have supposed. He had just parted from my sister, had seen her leave him in the greatest af- fliction ; and if he felt obliged, from a fear of offending Mrs. Smith, to re- sist the temptation of returning here soon, and yet aware that by declining your ( 191 ) your invitation, by saying that he was going away for some time, he should seem to act an ungenerous, a suspi- cious part by our family, he might well be embarrassed and disturbed;^ In such a case, a plain and open avowal of his difficulties would have been more to his honour I think, as well as more consistent with his ge- neral character; — but I will not raise objections against any one's conduct on so illiberal a foundation, as a dif- ference in judgment from myself, or a deviation from what I may think right and consistent." " You speak very properly. Wil- loughby certainly does not deserve to be suspected. Though ive have not known him long, he is no stranger in this part of the world, and who has ever spoken to his disadvantage? Had he been in a situation to act in- dependently and marry immediately, it ( 1^2 ) it might have been odd that he should leave us without acknowledging every thing to me at once : but this is not the case. It is an engagement in some respects not prosperously be- gun, for their marriage must be at a very uncertain distance; and even se- crecy, as far as it can be observed, may now be very advisable." They were interrupted by the en- trance of Margaret; and Elinor was then at liberty to tliink over^ the re- presentations of her mother, to ac- knowledge the probability of many, and hope for the justice of all. They saw nothing of Marianne till dinner time, when she entered the room and took her place at the table without saying a word. Her eyes were red and swollen; and it seemed as if her tears were even then re- strained with difficulty. She avoided the looks of them all, could neither eat ( 193 ) eat nor speak, and after some time, on her mother's silently pressing her hand with tender compassion, her small degree of fortitude was quite overcome, she burst into tears and left the room. This violent oppression of spirits continued the whole evening. She was without any power, because she was without any desire of command over herself. The slightest mention of any thing relative to Willoughby overpowered her in an instant; and though her family were most anxi- ously attentive to her comfort, it was impossible for them, if they spoke at aU, to keep clear of every subject which her feelings connected with him. VOL- I, K CHAP- ( 194 ) CHAPTER XVI. Marianne would have thought her- self very inexcusable had sh6 been able to sleep at all the first night after parting from Willoughby. She would have been ashamed to look her family in the face the next morning, had she not risen from her bed in more need of repose than when she lay down in it. But the feelings which made such composure a disgrace, left her in no danger of incurring it. She was awake the whole night, and she wept the greatest part of it. She got up with an head-ache, was unable to talk, and unwilling. to take any nourish- ment; giving pain every moment to her mother and sisters, and forbid- ding all attempt at consolation from either. ( 195 ) either. Her sensibility was potent enough ! When breakfast was over she walk- ed out by herself, and wandered about the village of Allenham, in- dulging the recollection of past en- jo;^aaient and crying over the present reverse for the chief of the morning. The evening passed off in the equal indulgence of feeling. She played over every favourite song that she had been used to play to Willoughby, every air in which their voices had been oftenest joined, and sat at the instrument gazing on every line of music that he had written out for her, till her heart was so heavy that no farther sadness could be gained; and this nourishment of grief was every day applied. She spent whole hours at the piano-forte alternately singing and crying; her voice often totally suspended by her tears. In books K 2 too. ( 196 ) too, as well as in music, she courted the misery which a contrast between the past and present was certain of giving. She read nothing but what thev had been used to read t02:ether. Such violence of affliction indeed could not be supported for ever; it sunk within a few days into a calmer melancholy; but these employments, to wliich she daily recurred, her soli- tary walks and silent meditations, still produced occasional effusions of sor- row as lively as ever. No letter from Willongliby came; and none seemed expected by Mari- anne. Her mother was surprised, and Elinor again became uneasy. But Mrs. Dashwood could find explana- tions whenever she wanted them, which at least satisfied herself *' Remember, Elinor," said she, " how very often Sir John fetches our letters himself from the post, and car- ries ( 197 ) ries them to it. We have already agreed that secrecy may be necessary, and we must acknowledge that it could not be maintained if their correspon- dence were to pass through Sir John's hands." Elinor could not deny the truth of this, and she tried to find in it a mo- tive sufficient for their silence. But there was one method so direct, so simple, and in her opinion so eligible of knowing the real state of the affair, and of instantly removing all mystery, that she could not help suggesting it to her mother. " Why do you not ask Marianne at once," said she, " whether she is, or is not engaged to Willoughby? From you, her mother, and so kind, so indulgent a mother, the question could not give offence. It would be the natural result of your affection K 3 for ( 198 ) for her. She used to be all unre- serve, and to you more especially." " I would not ask such a question for the world. Supposing it possible that they are not engaged, what dis- tress would not such an encjuiry in- flict ! At any rate it would be most ungenerous. I should never deserve her confidence again, after forcing from her a confession of what is meant at present to be unacknow- ledged to any one. I know Mari- anne's heart : I know that she dearly loves me, and that I shall not be the last to whom the affair is made known, when circumstances make the revealment of it eligible. I would not attempt to force the confidence of any one; of a child much less; because a sense of duty would pre- vent the denial which her wishes might direct." Elinor ( 199 ) Elinor thought this generosity overstrained, considering her sister's youth, and urged the matter farther, but in vain ; common sense, common care, common prudence, were all sunk in Mrs. Dashwood's romantic delicacy. It was several days before Wil- ioughby's name was mentioned be- fore Marianne by any of her family ; Sir John and Mrs. Jennings, indeed, w^ere not so nice; their witticisms added pain to many a painful hour; — but, one evening, Mrs. Dash wood accidentally taking up a volume of Shakespeare, exclaimed, " We have never finished Hamlet, Marianne; our dear Willoughby went away before we could get through it. We will put it by, that when he comes again .... But it may be months, perhaps, before that happens." " Months !" cried Marianne, with K 4 strong ( 200 ) strong surprise. " No — nor many weeks." Mrs. Dashwood was sorry for what she had said ; but it gave Eli- nor pleasure, as it produced a reply from Marianne so expressive of con- fidence in Willoughby and knowledge of his intentions. One morning, about a week after his leaving the country, Marianne was prevailed on to join her sisters in their usual walk, instead of wander- ing away by herself. Hitherto she had carefully avoided every compa- nion in her rambles. If her sisters intended to walk on the downs, she directly ptole away towards the lanes; if they talked of the valley, she was as speedy in climbing the hills, and could never be found when the others set off. But at length she was secured by the exertions of Elinor, who greatly disapproved such continual seclusion. ( 20J ) seclusion. They walked along the road through the valley, and chiefly in silence, for Marianne's mind could not be controuled, and Elinor, satis- fied with gaining one point, would not then attempt more. Beyond the entrance of the valley, where the country though still rich, was less wild and more open, a long stretch of the road which they had travelled on first coming to Barton, lay before them ; and, on reaching that point, they stopped to look around them, and examine a prospect which form- ed the distance of their view from the cottage, from a spot which they had never happened to reach in any of their walks before. Amongst the objects in the scene, they soon discovered an animated one; it was a man on horseback riding towards them. In a few mi- nutes they could distinguish him to K o be ( 202 ) be a gentleman; and in a moment af- terwards Marianne rapturously ex- claimed, " It is he ; it is indeed ; — I know it is!" — And was hastening to meet him, when Elinor cried out, " Indeed, Marianne, I think you are mistaken. It is not Willoughby. The person is not tall enough for him, and has not his air." " He has, he has," cried Marianne, " I am sure he has. His air, his coat, his horse. I knew how soon he would eome." She walked eagerly on as she spoke; and Elinor, to screen Mari- anne from particularity, as she felt almost certain of its not being Wil- loughby, quickened her pace and kept up with her. They were soon within thirty yards of the gentleman. Marianne looked again; her heart sunk within her; and abruptly turn- ( 203 ) ing round, she was hurrying back, when the voices of both her sisters^ were raised to detain her, a third, al- most as well known as Willoughby's, joined them in begging her to stop, and she turned round ^yith surprise to see and welcome Edward Ferrars. He was the only person in the world who could at that moment be forgiven for not being Willoughby ; the only one who could have gained a smile from her ; but she dispersed her tears to smile on klm^ and in her sister's happiness forgot for a time her own disappointment. He dismounted, and giving his horse to his servant, walked back with them to Barton, whither he was purposely coming to visit them. He was welcomed by them all with great cordiality, but especially by Marianne, who shewed njore warmth of regard in her reception of him than K. 6 even ( 204 ) even Elinor herself. To Marianne, indeed, the meeting between Edward and her sister was but a continuation of that unaccountable coldness which she had often observed at Norland in their mutual behaviour. On Ed- ward's side, more particularly, there was a deficiency of all that a lover ought to look and say on such an oc- casion. He was confused, seemed scarcely sensible of pleasure in seeing them, looked neither rapturous nor gay, said little but what was forced from him by questions, and distin- guished Elinor by no mark of affec- tion. Marianne saw and listened w ith increasing surprize. She began almost to feel a dislike of Edward; and it ended, as every feeling must end with her, by carrying back her thoughts to Willoughby, whose man- ners formed a contrast sufficiently striking to those of his brother elect. After ( 205 ) After a short silence which suc- ceeded the first surprise and en- quiries of meeting, Marianne asked Edward if he came directly from London. No, he had been in Devon- shire a fortnight. " A fortnight!" she repeated, sur- prised at his being so long in the same county with Elinor without see- ing her before. He looked rather distressed as he added, that he had been staying with some friends near Plymouth. " Have you been lately in Sussex?" said Elinor. " I was at*Norland about a month ago." " And how does dear, dear Norland look.