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\hyphenation{Wil-lough-by}

\hyphenation{Dash-wood}

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\title{Sense and Sensibility}


\author{Jane Austen}

\maketitle
\vspace*{\stretch{1}}

\noindent This text is in the public domain. Special thanks are due
to Sharon Partridge for extensive proofreading and correction. The
Project Gutenberg edition ({}``sense11'') was converted to \LaTeX{}
using \textbf{GutenMark} software and re-edited (formatting only)
by Ron Burkey. Report problems to info@sandroid.org.

\noindent \begin{center}Revision: A\\
Date: 01/19/03\end{center}

\vspace{\stretch{1}}

\frontmatter

\pagestyle{myheadings} {\small \tableofcontents{}}\newpage

\mainmatter


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER 1}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER 1}

\markboth{SENSE AND SENSIBILITY}{CHAPTER 1}

The family of Dashwood had long been settled in Sussex. Their estate
was large, and their residence was at Norland Park, in the centre
of their property, where, for many generations, they had lived in
so respectable a manner as to engage the general good opinion of their
surrounding acquaintance. The late owner of this estate was a single
man, who lived to a very advanced age, and who for many years of his
life, had a constant companion and housekeeper in his sister. But
her death, which happened ten years before his own, produced a great
alteration in his home; for to supply her loss, he invited and received
into his house the family of his nephew Mr.\ Henry Dashwood, the
legal inheritor of the Norland estate, and the person to whom he intended
to bequeath it. In the society of his nephew and niece, and their
children, the old Gentleman's days were comfortably spent. His attachment
to them all increased. The constant attention of Mr.\ and Mrs.\ Henry
Dashwood to his wishes, which proceeded not merely from interest,
but from goodness of heart, gave him every degree of solid comfort
which his age could receive; and the cheerfulness of the children
added a relish to his existence.

By a former marriage, Mr.\ Henry Dashwood had one son: by his present
lady, three daughters. The son, a steady respectable young man, was
amply provided for by the fortune of his mother, which had been large,
and half of which devolved on him on his coming of age. By his own
marriage, likewise, which happened soon afterwards, he added to his
wealth. To him therefore the succession to the Norland estate was
not so really important as to his sisters; for their fortune, independent
of what might arise to them from their father's inheriting that property,
could be but small. Their mother had nothing, and their father only
seven thousand pounds in his own disposal; for the remaining moiety
of his first wife's fortune was also secured to her child, and he
had only a life-interest in it.

The old gentleman died: his will was read, and like almost every other
will, gave as much disappointment as pleasure. He was neither so unjust,
nor so ungrateful, as to leave his estate from his nephew;---but he
left it to him on such terms as destroyed half the value of the bequest.
Mr.\ Dashwood had wished for it more for the sake of his wife and
daughters than for himself or his son;---but to his son, and his son's
son, a child of four years old, it was secured, in such a way, as
to leave to himself no power of providing for those who were most
dear to him, and who most needed a provision by any charge on the
estate, or by any sale of its valuable woods. The whole was tied up
for the benefit of this child, who, in occasional visits with his
father and mother at Norland, had so far gained on the affections
of his uncle, by such attractions as are by no means unusual in children
of two or three years old; an imperfect articulation, an earnest desire
of having his own way, many cunning tricks, and a great deal of noise,
as to outweigh all the value of all the attention which, for years,
he had received from his niece and her daughters. He meant not to
be unkind, however, and, as a mark of his affection for the three
girls, he left them a thousand pounds 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 produce of an estate already large, and capable of almost immediate
improvement. But the fortune, which had been so tardy in coming, was
his only one twelvemonth. He survived his uncle no longer; and ten
thousand pounds, including the late legacies, was all that remained
for his widow and daughters.

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

Mr.\ John Dashwood had not the strong feelings of the rest of the
family; but he was affected by a recommendation 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 prudently be in his power to do for them.

He was not an ill-disposed young man, unless to be rather cold hearted
and rather selfish is to be ill-disposed: but he was, in general,
well respected; for he conducted himself with propriety in the discharge
of his ordinary duties. Had he married a more amiable woman, he might
have been made still more respectable than he was:---he might even
have been made amiable himself; for he was very young when he married,
and very fond of his wife. But Mrs.\ John Dashwood was a strong caricature
of himself;---more narrow-minded and selfish.

When he gave his promise to his father, he meditated within himself
to increase the fortunes of his sisters by the present of a thousand
pounds a-piece. He then really thought himself equal to it. The prospect
of four thousand a-year, in addition to his present income, besides
the remaining half of his own mother's fortune, warmed his heart,
and made him feel capable of generosity.---{}``Yes, he would give
them three thousand pounds: it would be liberal and handsome! It would
be enough to make them completely easy. Three thousand pounds!\ he
could spare so considerable a sum with little inconvenience.''---He
thought of it all day long, and for many days successively, and he
did not repent.

