Sense and Sensibility, by Jane Austen

Part 2 out of 8



was an everlasting talker, and from the first had regarded
her with a kindness which ensured her a large share of
her discourse. She had already repeated her own history
to Elinor three or four times; and had Elinor's memory been
equal to her means of improvement, she might have known
very early in their acquaintance all the particulars of
Mr. Jenning's last illness, and what he said to his wife
a few minutes before he died. Lady Middleton was more
agreeable than her mother only in being more silent.
Elinor needed little observation to perceive that her
reserve was a mere calmness of manner with which sense
had nothing to do. Towards her husband and mother she
was the same as to them; and intimacy was therefore
neither to be looked for nor desired. She had nothing
to say one day that she had not said the day before.
Her insipidity was invariable, for even her spirits were
always the same; and though she did not oppose the parties
arranged by her husband, provided every thing were conducted
in style and her two eldest children attended her,
she never appeared to receive more enjoyment from them
than she might have experienced in sitting at home;--
and so little did her presence add to the pleasure
of the others, by any share in their conversation,
that they were sometimes only reminded of her being
amongst them by her solicitude about her troublesome boys.

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

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

"No," replied Elinor, "her opinions are all romantic."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER 12


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Take care, Margaret. It may be only the hair
of some great uncle of HIS."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No, THAT he is not. He is of no profession at all."

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER 13


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

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

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

"What is the matter with Brandon?" said Sir John.

Nobody could tell.

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

In about five minutes he returned.

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

"None at all, ma'am, I thank you."

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

"No, ma'am. It came from town, and is merely
a letter of business."

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

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

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

"No, indeed, it is not."

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

"Whom do you mean, ma'am?" said he, colouring a little.

"Oh! you know who I mean."

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

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

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

What a blow upon them all was this!

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

He shook his head.

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

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

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

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

"I cannot afford to lose ONE hour."--

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

"I have no doubt of it," replied Marianne.

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

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

"Well, then, when will you come back again?"

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

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

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

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

"I do not want to pry into other men's concerns.
I suppose it is something he is ashamed of."

Colonel Brandon's horses were announced.

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

"No. Only to Honiton. I shall then go post."

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

"I assure you it is not in my power."

He then took leave of the whole party.

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

"I am afraid, none at all."

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

To Marianne, he merely bowed and said nothing.

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

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

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

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

"Can you, ma'am?" said almost every body.

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

"And who is Miss Williams?" asked Marianne.

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

"Indeed!"

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

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

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

Marianne coloured, and replied very hastily,
"Where, pray?"--

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER 14


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER 15


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

On their return from the park they found Willoughby's
curricle and servant in waiting at the cottage,
and Mrs. Dashwood was convinced that her conjecture
had been just. So far it was all as she had foreseen;
but on entering the house she beheld what no foresight
had taught her to expect. They were no sooner in the
passage than Marianne came hastily out of the parlour
apparently in violent affliction, with her handkerchief
at her eyes; and without noticing them ran up stairs.
Surprised and alarmed they proceeded directly into the room
she had just quitted, where they found only Willoughby,
who was leaning against the mantel-piece with his back
towards them. He turned round on their coming in,
and his countenance shewed that he strongly partook
of the emotion which over-powered Marianne.

"Is anything the matter with her?" cried Mrs. Dashwood
as she entered--"is she ill?"

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

"Disappointment?"

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

"To London!--and are you going this morning?"

"Almost this moment."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"My engagements at present," replied Willoughby,
confusedly, "are of such a nature--that--I dare not flatter
myself"--

He 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 myself
any longer by remaining among friends whose society
it is impossible for me now to enjoy."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Can you, indeed!"

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

"Nothing, for you have anticipated my answer."

"Then you would have told me, that it might or might not
have happened. Oh, Elinor, how incomprehensible are your
feelings! You had rather take evil upon credit than good.
You had rather look out for misery for Marianne, and guilt
for poor Willoughby, than an apology for the latter.
You are resolved to think him blameable, because he took
leave of us with less affection than his usual behaviour
has shewn. And is no allowance to be made for inadvertence,
or for spirits depressed by recent disappointment? Are
no probabilities to be accepted, merely because they
are not certainties? Is nothing due to the man whom we
have all such reason to love, and no reason in the world
to think ill of? To the possibility of motives unanswerable
in themselves, though unavoidably secret for a while? And,
after all, what is it you suspect him of?"

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

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

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

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

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

"I am perfectly satisfied of both."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER 16


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Months!" cried Marianne, with strong surprise.
"No--nor many weeks."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Have you been lately in Sussex?" said Elinor.

"I was at Norland about a month ago."

"And how does dear, dear Norland look?" cried Marianne.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER 17


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"About eighteen hundred or two thousand a year;
not more than THAT."

Elinor laughed. "TWO thousand a year! ONE is my
wealth! I guessed how it would end."

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

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

"Hunters!" repeated Edward--"but why must you have
hunters? Every body does not hunt."

Marianne coloured as she replied, "But most people do."

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

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

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

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

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

"I should be puzzled to spend so large a fortune myself,"
said Mrs. Dashwood, "if my children were all to be rich
my help."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Nay, Edward," said Marianne, "you need not reproach me.
You are not very gay yourself."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Quite the contrary," replied Elinor,
looking expressively at Marianne.

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

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

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

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

Edward started--"Reserved! Am I reserved, Marianne?"

"Yes, very."

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

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

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



CHAPTER 18


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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You MUST drink tea with us to night," said he,
"for we shall be quite alone--and tomorrow you must
absolutely dine with us, for we shall be a large party."

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

"A dance!" cried Marianne. "Impossible! Who is to dance?"

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

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

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

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

"What do you mean?"

"Shall I tell you."

"Certainly."

"Well then; I guess that Mr. Willoughby hunts."

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

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

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



CHAPTER 19


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


 


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