^" cried Marianne. " Dear, dear Norland," said Eli- nor, " probably looks much as it al- ways does at this time of year. The woods ( 206 ) woods and walks thickly covered with dead leaves." *' Oh!" cried Marianne, " with- what transporting sensations have I formerly seen them fall! How have I delighted, as I walked, to see them driven in showers about me by the wind ! What feelings have they, the season, the air altogether inspired I Now there is no one to regard them. They are seen only as a nuisance, swept hastily off, and driven as much as possible from the sight." " It is not every one," said Elinor, " who has your passion for dead leaves." " No; my feelings are not often shared, not often understood. But sometimes tliey are." — As she said this, she sunk into a reverie for a few moments; — but lOusing herself againy " Now Edward," said she, calling his attention ( 207 ) attention to the prospect, " Here is Barton valley. Look up it, and be tranquil if you can. Look at those hills ! Did you ever see their equals ? To the left is Barton park, amongst those woods and plantations. You may see one end of the house. And there, beneath that farthest hill, which rises with such grandeur, is our cot- tage." " It is a beautiful country," he re- plied ; " but these bottoms must be dirty in winter." " How can you think of dirt, with such objects before you?" " Because," replied he, smiling, " among the rest of the objects be- fore me, I see a very dirty lane." " How strange!" said Marianne to herself as she walked on. " Have you an agreeable neigh- bourhood here? Are the Middle- tons pleasant people?" " No, ( 208 ) " No, not all," answered Marianne, *' we could not be more unfortunately situated." " Marianne," cried her sister, " how can you say so? How can you be so unjust? They are a very respectable family, Mr. Ferrars; and towards us have behaved in the friendliest man- ner. Have you forgot, Marianne, how many pleasant days we have owed to them ?" " No," said Marianne in a low voice, " nor how many painful mo- ments." Elinor took no notice of this, and directing her attention to their visitor, endeavoured to support something like discourse with him by talking of their present residence, its conveni- ences, &c. extorting from him occa- sional questions and remarks. His coldness and reserve mortified her severely; she was vexed and half angry ; ( 209 ) angry; but resolving to regulate her behaviour to him by the past rather than the present, she avoided every appearance of resentment or displea- sure, and treated him as she thought he ought to be treated from the fami- ly connection. CHAP ( 210 ) CHAPTER XVII. Mrs. Dashwood was surprised only for a moment at seeing him; for his coming to Barton was, in her opinion, of all things the most natural. Her joy and expressions of regard long outlived her wonder. He received the kindest welcome from her; and shyness, coldness, reserve could not stand against such a reception. They had begun to fail him before he en- tered the house, and they were quite overcome by the captivating manners of Mrs. Dashwood. Indeed a man could not very well be in love with either of her daughters, without ex- tending the passion to her; and Eli- nor had the satisfaction of seeing him soon become more like himself His affections ( 211 ) affections seemed to reanimate to- wards them all, and his interest in their welfare again became percepti- ble. He was not in spirits however; he praised their house, admired its prospect, was attentive, and kind; but still he was not in spirits. The whole family perceived it, and Mrs. Dashwood, attributing it to some want of liberality in his mother, sat dow n to table indignant against all selfish parents. " What are Mrs. Ferrars's views for you at present, Edward?" said she, w^hen dinner was over and they had drawn round the fire ; " are you still to be a great orator in spite of your- self?" " No. I hope my mother is now convinced that I have no more talents than inclination for a public life." " But how is your fame to be estab- lished? for famous you must be to satisfy ( 212 ) satisfy all your family ; and with no inclination for expense, no affection for strangers, no profession, and no assurance, you may find it a difficult matter." " I shall not attempt it. I have no wish to be distinguished ; and I have every reason to hope I never shall. Thank Heaven ! I cannot be forced into genius and eloquence." " You have no ambition, I well know. Your wishes are all mo- derate." " As, moderate as those of the rest of the world I believe. I wish as well as every body else to be perfectly happy; but like every body else it must be in my own way. Greatness Avill not make me so." " Strange if it would!" cried Ma- rianne. " What have wealth or gran- deur to do with happiness ?" " Grandeur has but little," said Elinor* ( 213 ) Elinor, " but wealth has much to do with it." " Elinor, for shame!" said Mari- anne; "money can only give happi- ness where there is nothing else to give it. Beyond a competence, it can afford no real satisfaction, as far as mere self is concerned." " Perhaps," said Elinor smiling, " we may come to the same point. Your competence and my wealth are very much alike, I dare say; and without them, as the world goes now, we shall both agree that every kind of external comfort must be wanting. Your ideas are only more noble than mine. Come, what is your compe- tence r" " About eighteen hundred or two thousand a year; not more than thatr Elinor laughed, " Tivo thousand a year! ( 214 ) year! One is my wealth! I guessed how it v/ould end." " And yet two thousand a year is a very moderate income," said Ma- rianne. " A family cannot well be maintained on a smaller. I am sure I am not extravagant in my demands. A proper establishment of servants, a carriage, perhaps two, and hunters, cannot be supported on less." Elinor smiled again, to hear her sister describing so accurately their future expenses at Combe Magna. " Hunters!" repeated Edward — ^* But why must you have hunters? Every body does not hunt." Marianne coloured as she replied, "But most people do." " I wish," said Margaret striking out a novel thought, " that some- body would give us all a large fortune apieceJ" " Oh ( 215 ) " Oh that they would!" cried Ma- rianne, her eyes sparkling with ani- mation, and her cheeks glowing with the delight of such imaginary hap- piness. " We are all unanimous in that ^vish, I suppose," said Elinor, " in spite of the insufficiency of wealth." " Oh dear!" cried Margaret, " how happy I should be! I wonder what I should do with it !" Marianne looked as if she had no doubt on that point. " I should be puzzled to spend a large fortune myself," said Mrs. Dashwood, " if my children were all to be rich without my help." *' You must begin your improve- ments on this house," observed Eli- nor, " and your difficulties will soon vanish." " What magnificent orders would travel from this family to London," said ( 216 ) said Edward, " in such an event! What a happy day for booksellers, music-sellers, and print-shops! You, Miss Dashwood, would give a gene- ral commission for every new print of merit to be sent you — and as for Marianne, I know her greatness of soul, there would not be music enough in London to content her. And books! — Thomson, Cowper, Scott; — she would buy them all over and over again; she would buy up every copy I believe, to prevent their falling into unworthy hands; and she would have every book that tells her how to ad- mire an old twisted tree. Should not you, Marianne? Forgive me, if I am very saucy. But I was willing to shew you that I had not forgot our old disputes." " 1 love to be reminded of the past, Edward — whether it be melancholy or gay, I love to recall it — and you > ' will ( 217 ) will never offend me by talking of former times. You are very right in supposing how my money would be spent. Some of it at least — my loose cash would certainly be employed in improving my collection of music and books." *' And the bulk of your fortune would be laid out in annuities on the authors or their heirs." " No, Edward, I should have some- thing else to do with it." " Perhaps then you would bestow it as a reward on that person who wrote the ablest defence of your fa- vorite maxim, that no one can ever be in love more than once in their life — for your opinion on that point is un- changed I presume?' " Undoubtedly. At my time of life opinions are tolerably lixed. It is not likely that I should now see or hear anything to change them." VOL. I, L " Mari- ( 218 ) " Marianne is as stedfast as ever, you see," said Elinor, " she is not at all altered." " She is only grown a little more grave than she was." " Nay, Edward," said Marianne, " you need not reproach me. You are not very gay yourself." . " Why should you think so?" re- plied he, with a sigh. " But gaiety never was a part of my character." " Nor do I think it a part of Ma- rianne's," said Elinor; " I should hardly call her a lively girl — she is very earnest, very eager in all she does — sometimes talks a great deal and always with animation — but she is not often really merry." " I believe you are right," he re- plied, " and yet I have always set her down as a lively girl." " I have frequently detected myself in such kind of mistakes," said Eli- nor, ( 219 ) nor, *' in a total misapprehension of character in some point or other: fancying people so much more gay or grave, or ingenious or stupid than they really are, and I can hardly tell why, or in what the deception origi- nated. Sometimes one is guided by what they say of themselves, and very frequently by what other people say of them, without giving oneself time to deliberate and judge." " But I thought it was right, Eli- nor," said Marianne, " to be guided wholly by the opinion of other peo- ple. I thought our judgments were given us merely to be subservient to those of our