No sooner was his father's funeral over, than Mrs.\ John Dashwood,
without sending any notice of her intention to her mother-in-law,
arrived with her child and their attendants. No one could dispute
her right to come; the house was her husband's from the moment of
his father's decease; but the indelicacy of her conduct was so much
the greater, and to a woman in Mrs.\ Dashwood's situation, with only
common feelings, must have been highly unpleasing;---but in \textit{her}
mind there was a sense of honor so keen, a generosity so romantic,
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
attention to the comfort of other people she could act when occasion
required 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 quitted the house for ever,
had not the entreaty of her eldest girl induced her first to reflect
on the propriety of going, and her own tender love for all her three
children determined her afterwards to stay, and for their sakes avoid
a breach with their brother.

Elinor, this eldest daughter, whose advice was so effectual, possessed
a strength of understanding, and coolness of judgment, which qualified
her, though only nineteen, to be the counsellor of her mother, and
enabled her frequently to counteract, to the advantage of them all,
that eagerness of mind in Mrs.\ Dashwood which must generally have
led to imprudence. She had an excellent heart;---her disposition was
affectionate, and her feelings were strong; but she knew how to govern
them: it was a knowledge which her mother had yet to learn; and which
one of her sisters had resolved never to be taught.

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

Elinor saw, with concern, the excess of her sister's sensibility;
but by Mrs.\ Dashwood it was valued and cherished. They encouraged
each other now in the violence of their affliction. The agony of grief
which overpowered them at first, was voluntarily renewed, was sought
for, was created again and again. They gave themselves up wholly to
their sorrow, seeking increase of wretchedness in every reflection
that could afford it, and resolved against ever admitting consolation
in future. Elinor, too, was deeply afflicted; but still she could
struggle, she could exert herself. She could consult with her brother,
could receive her sister-in-law on her arrival, and treat her with
proper attention; and could strive to rouse her mother to similar
exertion, and encourage her to similar forbearance.

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


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER 2}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER 2}

\markboth{SENSE AND SENSIBILITY}{CHAPTER 2}

Mrs.\ John Dashwood now installed herself mistress of Norland; and
her mother and sisters-in-law were degraded to the condition of visitors.
As such, however, they were treated by her with quiet civility; and
by her husband with as much kindness as he could feel towards anybody
beyond himself, his wife, and their child. He really pressed them,
with some earnestness, to consider Norland as their home; and, as
no plan appeared so eligible to Mrs.\ Dashwood as remaining there
till she could accommodate herself with a house in the neighbourhood,
his invitation was accepted.

A continuance in a place where everything 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 intended
to do for his sisters. To take three thousand pounds from the fortune
of their dear little boy would be impoverishing him to the most dreadful
degree. She begged him to think again on the subject. How could he
answer it to himself to rob his child, and his only child too, of
so large a sum? And what possible claim could the Miss Dashwoods,
who were related to him only by half blood, which she considered as
no relationship at all, have on his generosity to so large an amount.
It was very well known that no affection was ever supposed to exist
between the children of any man by different marriages; and why was
he to ruin himself, and their poor little Harry, by giving away all
his money to his half sisters?

{}``It was my father's last request to me,'' replied her husband,
{}``that I should assist his widow and daughters.''

{}``He did not know what he was talking of, I dare say; ten to one
but he was light-headed at the time. Had he been in his right senses,
he could not have thought of such a thing as begging you to give away
half your fortune from your own child.''

{}``He did not stipulate for any particular sum, my dear Fanny; he
only requested me, in general terms, to assist them, and make their
situation more comfortable than it was in his power to do. Perhaps
it would have been as well if he had left it wholly to myself. He
could hardly suppose I should neglect them. But as he required the
promise, I could not do less than give it; at least I thought so at
the time. The promise, therefore, was given, and must be performed.
Something must be done for them whenever they leave Norland and settle
in a new home.''

{}``Well, then, \textit{let} something be done for them; but \textit{that}
something need not be three thousand pounds. Consider,'' she added,
{}``that when the money is once parted with, it never can return.
Your sisters will marry, and it will be gone for ever. If, indeed,
it could be restored to our poor little boy---''

{}``Why, to be sure,'' said her husband, very gravely, {}``that
would make great difference. The time may come when Harry will regret
that so large a sum was parted with. If he should have a numerous
family, for instance, it would be a very convenient addition.''

{}``To be sure it would.''

{}``Perhaps, then, it would be better for all parties, if the sum
were diminished one half.---Five hundred pounds would be a prodigious
increase to their fortunes!''

{}``Oh!\ beyond anything great! What brother on earth would do half
so much for his sisters, even if \textit{really} his sisters! And
as it is---only half blood!---But you have such a generous spirit!''