neighbours. This has always been your doctrine, I am sure." " No, Marianne, never. My doc- trine has never aimed at the subjec- tion of the understanding. All I have ever attempted to influence has L 2 been ( 220 ) been the behaviour. You must not confound my meanmg. I am guilty, I confess, of having often wished you to treat our acquaintance in general with greater attention ; but when have I advised you to adopt their senti- ments or conform to their judgment in serious matters?" " You have not yet been able then to bring your sister over to your plan of general civility," said Edward to Elinor. " Do you gain no ground ?" " Quite the contrary," replied Eli- nor, looking expressively at Mari- anne. " My judgment," he returned, " is all on your side of the question ; but I am afraid my practice is much more on your sister's. I never wish to of- fend, but I am so foolishly shy, that I often seem negligent, when I am only kept back by my natural auk- ward ness. I have frequently thought that ( 221 ) that I must have been intended by nature to be fond of low company, I am so little at my ease among strangers of gentility !" *' Marianne has not shyness to ex- cuse any inattention of hers," said Elinor. " She knows her own worth too well for false shame," replied Edward. " Shyness is only the effect of a sense of inferiority in some way or other. If I could persuade myself that my maimers were perfectly easy and graceful, I should not be shy." " But you would still be reserved," said Marianne, ** and that is worse." Edward stared — ** Reserved ! Am I reserved, Marianne?" *' Yes, very." " I do not understand you," re- plied he, colouring. " Reserved ! how — in what manner? What am I to tell you? What can you suppose?" L 3 Elinor ( 222 ) Elinor looked surprised at his emo- tion, but trying to laugh off the sub- ject, she said to him, " Do not you know my sister well enough to un- derstand what she means ? Do not you know that she calls every one reserved who does not talk as fast, and admire what she admires as rap- turously as herself?" Edward made no answer. His gra- vity and thoughtfulness returned on him in their fullest extent — and he sat for some time silent and dull. CHAP ( 223 ) CHAPTER XVIII. Elinor sa\v, with great uneasiness, the low spirits of her friend. His visit afforded her but a very partial satisfaction, while his own enjoyment in it appeared so imperfect. It was evident that he was unhappy; she wished it were equally evident that he still distinguished her by the same affection which once she had felt no doubt of inspiring; but hitherto the continuance of his preference seemed very uncertain ; and the reservedness of his manner towards her contra- dicted one moment what a more ani- mated look had intimated the preced- ing one. He joined her and 3Iarianne in the breakfast-room the next morning be- L 4 fore ( 224 ) fore the others were down ; and Ma- rianne, who was always eager to pro- mote their happiness as far as she could, soon left them to themselves. But before she was half way up stairs she heard the parlour door open, and, turning round, was astonished to see Edward himself come out. " I am going into the village to see my horses," said he, " as you are not yet ready for breakfast; I shall be back again presently." Edward returned to them with fresh admiration of the surrounding country ; in his walk to the village, he had seen many ptirts of the valley to advantage; and the village itself, in a much higher sit tuition than the cottage, afforded a general view of the whole, which had exceedingly pleased him. This was a subject which ensured Marianne's attention, and ( 223 ) and she was beginning to describe her own admiration of these scenes, and to question him more minutely on the objects that had particularly struck him, when Edward interrupt- ed her by saying, '' You must not enquire too far, Marianne — remem- ber I have no knowledge in the pie^ turesque, and I shall offend you by my ignorance and want of taste if we come to particulars. I shall call hills steep, which ought to be bold; sur- faces strange and uncouth, which ought to be irregular and rugged; and distant objects out of sight, which ought only to be indistinct through the soft medium of a hazy atmosphere. You must be satisfied with such admiration as I can ho- nestly give. I call it a very fine country — the hills are steep, the woods seem full of fine timber, and the valley looks comfortable and snug L 5 — with ( 226 ) — with rich meadows and several neat farm houses scattered here and there. It exactly answers my idea of a fine country, because it unites beauty with utility — and I dare say it is a picturesque one too, because you admire it ; I can easily believe it to be full of rocks and promontories, grey moss and brush- wood, but these are all lost on me. I know nothing of the picturesque." " I am afraid it is but too true," said Marianne; " but why should you boast of it ?" " I suspect," said Elinor, " that to avoid one kind of affectation, Ed- ward here falls into another. Be- cause he believes m.any people pre- tend to more admiration of the beauties of nature tlian they really feel, and is disgusted with such pretensions, he affects greater indif- ference and less discrimination in ( 227 ) viewing them himself than he pos- sesses. He is fastidious, and will have an affectation of his own." " It is very true," said Marianne, " that admiration of landscape scenery is become a mere jargon. Every body pretends to feel and tries to de- scribe with the taste and elegance of him who first defined what pictu- resque beauty was. I detest jargon of every kind, and sometimes I have kept my feelings to myself, because I could find no language to describe them in but what was worn and hackneyed out of all sense and mean- iiig." " I am convinced," said Edward, " that you really feel all the delight in a fine prospect which you pro- fess to feel. But, in return, your sister must allow me to feel no more than I profess. I like a fine pro- L 6* spect. ( 228 ) spect, but not on picturesque princi- ples. I do not like crooked, twisted, blasted trees. I admire them much more if they are tall, straight, and flourishing. I do not like ruined, tat- tered cottages. 1 am not fond of nettles, or thistles, or heath blossoms. I have more pleasure in a snug farm- house than a watch-tower — and a troop of tidy, happy villagers please me better than the finest banditti in the world.' Marianne looked with amazement at Edward, with compassion at hev sister. Elinor only laughed. The subject was continued no farther; and Marianne remained thoughtfully silent, till a new object suddenly engaged her attention. She was sitting by Edward, and in taking his tea from Mrs. Dashwood, his hand passed so directly before her, as ( 229 ) as to make a ring, Avith a plait of hair in the centre, very conspicuous on one of his fingers. " I never saw you wear a ring be- fore, Edward," she cried. " Is that Fanny's hair? I remember her pro- mising to give you some. But I should have thought her hair had been darker." Marianne spoke inconsiderately what she really felt — but when she saw how much she had pained Ed- ward, her own vexation at her want of thought could not be surpassed by his. He coloured very deeply, and giving a momentary glance at Elinor, replied, " Yes ; it is my sister's hair. The setting always casts a different shade on it you know." Elinor had met his eye, and looked conscious likewise. That the hair was her own, she instantaneously felt as ( 230 ) as well satisfied as Marianne; the only difference in their conclusions was, that what Marianne considered as a free gift from her sister, Elinor was conscious must have been pro- cured by some theft or contrivance unknown to herself She was not in a humour, however, to regard it as an affront, and affecting to take no no- tice of what passed, by instantly talk- ing of something else, she internally resolved henceforward to catch every opportunity of eyeing the hair and of satisfying herself, beyond all doubt, that it was exactly the shade of her own. Edward's embarrassment lasted some time, and it ended in an absence of mind still more settled. He was particularly grave the whole morniiig. Marianne severely censured herself for what she had said; but her own foriiive- ( 231 ) forgiveness might have been more speedy, had she knoAvn how little of- fence it had given her sister. Before the middle of the day, they were visited by Sir John and Mrs. Jennings, who, having heard of the arrival of a gentleman at the cottage, came to take a survey of the guest. With the assistance of his mother-in- law% Sir John w as not long in disco- vering that the name of Ferrars began w ith an F. and this prepared a future mine of raillery against the devoted Elinor, which nothing but the nev.- ness of their acquaintance with Ed- ward could have prevented from be- ing immediately sprung. But, as it was, she ouly learned from some veiy significant looks, how far their pene- tration, founded on Margaret's in- structions, extended. Sir John never came to the Dash- woods w ithout either inviting them to dine ( 232 ) dine at the park the next day, or to drink tea with them that evening. On the present occasion, for the bet- ter entertainment of their visitor, to- wards whose amusement he felt him- self bound to contribute, he wished to engage them for both. *' You must drink tea with us to night," said he, " for we shall be quite alone — and to-morrow you must absolutely dine with us, for we shall be a large party." Mrs. Jennings enforced the neces- sity. " And who knows but you may raise a dance," said she. "And that will tempt you, Miss Marianne." " A dance !" cried Marianne. " Imr possible! Who is to dance?" " Who ! Why yourselves, and the Careys, and Whitakers to be sure. What! you thought nobody could dance because a certain person that shall be nameless is gone!" '' I wish ( 233 ) •* I wish with all my soul," cried Sir John, " that Willoughby were among us again." This, and Marianne's blushing, gave new suspicions to Edward. " And who is Willoughby ?" said he in a low voice to Miss Dashw ood, by whom he was sitting. She gave him a brief reply. Mari- anne's countenance was more com- municative. EdAvard saw enough to comprehend, not only the meaning of others, but such of Marianne's ex- pressions as had puzzled him be- fore ; and when their visitors left them, he went immediately round to her and said, in a whisper, " I have been guessing. Shall I tell you my guess ?" " What do you mean?" " Shall I tell you?" " Certainly." *' Well ( 234 ) " Well then ; I guess that Mr. Wil- loughby hunts." Marianne was surprised and con- fused ; yet she could not help smiling at the quiet archness of his manner, and, after a moment's silence, said, " Oh ! Edward ! How can you ? — But the time will come I hope .... I am sure you will like him." " I do not doubt it," replied he, rather astonished at her earnestness and warmth ; for had he not imagined it to be a joke for the good of her ac- quaintance in general, founded only on a something or a nothing between Mr. Willoughby and herself, he would not have ventured to mention it. CHAPTER ( 235 ) CHAPTER XIX. Edward remained a week at the cot- tage; he was earnestly pressed by Mrs. Dashwood to stay longer; but as if; he were bent only on self-mor- tification, he seemed resolved to be gone when his enjoyment among his friends was at the height. His spi- rits, during the last two or three days, though still very unequal, were great- ly improved — he grew more and more partial to the house and environs — never spoke of going away without a sigh — declared his time to be wholly disengaged — even doubted to what place he should go when he left them — but still, go he must. Never had any week passed so quickly — he could hardly believe it to be gone. He ( 23G ) He said so repeatedly; other things he said too, which marked the turn of his feelings and gave the lie to his actions. He had no pleasure at Nor- land ; he detested being in town ; but either to Norland or London, he must go. He valued their kindness beyond any thing, and his greatest happiness was in being with them. Yet he must leave them at the end of a week, in spite of their wishes and his own, and without any restraint on his time. Elinor placed all that was aston- ishing in this way of acting to his mother's account; and it was happy for her that he had a mother whose character was so imperfectly knoMn to her, as to be the general excuse for every thing strange on the part of her son. Disappointed, however, and vexed as she was, and sometimes displeased with Jiis uncertain beha- viour ( 237 ) riour to herself, she was very well disposed on the whole to regard his actions with all the candid allowances and generous qualifications, which had been rather more painfully ex- torted from her, for Willoughby's ser- vice by her mother. His want of spi- rits, of openness, and of consistency, were most usually attributed to his w ant of independance, and his better knowledge of Mrs. Ferrars's dispo- sition and designs. The shortness of his visit, the steadiness of his purpose in leaving them, originated in the same fettered inclination, the same inevitable necessity of temporising with his mother. The old, well estab- lished grievance of duty against will, parent against child, was the cause of all. She would have been glad to know when these difficulties were to cease, this opposition was to yield, — when Mrs. Ferrars would be reform- ( 238 ) ed, and her son be at liberty to be happy. But from such vain wishes, she was forced to turn for comfort to the renew al of her confidence in Ed- ward's affection, to the remembrance of every mark of regard in look or w^ord which fell from him while at Barton, and above all to that flatter- ing proof of it which he constantly wore round his finger. " I think Edward," said Mrs. Dash- wood, as they were at breakfast the last morning, " you would be a hap- pier man if you had any profession to engage your time and give an interest to your plans and actions. Some in- convenience to your friends, indeed, might result from it — you would not be able to give them so much of your time. But (with a smile) you would be materially benefited in one parti- cular at least. You would know where to go when you left them." " I do ( 239 ) " I do assure you," he replied, " that I have long thought on this point, as you think now. It has been, and is, and probably will always be a heavy misfortune to me, that I have had no necessary business to engage me, no profession to give me employ- ment, or afford me any thing like in- dependance. But unfortunately my own nicety, and the nicety of my friends, have made me what I am, an idle, helpless being. We never could agree in our choice of a profession. I always preferred the church as I still do. But that was not smart enough for my family. They recom- mended the army. That was a great deal too smart for me. The law was allowed to be genteel enough ; many young men, who had chambers in the Temple, made a very good appear- ance in the first circles, and drove about town in very knowing gigs. But ( 240 ) But I had no inclination for the law, even in this less abstruse study of it, which my family approved. As for the navy, it had fashion on its side, but I was too old when the subject was first started to enter it — and, at length, as there was no necessity for my having any profession at all, as 1 might be as dashing and expensive without a red coat on my back as with one, idleness was pronounced on the whole to be the most advan- tageous and honourable, and a young man of eighteen is not in general so earnestly bent on being busy as to re- sist the solicitations of his friends to do nothing. I was therefore entered at Oxford and have been properly idle ever since." " The consequence of which, I suppose, will be," said Mrs. Dasli- w^ood, *' since leisure has not pro- moted your own happiness, that your sons ( 241 ) sons will be brought up to as many pursuits, employments, professions^ and trades as Columella's." " They will be brought up," said he, in a serious accent, " to be as un- like myself as is possible. In feel- ing, in action, in condition, in every thing." " Come, come ; this is all an effu- sion of immediate want of spirits, Edward. You are in a melancholy humour, and fancy that any one im- like yourself must be happy. But remember that the pain of parting from friends will be felt by every body at times, whatever be their edu- cation or state. Know your own happiness. You want nothing but patience — or give it a more fascina- ting name, call it hope. Your mo- ther will secure to you, in time, that independance you are so anxious for; it is her duty, and it will, it must ere VOL. I. M long ( 242 ) long become her happiness to prevent .your whole youth from being wasted in discontent. How much may not a few months do ?" " I think," replied Edward, " that I may defy many months to produce any good to me." This desponding turn of mind, though it could not be communicated to Mrs. Dasliwood, ga^e additional pain to them all in the parting, which shortly took place, and left an un- comfortable impression on Elinor's feelings especially, which required some trouble and time to subdue. But as it was her determination to subdue it, and to prevent herself from appearing to suffer more than what all her family suffered on his going away, she did not adopt the method so judiciously employed by Mari- anne, on a similar occasion, to aug- ment and fix her sorrow, by seeking silence, ( 243 ) silence, solitude, and idleness. Their means were as different as their ob- jects, and equally suited to the ad- vancement of each. Elinor sat down to her drawing- table as soon as he was out of the house, busily employed herself the whole day, neither sought nor avoided the mention of his name, appeared to interest herself almost as much as ever in the general concerns of the family, and if, by this conduct, she did not lessen her own grief, it was at least prevented from unnecessary increase, and her mother and sisters were spared much solicitude on her account Such behaviour as this, feo exactly the reverse of her ow n, appeared no more meritorious to Marianne, than her own had seemed faulty to her. The business of self-command she settled very easily; — with strong af- fections it was impossible, with calm M 2 ones ( 244 ) ones it could have no merit. That her sister's affections were cahi), she dared not deny, though she blushed to acknowledge it ; and of the strength of her own, she gave a very striking proof, by still loving and respecting that sister, in spite of this mortifying conviction. Without shutting herself up from her family, or leaving the house in determined solitude to avoid them, or lieing awake the whole night to indulge meditation, Elinor found every day afforded her leisure enough to think of Edward, and of Edward's behaviour, in every possible variety which the different state of her spirits at different times could produce; — with tenderness, pity, approbation, censure, and doubt. There were mo- ments in abundance, when, if not by the absence of her mother and sis- ters, at least by the nature of their employ- ( 245 ) employments, conversation was for- bidden among them, and every efiect of solitude was produced. Her mind was inevitably at liberty; her thoughts could not be chained else- where ; and the past and the future, on a subject so interesting, must be before her, must force her attention, and engross her memory, her reflec- tion, and her fancy. From a reverie of this kind, as she sat at her drawing- table, she was roused one morning, soon after Ed- ward's leaving them, by the arrival of company. She happened to be quite alone. The closing of the little gate, at the entrance of the gTeen ^ourt in front of the house, drew her eyes to the window, and she saw a large party walking up to the door. Amongst them were Sir John and Lady Middleton and Mrs. Jennings, M 3 but ( 246 ) but there were two others, a gentle- inaii and lady, who were quite un- known to her. She was sitting near the window, and as soon as Sir John perceived her, he left the rest of the party to the ceremony of knocking at the door, and stepping across the turf, obliged her to open the case- ment to speak to him, though the space was so short between the door and the window, as to make it hardly possible to speak at one without be- ing heard at the other. " Well," said he, " we have brought you some strangers. How do you like them ?" " Hush! they will hear you." " Never mind if they do. It is only the Palmers. Charlotte is very pretty, I can tell you. You may see her if you look this way." As Elinor was certain of seeing her ( 247 ) her ill a couple of minutes, without taking that liberty, she begged to be excused. " Where is Marianne? Has she run away because we are come? I see her instrument is open." " She is walking, I believe." They were now joined by Mrs. Jennings, who had not patience enough to wait till the door was opened before she told her story. She came hallooing to the window, " How do you do, my dear? How does Mrs. Dashwood do? And where are your sisters? What! all alone ! you will be glad of a little company to sit with you. I have brought my other son and daughter to see you. Only think of their com- ing so suddenly ! I thought I heard a carriage last night, while we were drinking our tea, but it never entered my head that it could be them. I M 4 thought ( 248 ) thought of nothing but whether it might not be Colonel Brandon come