{}``I would not wish to do any thing mean,'' he replied. {}``One
had rather, on such occasions, do too much than too little. No one,
at least, can think I have not done enough for them: even themselves,
they can hardly expect more.''

{}``There is no knowing what \textit{they} may expect,'' said the
lady, {}``but we are not to think of their expectations: the question
is, what you can afford to do.''

{}``Certainly---and I think I may afford to give them five hundred
pounds a-piece. As it is, without any addition of mine, they will
each have about three thousand pounds on their mother's death---a
very comfortable fortune for any young woman.''

{}``To be sure it is; and, indeed, it strikes me that they can want
no addition at all. They will have ten thousand pounds divided amongst
them. If they marry, they will be sure of doing well, and if they
do not, they may all live very comfortably together on the interest
of ten thousand pounds.''

{}``That is very true, and, therefore, I do not know whether, upon
the whole, it would not be more advisable to do something for their
mother while she lives, rather than for them---something of 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, however, in giving her consent to this
plan.

{}``To be sure,'' said she, {}``it is better than parting with
fifteen hundred pounds at once. But, then, if Mrs.\ Dashwood should
live fifteen years we shall be completely taken in.''

{}``Fifteen years!\ my dear Fanny; her life cannot be worth half
that purchase.''

{}``Certainly not; but if you observe, people always live for ever
when there is an annuity to be paid them; and she is very stout and
healthy, and hardly forty. An annuity is a very serious business;
it comes over and over every year, and there is no getting rid of
it. You are not aware of what you are doing. I have known a great
deal of the trouble of annuities; for my mother was clogged with the
payment of three to old superannuated servants by my father's will,
and it is amazing how disagreeable she found it. Twice every year
these annuities were to be paid; and then there was the trouble of
getting it to them; and then one of them was said to have died, and
afterwards it turned out to be no such thing. My mother was quite
sick of it. Her income was not her own, she said, with such perpetual
claims on it; and it was the more unkind in my father, because, otherwise,
the money would have been entirely at my mother's disposal, without
any restriction whatever. It has given me such an abhorrence of annuities,
that I am sure I would not pin myself down to the payment of one for
all the world.''

{}``It is certainly an unpleasant thing,'' replied Mr.\ Dashwood,
{}``to have those kind of yearly drains on one's income. One's fortune,
as your mother justly says, is \textit{not} one's own. To be tied
down to the regular payment of such a sum, on every rent day, is by
no means desirable: it takes away one's independence.''

{}``Undoubtedly; and after all you have no thanks for it. They think
themselves secure, you do no more than what is expected, and it raises
no gratitude at all. If I were you, whatever I did should be done
at my own 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 expenses.''

{}``I believe you are right, my love; it will be better that there
should by no annuity in the case; whatever I may give them occasionally
will be of far greater assistance than a yearly allowance, because
they would only enlarge their style of living if they felt sure of
a larger income, and would not be sixpence the richer for it at the
end of the year. It will certainly be much the best way. A present
of fifty pounds, now and then, will prevent their ever being distressed
for money, and will, I think, be amply discharging my promise to my
father.''

{}``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 unreasonable if he did.
Do but consider, my dear Mr.\ Dashwood, how excessively comfortable
your mother-in-law and her daughters may live on the interest of seven
thousand pounds, besides the thousand pounds belonging to each of
the girls, which brings them in fifty pounds a year a-piece, and,
of course, they will pay their mother for their board out of it. Altogether,
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 housekeeping 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 expenses 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 giving them more, it is quite
absurd to think of it. They will be much more able to give \textit{you}
something.''

{}``Upon my word,'' said Mr.\ Dashwood, {}``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 it now, and
I will strictly fulfil my engagement by such acts of assistance and
kindness to them as you have described. When my mother removes into
another house my services shall be readily given to accommodate her
as far as I can. Some little present of furniture too may be acceptable
then.''

{}``Certainly,'' returned Mrs.\ John Dashwood. {}``But, however,
\textit{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
indeed! And yet some of the plate would have been a very pleasant
addition to our own stock here.''