back again ; so I said to Sir John, I do think I hear a carriage; perhaps it is Colonel Brandon come back again"— Elinor was obliged to turn from her, in the middle of her story, to re- ceive the rest of the party; Lady Mid- dleton introduced the two strangers; Mrs. Dashwood and Margaret came down stairs at the same time, and they all sat down to look at one an- other, while Mrs. Jennings continued her story as she walked through the passage into the parlour, attended by Sir John. Mrs. Palmer was several years younger than Lady Middleton, and totally unlike her in every respect. She was short and plump, had a very pretty face, and the finest ex- pression of good humour in it that could ( 249 ) could possibly be. Her manners were by no means so elegant as her sister's, but they were much more prepossessing. She came in with a smile, smiled all the time of her visit, except when she laughed, and smiled when she went away. Her husband was a grave looking young man of five or six and twenty, with an air of more fashion and sense than his wife, but of less willingness to please or be pleased. He entered the room with a look of self-consequence, slightly bowed to the ladies, without speaking a word, and, after briefly surveying them and their apartments, took up a newspaper from the table and continued to read it as long as he staid. Mrs. Palmer, on the contrary, who was strongly endowed by nature with a turn for being uniformly civil and M 5 happy, ( 250 ) happy, was hardly seated before her admiration of the parlour and every thing in it burst forth. " Well ! what a deliglitful room this is ! I never saw anything so charming! Only think, mama, how it is improved since I was here last ! I always thought it such a sweet place, ma'am ! (turning to Mrs. Dash- wood,) but you have made it so charming! Only look, sister, how delightful every thing is! How I should like such a house for myself! Should not yon, Mr. Palmer?" Mr. Palmer made her no answer, and did not even raise his eyes from the newspaper. " Mr. Palmer does not hear me," said she, laughing, " he never does sometimes. It is so ridiculous !" This was quite a new idea to Mrs. Dashwood, she had never been used to ( 251 ) to find wit ill the inattention of any one, and could not help looking with sonie surprise at them both. Mrs, Jennings, in the mean time, talked on as loud as she could, and continued her account of their sur- prise, the evening before, on seeing their friends, without ceasing till every thing was told. Mrs. Palmer laughed heartily at the recollection of their astonishment, and every body agreed, two or three times over, that it had been quite an agreeable sur- prise. " You may believe how glad we all were to see them," added Mrs. Jen- nings, leaning forwards towards Eli- nor, and speaking in a low voice as if she meant to be heard by no one else, though they were seated on dif- ferent sides of the room ; " but, how- ever, I can't help wishing they had not travelled quite so fast, nor made M 6 such ( 252 ) such a long journey of it, for they came all round by London upon ac- count of some business, for you know (nodding significantly and pointing to her daughter) it was wrong in her situation. I wanted her to stay at home and rest this morning, but she would come with us; she longed so much to see you all!" Mrs. Palmer laughed, and said it would not do her any harm. " She expects to be confined in February/' continued Mrs. Jennings. Lady Middleton could no longer endure such a conversation, and therefore exerted herself to ask Mr. Palmer if there was any news in the paper. " No, none at all," he replied, and read on, " Here comes Marianne," cried Sir John. " Now, Palmer, you shall see a monstrous pretty girl." He ( 253 ) He immediately went into the pas- jsage, opened the front door, and ushered her in himself. Mrs. Jen- nings asked her, as soon as she ap- peared, if she had not been to Allen- ham; and Mrs. Palmer laughed so heartily at the question, as to shew she understood it. Mr. Palmer look- ed up on her entering the room, stared at her some minutes, and then returned to his newspaper. Mrs. Palmer's eye was now caught by the draMings which hung round the room. She got up to examine them. " Oh! dear,, how beautiful these are! Well! how delightful! Do but look, mama, how sweet! I declare they are quite charming; I could look at them for ever." And then sitting down again, she very soon forgot that there were any such things in the room. When ( 254 ) When Lady Middleton rose to ga away, Mr. Palmer rose also, laid down the newspaper, stretched him- self, and looked at them all round. " My love, have yon 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 w ith them all to spend the next day at the park. Mrs. Dash wood, who did not chuse to dine with them oftener than they dined at the cottage, absolutely refused on her ow n 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 ( 255 ) them in any other way. They at- tempted, therefore, likewise to excuse themselves; the weather was uncer- tain and not likely to be good. But Sir John v/ould not be satisfied — the carriage should be sent for them and they must come. Lady Middleton too, though she did not press their mother, pressed them. Mrs. Jennings and Mrs. Palmer joined their entrea- ties, 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 ( 25G ) these frequent invitations than by those which we received from them a few weeks ago. The alteration is not in them, if their parties are grown tedious and dull. We must look for the change elsewhere." CHAP- < 257 ) 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 another, looking as good humoured and merry as before. She took them all most affectionately by the hand, and expressed great de- light in seeing them again. " I am so glad to see you !" said she, seating herself between Elinor and Marianne, " for it is so bad a day I was afraid you might not come, which would be a shocking thing, as we go away again 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, aiul then Mr. ( 258 ) Mr. Palmer asked me if I would go with him to Barton. He is so droll ! He never tells me any thing! I am so sorry we cannot stay longer; however we shall meet again in town very soon, I hope." They were obliged to put an end to such an expectation. " Not go to town!" cried Mrs. Palmer, with a laugh, " I shall be quite disappointed if you do not. I could get the nicest house in the world for you, next door to our's in Hanover-square. You must come, in- deed. I am sure I shall be very happy to chaperon you at any time till I am confined, if Mrs. Dashwood should not like to go into public." Th ey 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 per- suade ( 259 ) suade the Miss Dasliwoods to go to town this winter." Her love made no answer; and after slightly bowing to the ladies, began complaining of the weather. " How horrid all this is!" said he. " Such weather makes every thing and every body disgusting. Dull- ness is as much produced within doors as without, by rain. It makes one detest all one's acquaintance. What the devil does Sir John mean by not having a billiard room in his house ? How few people know what comfort is! Sir John is as stupid as the weather." The rest of the company soon dropt in. " I am afraid, Miss Marianne," said Sir John, " you have not.beenableto take your usual walk to Allenham to day." Marianne looked very grave and said nothing. " Oh! ( 260 ) " Oh ! don't be so sly before us/* said Mrs. Palmer ; ** for we know all about it, I assure you ; and 1 admire your taste very much, for I think he is extremely handsome. We do not live a great way from him in the coun- try, you know. Not above ten miles I dare say." " Much nearer thirty," said her husband. " Ah ! well ! there is not much dif- ference. I never was at his house; but they say it is a sweet pretty place." " As vile a spot as I ever saw in my life," said Mr. Palmer. Marianne remained perfectly silent, though her countenance betrayed her interest in what was said. " Is it very ugly ?" continued Mrs. Palmer — " then it must be some other place that is so pretty 1 suppose." When they were seated in the din- ins: ( 261 ) ing room, Sir John observed with regret that they were only eight alto- gether. " 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 ? " Did not I tell you, Sir John, when you spoke to me about it be- fore, that it could not be done ? They dined with us last." " You and I, Sir John," said Mrs. Jennings, " should not stand upon such ceremony." " Then you would be very ill-bred/* cried Mr. Palmer. " My love, you contradict every body," — said his wife with her usual laugh. " Do you know that you are quite rude?" " I did not know I contradicted any body in calling your mother ill- bred," " Aye, ( 262 ) " Aye, 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 impossi- ble for any one to be more thoroughly goodnatured, or more determined to be happy than Mrs. Palmer. The studied indifference, insolence, and discontent of her husband gave her no pain: and when he scolded or abused her, she was highly diverted. " Mr. Palmer is so droll !" said she, in a whisper, to Elinor. " He is always out of humour." Elinor was not inclined after a little observation, to give him credit for ( 263 ) for being so genuinely and iinaf- fecledly 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 erery body, and his ge- neral abuse of every thing before him. It was the desire of appearing superior to other people. The mo- tive 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 ex- cept his wife. " Oh! ( 264 ) " Oh ! my dear Miss Dashwood," said Mrs. Palmer soon afterwards, " I have got such a favour to ask of you and your sister. Will you come and spend some time at Cleveland this Christmas ? Now, pray do, — and come while the Westons are with us. — You cannot think how happy I «hall be ! It will be quite delightful ! — My love," applying to her hus- band, " don't you long to have the Miss Dash woods come to Cleve- land ?" ^' Certainly," — he replied with a sneer — " I came into Devonshire Avith no other view." " There now" — said his lady, *' you see Mr. Palmer expects you; so you cannot refuse to come." They both eagerly and resolutely declined her invitation. ^* But indeed you must and shall come. I am sure you will like it of all ( 265 ) 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 be- fore, it is quite cliarming ! But poor fellow ! It is very fatiguing to him ! for he is forced to make every body like him." Elinor could hardly keep her coun- tenance as she assented to the hard- ship of sucli an obligation. " How charming it will be," said Charlotte, " when he is in Parlia- ment! — won't it? How I shall laugh! It will be so ridiculous to see all his letters directed to him with an M. P. — But do you know, he says he will never frank for me? He declares he won't. Don't you, Mr. Pnhner?" VOL. I, N Mr. ( 266 ) 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 liim! 