{}``Yes; and the set of breakfast china is twice as handsome as what
belongs to this house. A great deal too handsome, in my opinion, for
any place \textit{they} can ever afford to live in. But, however,
so it is. Your father thought only of \textit{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 everything in the world to \textit{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 widow and children of his father, than such kind of neighbourly
acts as his own wife pointed out.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER 3}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER 3}

\markboth{SENSE AND SENSIBILITY}{CHAPTER 3}

Mrs.\ Dashwood remained at Norland 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 heightening its affliction by melancholy remembrances,
she was impatient to be gone, and indefatigable in her inquiries for
a suitable dwelling in the neighbourhood of Norland; for to remove
far from that beloved spot was impossible. But she could hear of no
situation that at once answered her notions of comfort and ease, and
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 informed 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 doubted the sincerity of this assurance
no more than he had doubted it himself, and she thought of it for
her daughters' sake with satisfaction, though as for herself she was
persuaded that a much smaller provision than \pounds 7000 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 believing him incapable of generosity. His
attentive behaviour to herself and his sisters convinced her that
their welfare 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 increased by the farther knowledge
of her character, which half a year's residence in her family afforded;
and perhaps in spite of every consideration of politeness or maternal
affection on the side of the former, the two ladies might have found
it impossible to have lived together so long, had not a particular
circumstance occurred to give still greater eligibility, according
to the opinions of Mrs.\ Dashwood, to her daughters' continuance
at Norland.

This circumstance was a growing attachment between her eldest girl
and the brother of Mrs.\ John Dashwood, a gentleman-like and pleasing
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 encouraged 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 repressed it from motives of prudence, for, except
a trifling sum, the whole of his fortune depended on the will of his
mother. But Mrs.\ Dashwood was alike uninfluenced by either consideration.
It was enough for her that he appeared to be amiable, 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 disposition;
and that Elinor's merit should not be acknowledged by every one who
knew her, was to her comprehension impossible.

Edward Ferrars was not recommended to their good opinion by any peculiar
graces of person or address. He was not handsome, and his manners
required intimacy to make them pleasing. He was too diffident to do
justice to himself; but when his natural shyness was overcome, his
behaviour gave every indication of an open, affectionate heart. His
understanding 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
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 superior 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 centered 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 engaged
much of Mrs.\ Dashwood's attention; for she was, at that time, in
such affliction as rendered her careless of surrounding objects. She
saw only that he was quiet and unobtrusive, and she liked him for
it. He did not disturb the wretchedness 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 forcibly
to her mother.

{}``It is enough,'' said she; {}``to say that he is unlike Fanny
is enough. It implies everything 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 feel no
sentiment of approbation inferior to love.''

{}``You may esteem him.''

{}``I have never yet known what it was to separate esteem and love.''

Mrs.\ Dashwood now took pains to get acquainted with him. Her manners
were attaching, and soon banished his reserve. She speedily comprehended
all his merits; the persuasion 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 what a young man's address ought to be, was no longer uninteresting
when she knew his heart to be warm and his temper affectionate.

No sooner did she perceive any symptom of love in his behaviour to
Elinor, than she considered their serious attachment as certain, and
looked forward to their marriage as rapidly approaching.

{}``In a few months, my dear Marianne.'' said she, {}``Elinor will,
in all probability be settled for life. We shall miss her; but \textit{she}
will be happy.''

{}``Oh! Mamma, 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, affectionate brother. I have the
highest opinion in the world of Edward's heart. But you look grave,
Marianne; 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 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. His eyes want all that spirit,
that fire, which at once announce virtue and intelligence. And besides
all this, I am afraid, Mamma, 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 attention to her while she
draws, that in fact he knows nothing of the matter. He admires as
a lover, not as a connoisseur. To satisfy me, those characters 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 severely. Yet she bore it with so much composure,
she seemed scarcely 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 \textit{would} give him Cowper.''

{}``Nay, Mamma, 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
\textit{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 really love. I require so
much! He must have all Edward's virtues, and his person and manners
must ornament his goodness with every possible charm.''

{}``Remember, my love, that you are not seventeen. It is yet too
early in life to despair of such a happiness. Why should you be less
fortunate than your mother? In one circumstance only, my Marianne,
may your destiny be different from her's!''


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER 4}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER 4}

\markboth{SENSE AND SENSIBILITY}{CHAPTER 4}

{}``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 deficient 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 simplicity of taste,
which in general direct him perfectly right.''

Marianne was afraid of offending, and said no more on the subject;
but 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
\textit{that} were your opinion, I am sure you could never be civil
to him.''

Marianne hardly knew what to say. She would not wound the feelings
of her sister on any account, and yet to say what she did not believe
was impossible. At length she replied:

{}``Do not be offended, Elinor, if my praise of him is not in every
thing equal to your sense of his merits. I have not had so many opportunities
of estimating the minuter propensities of his mind, his inclinations
and tastes, as you have; but I have the highest opinion in the world
of his goodness and sense. I think him every thing that is worthy
and amiable.''

{}``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.''

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 unreserved conversation. The excellence of his understanding
and his principles 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 circumstances 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 literature and taste; and, upon
the whole, I venture to pronounce that his mind is well-informed,
enjoyment of books exceedingly great, his imagination lively, his
observation just and correct, and his taste delicate and pure. His
abilities in every respect improve as much upon acquaintance as his
manners and person. At first sight, his address is certainly not striking;
and his person can hardly be called handsome, till the expression
of his eyes, which are uncommonly good, and the general sweetness
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, Marianne?''

{}``I shall very soon think him handsome, Elinor, if I do not now.
When you tell me to love him as a brother, I shall no more see imperfection
in his face, than I now do in his heart.''

Elinor started at this declaration, and was sorry for the warmth she
had been betrayed into, in speaking of him. She felt that Edward stood
very high in her opinion. She believed 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\-dig\-na\-t\-ion---

{}``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 moment.''

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 warrant, 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 moments when
the extent of it seems doubtful; and till his sentiments are fully
known, you cannot wonder at my wishing to avoid any encouragement
of my own partiality, by believing or calling it more than it is.
In my heart I feel little---scarcely any doubt of his preference.
But there are other points to be considered 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 difficulties 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 will happen. But two advantages will proceed from
this delay. I shall not lose you so soon, and Edward will have greater
opportunity 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 delightful it would be!''

Elinor had given her real opinion to her sister. She could not consider
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 of 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 which frequently attended him. A more reasonable cause might
be found in the dependent situation which forbade 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, without strictly attending
to her views for his aggrandizement. 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, it was enough, when perceived
by his sister, to make her uneasy, and at the same time, (which was
still more common,) to make her uncivil. She took the first opportunity
of affronting her mother-in-law on the occasion, talking to her so
expressively of her brother's great expectations, of Mrs.\ Ferrars's
resolution that both her sons should marry well, and of the danger
attending any young woman who attempted to \textit{draw} \textit{him}
\textit{in}, that Mrs.\ Dashwood could neither pretend to be unconscious,
nor endeavor to be calm. She gave her an answer which marked her contempt,
and instantly left the room, resolving that, whatever might be the
inconvenience or expense of so sudden a removal, her beloved Elinor
should not be exposed another week to such insinuations.

In this state of her spirits, a letter was delivered to her from the
post, which contained a proposal particularly well timed. It was the
offer of a small house, on very easy terms, belonging to a relation
of her own, a gentleman of consequence and property 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 everything should be done to it which
she might think necessary, if the situation pleased her. He earnestly
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 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 written 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 connections. She needed no time for deliberation or inquiry.
Her resolution was formed as she read. The situation 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 comparison of the misery
of continuing her daughter-in-law's guest; and to remove 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 acknowledgment of his kindness, and her acceptance of
his proposal; and then hastened to shew both letters to her daughters,
that she might be secure of their approbation before her answer were
sent.

Elinor had always thought it would be more prudent for them to settle
at some distance from Norland, than immediately amongst their present
acquaintance. On \textit{that} head, therefore, it was not for her
to oppose her mother's intention of removing into Devonshire. The
house, too, as described by Sir John, was on so simple a scale, and
the rent so uncommonly moderate, as to leave her no right of objection
on either point; and, therefore, though it was not a plan which brought
any charm to her fancy, though it was a removal from the vicinity
of Norland beyond her wishes, she made no attempt to dissuade her
mother from sending a letter of acquiescence.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER 5}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER 5}

\markboth{SENSE AND SENSIBILITY}{CHAPTER 5}

No sooner was her answer dispatched, than Mrs.\ Dashwood indulged
herself in the pleasure of announcing to her son-in-law and his wife
that she was provided with a 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 hearing this, and, in a voice of surprise
and concern, which required no explanation to her, repeated, {}``Devonshire!
Are you, indeed, going there? So far from hence! And to what part
of it?'' She explained the situation. It was within four miles northward
of Exeter.

{}``It is but a cottage,'' she continued, {}``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 invitation to Mr.\ and Mrs.\ John
Dashwood 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 unavoidable,
it had not produced the smallest effect on her in that point to which
it principally tended. To separate Edward and Elinor was as far from
being her object as ever; and she wished to show Mrs.\ John Dashwood,
by this pointed invitation to her brother, how totally she disregarded
her disapprobation of the match.

Mr.\ John Dashwood told his mother again and again how exceedingly
sorry he was that she had taken a house at such a distance from Norland
as to prevent his being of any service to her in removing her furniture.
He really felt conscientiously vexed on the occasion; for the very
exertion to which he had limited the performance of his promise to
his father was by this arrangement rendered impracticable.---The furniture
was all sent around by water. It chiefly consisted of household linen,
plate, china, and books, with a handsome pianoforte of Marianne'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 furnished,
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 everything that interested her, was soon done.---The
horses which were left her by her husband had been sold soon after
his death, and an opportunity now offering of disposing of her carriage,
she agreed to sell that likewise 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
prevailed. \textit{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 Devonshire,
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 visitor at Barton Park; and she relied so
undoubtingly on Sir John's description of the house, as to feel no
curiosity to examine it herself till she entered it as her own. Her
eagerness to be gone from Norland was preserved from diminution by
the evident 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 departure. Now was the
time when 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 looked on as the
most suitable period for its accomplishment. But Mrs.\ Dashwood began
shortly to give over every hope of the kind, and to be convinced,
from the general drift of his discourse, that his assistance extended
no farther than their maintenance for six months at Norland. He so
frequently talked of the increasing expenses of housekeeping, and
of the perpetual demands upon his purse, which a man of any consequence
in the world was beyond calculation exposed to, that he seemed rather
to stand in need of more money himself than to have any design of
giving money 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.\ Dashwood and her daughters to begin their
journey.