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 toom 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 plea- sant ; and Mr. Palmer is excessively pleased ( 267 ) pleased with you and your sisters 1 can tell you, and you can't think how disappointed he w ill be if you don't come to Cleveland. — I can't imagine why you should object to it," Elinor w as 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 Wil- loughbys general character, than could be gathered from the Mid- dletons' partial acquaintance with him; and she was eager to gain from any one, such a confirmation of his merits as might remove the possibi- lity of fear for Marianne. She began by enquiring if they saw much of Mr. Willoughby at Cleveland, and whether they were intimately ac- quainted with him. N 2 " Oh I ( 268 ) " Oh ! dear, yes ; I know him ex- tremely well," replied Mrs. Palmer — " Not that I ever spoke to him indeed ; but I have seen him for ever in town. Somehow or other I never happened to be staying at Bar- ton while he was at Allenham. Mama saw him here once before; — but I was with my uncle at Wey- mouth. However, I dare say we should have seen a gTeat deal of him in Somersetshire, if it had not hap- pened very unluckily that we should never have been in the country to- gether. He is very little at Combe I believe: but if he were ever so much there, I do not think Mr. Palmer w^ould visit him, for he is in the opposition you know, and be- sides it is such a way off. I know why you enquire about him very well ; your sister is to marry him. I am monstrous glad of it, for then I shall ( 269 ) 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, be- cause you know it is what every body talks of I assure you I heard of it in my way through town." " My dear Mrs. Palmer!" " Upon my honour I did. — I met Colonel Brandon Monday morning in Bond-street, just before we left town, and he told me of it directly." " You surprise me very much. Colonel Brandon, tell you of it! Surely you must be mistaken. To give such intelligence to a person who could not be interested in it, even if it were true, is not Avhat I should expect Colonel Brandon to do." " But I do assure you it was so, n3 for ( 270 ) tor 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 bro- ther and sister, and one thing and another, and I said to him, " So Colonel, there is a new family come to Barton cottage I hear, and mama sends me word they are very pretty, and that one of them is going to be married to Mr. Willoughby of Combe Magna. Is it true, pray? for of course you must know, as you have been in Devonshire so lately." " And what did the Colonel say?" " Oh ! — he did not say much ; but he looked as if he knew it to be true, so from that moment I set it down as certain. It will be quite delightful I declare ! When is it to take place ?" " Mr. Brandon was very well I hope." Oh! yes, quite well; and so full of your ( 271 ) your praises, he did nothing but say tine things of you." " I am flattered by his commen- dation. He seems an excellent man; and I think him uncommonly plea- sing." " So do I. — He is such a charming man, that it is quite a pity he should be so grave and so dull. Mama says he was in love with your sister too. — I assure you it was a great compli- ment 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 ! yeSc 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, N 4 and ( 272 ) 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, be- cause she is so very handsome and agreeable, that nothing can be good enough for her. However I don't think her hardly at all handsomer than you, I assure you; for I think you both excessively pretty, and so does Mr. Palmer too I am sure, though Ave could not get him to own it last night." Mrs. Palmer's information respect- ing Willoughby was not very mate- rial; but any testimony in his far vour, however small, was pleasing to him. " I am so glad we are got ac- fjuainted at last," continued Char- lotte. — " And now I hope we shall always be great friends. You can't think how much I longed to see you ! It ( 273 ) 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 mar- ried ! I hope you will be a great deal at Combe Magna. It is a sw eet 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 parti- cular friend of Sir John's. I believe," she added in a low voice, " he would have been very glad to have had me, if he could. Sir John and Lady Middleton wished it very much. But mama did not think the match good enough for me, otherwise Sir John would have mentioned it to the Co- lonel, and we should have been mar- ried immediately." " Did not Colonel Brandon know N 5 of ( 274 ) of Sir John's proposal to your mo- ther before it was made? Had he never owned his affection to your- self?" " Oh! no; but if mama had not objected to it, I dare say he would Jiave liked it of all things. He had not seen me then above twice, for it was before I left school. However I am much happier as I am. Mr. Palmer is just the kind of man I like." CHAP- ( 275 ) CHAPTER XXI. The Palmers returned to Cleveland the next day, and the two families at Barton were again left to entertain each other. But this did not last long; Elinor had hardly got their last visitors out of her head, had hardly done wondering at Charlotte's being so happy without a cause, at Mr. Palmer's acting so simply, with good abilities, and at the strange un- suitableness which often existed be- tween 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, N 6 whom ( 276 ) whom Mrs. Jennings had the satisfac- tion 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 engage- ments at Exeter instantly gave way before such an invitation, and Lady Middleton Avas thrown into no little alarm on the return of Sir John, by hearing that she was very soon to re- ceive a visit from two girls whom she had never seen in her life, and of whose elegance, — whose tolerable gen- tility 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 re- lations too made it so much the worse ; and Mrs. Jennings's attempts at consolation were therefore unfor- tunately founded, when she advised her daughter not to care about their being ( 277 ) being so fashionable; because they were all cousins and must put up with one another. As it was impos- sible however now to prevent their coming, Lady Middleton resigned her- self 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 ap- pearance 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 Middle- ton'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 ( 278 ) which for her Ladyship was enthu- siastic admiration. Sir John's con- fidence in his own judgment rose with this animated praise, and he set off directly for the cottage to tell the Miss Dashwoods of the Miss Steeles' arrival, and to assure them of their being the sweetest girls in the world. From such commendation as this, however, there was not much to be learned ; Elinor well knew that the «weetest girls in the world were to be met with in every part of England, under every possible variation of form, face, temper, and understand- ing. — Sir John wanted the whole fa- mily to walk to the Park directly and look at his guests. Benevolent, phi- lanthropic man! It was painful to him even to keep a third cousin to himself. " Do come now," said he — " pray come — you must come— I declare you shall ( 279 ) shall come. — You can't think how you will like them. Lucy is mon- strous 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 play things for the children. How can you be so cross as not to come ? Why they are your cousins, you know, after a fashion. You are my cousins, and they are my wife's, so you must be related." But Sir John could not prevail. He could only obtain a promise of their calling at the Park within a day ( 280 ) 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, no- thing to admire ; but in the other, who was not more than two or three and twenty, they acknowledged consider- able beauty ; her features were pretty, and she had a sharp quick eye, and a smartness of air, which, though it did not give actual elegance or grace, gave distinction to her person. — Their manners were particularly civil, and Elinor soon allowed them credit for some kind of sense, when she saw with ( 281 ) with what constant and judicious at- tentions they were making them- selves agreeable to Lady Middleton. With her children they were in con- tinual raptures, extolling their beauty, courting their notice, and humouring all their whims ; and such of their time as could be spared from the im- portunate demands which this polite^ ness made on it, was spent in admi- ration of whatever her ladyship was doing, if she happened to be doing any thing, or in taking patterns of some elegant new dress, in which her appearance the day before had thrown them mto unceasing delight. For- tunately 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 exorbi- tant; but she will swallow any thing; and ( 282 ) and the excessive affection and en- durance of the Miss Steeles towards her offspring, were viewed therefore by Lady Middleton without the smallest surprise or distrust. She saw with maternal complacency all the impertinent incroachments 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 scissars stolen away, and felt no doubt of its being a reciprocal enjoyment. It sug- gested no other surprise than that Elinor and Marianne should sit so composedly by, without claiming a share in what was passing. " John is in such spirits to-day !" said she, on his taking Miss Steele's pocket handkerchief, and throwing it out of window — " He is full of mon- key tricky." And ( 283 ) And soon afterwards, on the second boy's violently pinching one of the same lady's fingers, she fondly ob- served, " How playful William is !" " And here is my sweet little An- namaria," she added, tenderly caress- ing a little girl of three years old, who had not made a noise for the last two minutes ; " And she is al- ways so gentle and quiet — Never was there such a quiet little thing !" But unfortunately in bestowing these embraces, a pin in her lady- ship's head dress slightly scratching the child's neck, produced from this pattern of gentleness, such violent screams, as could hardly be outdone by any creature professedly noisy. The mother's consternation was ex- cessive; but it could not surpass the alarm of the Miss Steeles, and every thing w as done by all three, in so cri- tical an emergency, which affection could ( 284 ) 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 Avas on her knees to at- tend 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 ( 285 ) not be