Many were the tears shed by them in their last \emph{adieu}s 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 to
feel a home elsewhere!---Oh!\ happy house, could you know what I
suffer in now viewing you from this spot, 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 we are removed, nor any branch
become motionless although we can observe you no longer!---No; you
will continue the same; unconscious of the pleasure or the regret
you occasion, and insensible of any change in those who walk under
your shade!---But who will remain to enjoy you?''


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER 6}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER 6}

\markboth{SENSE AND SENSIBILITY}{CHAPTER 6}

The first part of their journey was performed in too melancholy a
disposition to be otherwise than tedious and unpleasant. But as they
drew towards the end of it, their interest in the appearance of a
country which they were to inhabit overcame their dejection, and a
view of Barton Valley as they entered it gave them cheerfulness. It
was a pleasant fertile 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 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 covered 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 beyond them were
the offices and the stairs. Four bed-rooms and two garrets 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 indeed!---but
the tears which recollection called forth as they entered the house
were soon dried away. They were cheered by the joy of the servants
on their arrival, and each for the sake of the others resolved to
appear happy. It was very early in September; the season was fine,
and from first seeing the place under the advantage of good weather,
they received an impression in its favour which was of material service
in recommending it to their lasting approbation.

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 cottage
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 terminated the valley in that direction;
under another name, and in another 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 well satisfied; for though her former style of life rendered
many additions to the latter indispensable, yet to add and improve
was a delight to her; and she had at this time ready money enough
to supply all that was wanted of greater elegance to the apartments.
{}``As for the house itself, to be sure,'' said she, {}``it is
too small for our family, 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 parlors are both too small for such
parties of our friends as I hope to see often collected here; and
I have some thoughts 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. But one must
not expect every thing; though I suppose it would be no difficult
matter to widen them. I shall see how much I am before-hand with the
world in the spring, and we will plan our improvements accordingly.''

In the mean time, till all these alterations could be made from the
savings 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 was; and each of them was busy in arranging their particular
concerns, and endeavoring, by placing around them books and other
possessions, to form themselves a home. Marianne's pianoforte was
unpacked and properly disposed of; and Elinor's drawings were affixed
to the walls of their sitting 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 theirs might at present be deficient. Sir
John Middleton was a good looking man about forty. He had formerly
visited at Stanhill, but it was too long for his young cousins to
remember him. His countenance was thoroughly good-humoured; and his
manners were as friendly as the style of his letter. Their arrival
seemed to afford him real satisfaction, and their comfort to 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 entreaties were carried to
a point of perseverance beyond civility, they could not give offence.
His kindness was not confined to words; for within an hour after he
left them, a large basket full of garden stuff and fruit arrived from
the park, which was followed before the end of the day by a present
of game. He insisted, moreover, 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 civil message by him, denoting her
intention of waiting on Mrs.\ Dashwood as soon as she could be assured
that her visit would be no inconvenience; and as this message was
answered by an invitation equally polite, 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. Lady Middleton was not more than six
or seven and twenty; her face was handsome, her figure tall and striking,
and her address graceful. Her manners had all the elegance which her
husband's wanted. But they would have been improved by some share
of his frankness and warmth; and her visit was long enough to detract
something from their first admiration, by shewing that, though perfectly
well-bred, she was reserved, cold, and had nothing to say for herself
beyond the most common-place inquiry or remark.

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 enquire 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 before
company, as he could make noise enough at home. On every formal visit
a child ought to be of the party, 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 mother, and in what particular he
resembled either, for of course every body differed, and every body
was astonished at the opinion of the others.

An opportunity was soon to be given 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*{\raggedright CHAPTER 7}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER 7}

\markboth{SENSE AND SENSIBILITY}{CHAPTER 7}

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 a hill. The house was
large and handsome; and the Middletons lived in a style of equal hospitality
and elegance. The former was for Sir John's gratification, the latter
for that of his lady. They were scarcely ever without 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 temper and outward
behaviour, they strongly resembled each other in that total want of
talent and taste which confined their employments, unconnected with
such as society produced, within a very narrow compass. Sir John was
a sportsman, Lady Middleton 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 independent employments were in existence
only half the time. Continual engagements at home and abroad, however,
supplied all the deficiencies of nature and education; supported the
good spirits of Sir John, and gave exercise to the good breeding of
his wife.

Lady Middleton piqued herself upon the elegance of her table, and
of all her domestic arrangements; and 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 unsatiable appetite of fifteen.

The arrival of a new family in the country was always a matter of
joy to him, and in every point of view he was charmed with the inhabitants
he had now procured for his cottage at Barton. The Miss Dashwoods
were young, pretty, and unaffected. It was enough to secure his good
opinion; for to be unaffected was all that a pretty girl could want
to make her mind as captivating as her person. The friendliness of
his disposition made him happy in accommodating those, whose situation
might be considered, in comparison with the past, as unfortunate.
In showing kindness to his cousins therefore he had the real satisfaction
of a good heart; and in settling a family of females 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 encouraging their taste 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 Barton Park with unaffected sincerity;
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 Middleton's mother had arrived at Barton within the last
hour, and as she was a very cheerful agreeable woman, 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 satisfied
with having two entire strangers of the party, and wished for no more.

Mrs.\ Jennings, Lady Middleton's mother, was a good-humoured, merry,
fat, elderly woman, who talked a great deal, seemed very happy, and
rather vulgar. She was full of jokes and laughter, and before dinner
was over had said many witty things on the subject of lovers and husbands;
hoped they had not left their hearts behind them in Sussex, and pretended
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 earnestness which gave Elinor far
more pain than could arise from such common-place raillery as Mrs.\ Jennings's.

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 Marianne and Margaret an absolute
old bachelor, for he was on the wrong side of five and thirty; but
though his face was not handsome, his countenance was sensible, and
his address was particularly gentlemanlike.

There was nothing in any of the party which could recommend them as
companions to the Dashwoods; but the cold insipidity of Lady Middleton
was so particularly repulsive, that in comparison of it the gravity
of Colonel Brandon, and even the boisterous mirth of Sir John and
his mother-in-law was interesting. Lady Middleton seemed to be roused
to 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
invited to play. The instrument was unlocked, every body prepared
to be charmed, and Marianne, who sang very well, at their request
went through the chief of the songs which Lady Middleton had brought
into the family on her marriage, and which perhaps had lain ever since
in the same position on the pianoforte, for her ladyship had celebrated
that event by giving up music, although by her mother's account, she
had played extremely well, and by her own was very fond of it.

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 Marianne 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 attention; and she felt a respect for him on the occasion, which
the others had reasonably forfeited by their shameless want of taste.
His pleasure in music, though it amounted not to that ecstatic delight
which alone could sympathize with her own, was estimable when contrasted
against the horrible insensibility of the others; and she was reasonable
enough to allow that a man of five and thirty might well have outlived
all acuteness of feeling and every exquisite power of enjoyment. She
was perfectly disposed to make every allowance for the colonel's advanced
state of life which humanity required.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER 8}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER 8}

\markboth{SENSE AND SENSIBILITY}{CHAPTER 8}

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 was remarkably
quick in the discovery of attachments, and had enjoyed 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 kind of discernment enabled
her soon after her arrival at Barton decisively 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 cottage,
the fact was ascertained by his listening to her again. It must be
so. She was perfectly convinced of it. It would be an excellent match,
for \textit{he} was rich, and \textit{she} was handsome. Mrs.\ Jennings
had been anxious to see Colonel Brandon well married, ever since her
connection with Sir John first brought him to her knowledge; and she
was always anxious to get a good husband for every pretty girl.

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

Mrs.\ Dashwood, who could not think a man five years younger than
herself, so exceedingly ancient as he appeared to the youthful fancy
of her daughter, ventured to clear Mrs.\ Jennings from the probability
of wishing to throw ridicule on his age.

{}``But at least, Mamma, you cannot deny the absurdity of the accusation,
though you may not think it intentionally ill-natured. Colonel Brandon
is certainly younger than Mrs.\ Jennings, but he is old enough to
be \textit{my} father; and if he were ever animated enough to be in
love, must have long outlived every sensation of the kind. It is too
ridiculous! When is a man to be safe from such wit, if age and infirmity
will not protect him?''

{}``Infirmity!''\ said Elinor, {}``do you call Colonel Brandon
infirm? I can easily suppose that his age may appear much greater
to you than to my mother; but you can hardly deceive yourself as to
his having the use of his limbs!''

{}``Did not you hear him complain of the rheumatism?\ and is not
that the commonest infirmity of declining life?''

{}``My dearest child,'' said her mother, laughing, {}``at this
rate you must be in continual terror of \textit{my} decay; and it
must seem to you a miracle that my life has been extended to the advanced
age of forty.''

{}``Mamma, you are not doing me justice. I know very well that Colonel
Brandon is not old enough to make his friends yet apprehensive of
losing him in the course of nature. He may live twenty years longer.
But thirty-five has nothing to do with matrimony.''