rejected. — She was carried out of the room therefore in her mo- ther's arms, in quest of this medi- cine, 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 ac- cident." " Yet I hardly know how," cried Marianne, " unless it had been under totally different circumstances. But this is the usual way of heightening alarm, where there is nothing to be alarmed at in reality." " What a sweet woman Lady Mid- dleton is!" said Lucy Steele. Marianne was silent; it was im- possible for her to say what she did not ( 28fJ ) not feel, however trivial the occa-* sion; and upon Elinor therefore the whole task of telling lies when po- liteness required it, always fell. She did her best when thus called on, by speaking of Lady Middleton with raore warmth than she felt, though with far less than Miss Lucy. " And Sir John too," cried the elder sister, " what a charming man he is!" Here too, Miss Dashwood's com- mendation, 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 fa- mily they have ! I never saw such fine children in my life. — I declare I quite doat upon them already, and indeed I am always distractedly fond of children." " I should guess so," said Elinor with ( 287 ) with a smile, " from what I have wit- nessed this morning." " I have a notion," said Lucy, " you think the little Middletons ra- ther too much indulged; perhaps they may be the outside of enough; but it is so natural in Lady Middle- ton ; and for my part, I love to see children full of life and spirits ; I cannot bear them if they are tame and quiet." " I confess," replied Elinor, " that while I am at Barton Park, I never think of tame and quiet children with any abhorrence." A short pause succeeded this speech, which was first broken by Miss Steele, who seemed very much disposed for conversation, and who now said rather abruptly, '* And how do you like Devonshire, Miss Dashwood ? I suppose you were very sorry to leave Sussex." In ( 288 ) In some surprise at the familiarity of this question, or at least of the manner in which it was spoken, Eli- nor replied that she was. " Norland is a prodigious beauti- ful place, is not it?" added Miss Steele. " We have heard Sir John admire it excessively," said Lucy, who seemed to think some apology neces- sary 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 sujd- posed that any one can estimate its beauties as we do." " And had you a great many smart beaux there ? I suppose you have not so many in this part of the world ; for my part, I think they are a vast addition always." " But why should you think," said Lucy, looking ashamed of her sister, " that ( 289 ) " that there are not as luaiiy gen- teel young men in Devonshire as Sussex ?" *' Nay, my dear, I'm sure I don't pretend to say that there an't. I'm sure there's a vast many smart beaux in Exeter; but you know, how could I tell what smart beaux there might be about Norland; and I was only afraid the Miss Dash woods 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 diity and nasty. Now there's Mr. Rose at Exeter, a pro- digious smart young man, quite a beau, clerk to Mr. Simpson you know, and yet if you do but meet VOL. I. o him ( 290 ) him of a morning, he is not fit to be seen. — I suppose your brother was quite a beau, Miss Dashwood, before he married, as he was so rich ?" " Upon my word," replied Eli- nor, " 1 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 mar- ried, he is one still, for there is not the smallest alteration in him." " Oh ! dear ! one never thinks of married men's being beaux — they have something else to do." " Lord ! Anne," cried her sister, " you can talk of nothing but beaux ; — you will make Miss Dashwood believe you think of nothing else." And then to turn the discourse, she began admiring the house and the furniture. This specimen of the Miss Steeles was ( 291 ) Mas enougli. The vulgar freedom and folly of the eldest left her no recommendation, and as Elinor was not blinded by the beauty, or the shrewd look of the youngest, to her want of real elegance and artlessness, she left the house without any wish of knowing them better. Not so, the Miss Steeles.— -They came from Exeter, well provided with admiration for the use of Sir John Middleton, his family, and all his relations, and no niggardly pro- portion was now dealt out to his fair cousins, whom they declared to be the most beautiful, elegant, accom- plished and agreeable girls they had ever beheld, and with whom they were particularly anxious to be bet- ter acquainted. — And to be better ac- quainted therefore, Elinor soon found was their inevitable lot, for as Sir John was entirely on the side of the o 2 Miss ( 292 ) Miss Steeles, their party would be too strong for opposition, and that kind of intimacy must be submitted to, which consists of sitting an hour or two together in the same room almost every day. Sir John could do no more ; but he did not know that any more was required ; to be together was, in his opinion, to be intimate, and while his continua schemes for their meeting were effec- tual, he had not a doubt of their be- ing established friends. To do him justice, he did every thing in his power to promote their unreserve, by making the Miss Steeles acquainted with whatever he knew or supposed of his cousins' situations in the most delicate particulars, — and Elinor had not seen them more than twice, before the eldest of them wished her joy on her sister's having been so lucky as to make a conquest of ( 293 ) of a very smart beau since she came to Barton. " 'Twill be a fine thing to have her married so young to be sure," said she, " and 1 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 pro- claiming his suspicions of her regard for Edward, than he had been with respect to Marianne ; indeed it was rather his favourite joke of the two, as being somewhat newer and more conjectural ; and since Edward's visit, they had never dined together, without his drinking to her best af- fections with so much significancy and so many nods and winks, as to excite general attention. The letter F — had been likewise invariably o 3 brought ^ 294 ) brought forward, and found produc- tive of such countless jokes, that its character as the wittiest letter in the alphabet had been long esta-^ blished with Elinor. The Miss Steeles, as she expected^ had now all the benefit of these jokes, and in the eldest of them they raised a curiosity to know tbje name of the gentleman alluded to, which, though often impertinently expressed, was pei*fectly 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 pleasui^ in telling the name, as Miss Steele had in hear- ing it. " His name is Ferrars," said he, in a very audible whisper ; " but pray do not tell it, for it's a great secret." ^ " Ferrars!*' ( 295 ) " Ferrars !" repeated Miss Steele; " Mr. Ferrars is the happy man, is he? What! your sister-in-law's bro- ther, Miss Dashwood? A very agree- able yoimg man to be sure; I know him very well." " How can you say so, Anne?" cried Lucy, w^ho generally made an amendment to all her sister's asser- tions. " Though we have seen him once or twice at my uncle's, it is ra- ther too much to pretend to know him very well." Elinor heard all this with attenr tion and surprise. " And who was this uncle ? Where did he live ? How came they acquainted ? She wished very much to have the subject conti- nued, though she did not chuse to join in it herself; but nothing more of it was said, and for the first time in her life, she thought Mrs. Jen- nings deficient either in curiosity o 4 after ( 296 ) after petty information, or in a dis- position to communicate it. The manner in which Miss Steele had spoken of Edward, encreased her curiosity; for it struck her as being rather ill-natured, and suggested the suspicion of that lady's knowing, or fancying herself to know something to his disadvantage. — But her curio^ sity was unavailing, for no farther notice was taken of Mr. Ferrars' name by Miss Steele when alluded to, or even openly mentioned by Sir John. CHAP- ( 297 ) CHAPTER XX. Marianne, who had never much to- leration for any thing like imperti- nence, vulgarity, inferiority of parts, or even difference of taste from her- self, was at this time particularly ill- disposed from the state of her spirits, to be pleased with the Miss Steeles, or to encourage their advances; and to the invariable coldness of her be- haviour 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 eiigagiiig her in conversation, or of striving to improve their acquaintance by aii o 5 easy { 298 ) easy and frank communication of her sentiments. Lucy was naturally clever; her re- marks were often just and amusing; and as a companion for half an hour Elinor frequently found her agree- able ; but her powers had received no aid from education, she was igno- rant and illiterate, and her deficiency of all mental improvement, her w ant of information in the most common particulars, could not be concealed from Miss Dashwood, in spite of her constant endeavour to appear to ad- vantage. Elinor saw, and pitied her for, the neglect of abilities which education might have rendered so re- spectable; but she saw% with less tenderness of feeling, the thorough want of delicacy, of rectitude, and in- tegrity of mind, which her attentions, her assiduities, her flatteries at the Park betrayed ; and she could have no ( 299 ) no lasting satisfaction in the com- pany of a person who joined insin- cerity with ignorance ; whose want of instruction prevented their meeting in conversation on terms of equality, and whose conduct towards others, made every shew of attention and deference towards herself perfectly valueless. " You will think my question arj odd one, 1 dare say," said Lucy to her one day, as they were walking together from the Park to the cot- tage — " but, pray, are you person- ally acquainted with your sister-in- law's mother, Mrs. Ferrars ?" Elinor did think the question a very odd one, and her countenance ex- pressed it, as she answered that she had never seen Mrs. Ferrars. *' Indeed!" replied Lucy; "I won- der at that, for I thought you must have seen her at Norland sometimes, o 6 Then ( 300 ) Then perhaps you cannot tell me what sort of a woman she is?" " No;" returned Elinor, cautious of giving her real opinion of Ed- ward's mother, and not very desirous of satifying-, what seemed imperti- nent curiosity — " I know nothing of her." ** I am sure you think me very strange, for inquiring about her in such a way;" said Lucy, eyeing Eli- nor attentively as she spoke ; " but perhaps there may be reasons — I wish I might venture; but however I hope you will do me the justice of believing that I do not mean to be impertinent." Elinor made her a civil reply, and they walked on for a few minutes in silence. It was broken by Lucy, who renewed the subject again by saying with some hesitation, " I cannot bear to have you think me ( 301 ) me impertinently cm'ious. I am sure I \\ ould rather do any thing in the world than be thought so by a per- son whose good opinion is so well worth having as yours. And I am sure 1 should not have the smallest fear of trusting ^ow; indeed I should be very glad of your advice how to manage in such an uncomfortable situation as I am ; but however there is no occasion to trouble you. I am sorry you do not happen to know Mrs. Ferrars." " I am sorry I do 7*0/," said Elinor in great astonishment, " if it could be of any use to you to know my opinion of her. But really, I never understood that you were at all con- nected with that family, and there- fore I am a little surprised, I con- fess, at so serious an inquiry into her character." " I dare say you are, and I am sure ( 302 ) sure I do not at all wonder at it. But if I dared tell you all, you would not be so much surprised. Mrs. Ferrars is certainly nothing to me at pre-* sent, — but the time may come — how soon it will come must depend upon herself — when we may be very in- timately connected." She looked down as she said this, amiably bashful, v/ith only one side glance at her companion to observe its effect on her. " Good heavens !" cried Elinor, " what do you mean? Are you ac- quainted with Mr. Robert Ferrars ? Can you be ?" And she did not feel much delighted w ith the idea of such a sister-in-law. " No;" replied Lucy, " not to Mr. Robert Ferrars — I never saw him in my life ; but," fixing her eyes upon Elinor, '* to his elder bro- ther." What ( 503 ) What felt Elinor at that moment? Astonishment, that would have been as painful as it was strong, had not an immediate disbelief of the asser- tion attended it. She turned towards Lucy in silent amazement, unable to divine the reason or object of such a de- claration, and though her complexion varied, she stood firm in incredulity and felt in no danger of an hysteri- cal fit, or a swoon. " You may well be surprised," continued Lucy; " for to be sure you could have had no idea of it before ; for I dare say he never dropped the smallest hint of it to you or any of your family ; because it was alw ays 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 dependance ( 304 ; dependance in the world upon your secrecy ; and I really thought my be- haviour 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 1 have trusted you, because I know he ha» the highest opinion in the world of all your family, and looks upon yourself and the other Miss Dash- woods, quite as his own sisters." — She paused, Elinor for a few moments remained silent. Her astonishment at what she heard was at first too great for words; but at length forcing herself to speak, and to speak cautiously, she said with a calmness of manner, v/hich tolerably well concealed her surprise and solicitude — " May I ask if your engagement is of long standing?" " We ( 305 ) " We have been engaged these four years." " Four years !" " Yes." Elmor, though greatly shocked, still felt unable to believe it. " I did not know," said she, " that you were even acquainted till the other day." " Our acquaintance, however, is of many years date. He was under my uncle's care, you know, a consider- able while." " Your uncle !" " Yes ; Mr. Pratt. Did you never hear him talk of Mr. Pratt?" " I think I have," replied Elinor, with an exertion of spirits, which in- creased with her increase of emo- tion. " He was four years with my uncle, who lives at Longstaple, near Ply- mouth. ( 306 ) mouth. It was there our acquaint- ance 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 know- ledge 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 Dash- wood, you must have seen enough of him to be sensible he is very ca- pable of making a woman sincerely attached to him." "Certainly," answered Elinor, with- out knowing what she said ; but after a moment's reflection, she added, with revived security of Edward's honour and love, and her com- panion's ( 307 ) panioii's falsehood — " Engaged to Mr. Edward Ferrars ! — I confess myself so totally surprised at what you tell me, that really — I beg your pardon; but surely there must be some mis- take of person or name. We cannot mean the same Mr. Ferrars." " We can mean no other," cried Lucy smiling. " Mr. Edw ard Fer- rars, the eldest son of Mrs. Ferrars of Park-sti'eet, and brother of your sister-in-law, Mrs. John Dashwood, is the person I mean ; you must allow that / am not likely to be deceived, as to the name of the man on who all my happiness depends." " It is strange," replied Elinor in a most painful perplexity, " that I should never have heard him even mention your name." " No; considering our situation, it was not strange. Our first care has been to keej) the matter secret. — You ( 308 ) You knew nothing of me, or my fa- mily, and therefore there could be no occasion for ever mentioning my name to you, and as he was always par- ticularly afraid of his sister's suspect- ing any thing, that was reason enough for his not mentioning it." She was silent. — Elinor's security sunk ; but her self command did not sink with it. " Four years you have been en- gaged," said she with a firm voice. " Yes; and heaven knows how much longer we may have to wait. Poor Edward ! It puts him quite out of heart." Then taking a small mi- niature from her pocket, she added, ** To prevent the possibility of a mis- take, 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 ( 309 ) drew for. — I have had it above these three years." She put it into her hands as she spoke, and when Elinor saw the painting, whatever other doubts her fear of a too hasty decision, or her wish of detecting falsehood might suffer to linger in her mind, she could have none of its being Edward's face. She returned it almost instantly, ac- knowledging the likeness. " I have never been able," conti- nued 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 deter- mined to set for it the very first op- portunity." " You are quite in the right;" re- plied Elinor calmly. They then pro- ceeded a few paces in silence. Lucy spoke first. " I am sure," said she, *' I have no ( 310 ) no doubt in the world of your faith- fully keeping this secret, because you must know of what importance it is to us, not to have it reach his mo- ther; for she would never approve of it, I dare say. I shall have no fortune, and I fancy she is an ex- ceeding proud woman." " I certainly did not seek your con- fidence," said Elinor; " but you do me no more than justice in imagin- ing that I may be depended on. Your secret is safe with me; but pardon me if 1 express some surprise at so unnecessary a communication. You must at least have felt that my being acquainted with it could not add to its safety." As she said this, slie looked ear- nestly at Lucy, hoping to discover something in her countenance; per- haps the falsehood of the greatest part of what she had been saying; but ( 311 ) 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 descrip- tion 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, tliat I have not a ci'ea- ture whose advice I can ask. Anne is the only person that knows of it, and she has no judgment at all ; in- deed 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, a^ you ( 312 ) 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 won- der 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 handker- chief; but Elinor did not feel very compassionate. " Sometimes," continued Lucy, after wiping her eyes, " I think whe- ther it would not be better for us both, to break off the matter en- tirely." As she said this, she looked directly at her companion. " But then ( 313 ) then at other times I have not reso- lution enough for it. — I cannot bear the thoughts of making- him so miser- able, as I know the very mention of such a thing would do. And on my own account too — so dear as he is to me— I don't think I could be equal to it. What would you advise me to do in such a case, Miss Dashwood ? What would you do yourself? " Pardon me," replied Elinor, startled by the question ; '' but I can give you no advice under such cir- cumstances. Your own judgment must direct you." ** To be sure," continued Lucy, after a few minutes silence on both sides, " his mother must provide for him sometime or other; but poor Edward is so cast down about it! Did not you think him dreadful low- spirited when he was at Barton ? He was so miserable when he left us at VOL. I. p Longstaple, ( 314 ) Longstaple to go to you, that I was afraid you would think him quite ill." " Did he come from your uncle's then, when he visited us ?" " Oh ! yes; he had been staying a fortnight with us. Did you think be came directly from town ?" " No," replied Elinor, most feel- ingly sensible of every fresh circum- stance in favour of Lucy's veracity; " I remember he told us, that he had been staying a fortnight with some friends near Plymouth." She remembered too, her own surprise at the time, at his mentioning no- thing farther of those friends, at his total silence with respect even to their names. 1 5^ " Did not you think him sadly out of spirits?" repeated Lucy. " We did indeed, particularly so wffen he first arrived." "I begged ( 315 ) " I 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 carelessly shewing 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 ivas his hand, and she could doubt no longer. The picture, she had allowed herself to believe, might have been acciden- tally obtained; it might not have been Edward's gift ; but a correspondence P 2 between ( 316 ) 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 ex- ertion was indispensably necessary, and she struggled so resolutely against the oppression of her feel- ings, that her success was speedy, and for the time complete. " Writing to each other," said Lucy, returning the letter into her pocket, " is the only comfort we have in such long separations. Yes, I have one other comfort, in his picture; but poor Edward has not even that. If he had but my pic- ture, he says he should be easy. I gave him a lock of my hair set in a ring when he was at Longstaple last, and that was some comfort to him, he said, but not equal to a picture. Perhaps ( 317 ) Perhaps you might notice the ring- when you saw him ?'' *' I did ;" said Elinor, with a com- posure of voice, under which was concealed an emotion and distress beyond any thing she had ever felt before. She was mortified, shocked, confounded. Fortunately for her, they had now reached the cottage, and the conver- sation could be continued no farther. After sitting with them a few mi- nutes, the Miss Steeles returned to the Park, and Elinor was then at liberty to think and be wretched. END OF VOL. I. London; Printed by r. Rowoith, Bell-Vaid, Temple-Ear. w^ 'M,m^ m' m ^m'