{}``Perhaps,'' said Elinor, {}``thirty-five and seventeen had better
not have any thing to do with matrimony together. But if there should
by any chance happen to be a woman who is single at seven and twenty,
I should not think Colonel Brandon's being thirty-five any objection
to his marrying \textit{her}.''

{}``A woman of seven and twenty,'' said Marianne, after pausing
a moment, {}``can never hope to feel or inspire affection again,
and if her home be uncomfortable, or her fortune small, I can suppose
that she might bring herself to submit to the offices of a nurse,
for the sake of the provision and security of a wife. In his marrying
such a woman therefore there would be nothing unsuitable. It would
be a compact of convenience, and the world would be satisfied. In
my eyes it would be no marriage at all, but that would be nothing.
To me it would seem only a commercial exchange, in which each wished
to be benefited at the expense of the other.''

{}``It would be impossible, I know,'' replied Elinor, {}``to convince
you that a woman of seven and twenty could feel for a man of thirty-five
anything near enough to love, to make him a desirable companion to
her. But I must object to your dooming Colonel Brandon and his wife
to the constant confinement of a sick chamber, merely because he chanced
to complain yesterday (a very cold damp day) of a slight rheumatic
feel in one of his shoulders.''

{}``But he talked of flannel waistcoats,'' said Marianne; {}``and
with me a flannel waistcoat is invariably connected with aches, cramps,
rheumatisms, and every species of ailment that can afflict the old
and the feeble.''

{}``Had he been only in a violent fever, you would not have despised
him half so much. Confess, Marianne, is not there something interesting
to you in the flushed cheek, hollow eye, and quick pulse of a fever?''

Soon after this, upon Elinor's leaving the room, {}``Mamma,'' said
Marianne, {}``I have an alarm on the subject of illness which I cannot
conceal from you. I am sure Edward Ferrars is not well. We have now
been here almost a fortnight, and yet he does not come. Nothing but
real indisposition could occasion this extraordinary delay. What else
can detain him at Norland?''

{}``Had you any idea of his coming so soon?''\ said Mrs.\ Dashwood.
{}``I had none. On the contrary, if I have felt any anxiety at all
on the subject, it has been in recollecting that he sometimes showed
a want of pleasure and readiness in accepting my invitation, when
I talked of his coming to Barton. Does Elinor expect him already?''

{}``I have never mentioned it to her, but of course she must.''

{}``I rather think you are mistaken, for when I was talking to her
yesterday of getting a new grate for the spare bedchamber, she observed
that there was no immediate hurry for it, as it was not likely that
the room would be wanted for some time.''

{}``How strange this is!\ what can be the meaning of it! But the
whole of their behaviour to each other has been unaccountable! How
cold, how composed were their last \emph{adieu}s! How languid their
conversation the last evening of their being together! In Edward's
farewell there was no distinction between Elinor and me: it was the
good wishes of an affectionate brother to both. Twice did I leave
them purposely together in the course of the last morning, and each
time did he most unaccountably follow me out of the room. And Elinor,
in quitting Norland and Edward, cried not as I did. Even now her self-command
is invariable. When is she dejected or melancholy? When does she try
to avoid society, or appear restless and dissatisfied in it?''


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER 9}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER 9}

\markboth{SENSE AND SENSIBILITY}{CHAPTER 9}

The Dashwoods were now settled at Barton with tolerable comfort to
themselves. The house and the garden, with all the objects surrounding
them, were now become familiar, and the ordinary pursuits which had
given to Norland half its charms were engaged in again with far greater
enjoyment than Norland had been able to afford, since the loss of
their father. Sir John Middleton, who called on them every day for
the first fortnight, and who was not in the habit of seeing much occupation
at home, could not conceal his amazement on finding them always employed.

Their visitors, except those from Barton Park, were not many; for,
in spite of Sir John's urgent entreaties that they would mix more
in the neighbourhood, and repeated assurances of his carriage being
always at their service, the independence of Mrs.\ Dashwood's spirit
overcame the wish of society for her children; and she was resolute
in declining to visit any family beyond the distance of a walk. There
were but few who could be so classed; and it was not all of them that
were attainable. About a mile and a half from the cottage, along the
narrow winding valley of Allenham, which issued from that of Barton,
as formerly described, the girls had, in one of their earliest walks,
discovered an ancient respectable looking mansion which, by reminding
them a little of Norland, interested their imagination and made them
wish to be better acquainted with it. But they learnt, on enquiry,
that its possessor, an elderly lady of very good character, was unfortunately
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 exquisite enjoyment of air on their summits, were a happy
alternative when the dirt of the valleys beneath shut up their superior
beauties; and towards one of these hills did Marianne and Margaret
one memorable morning direct their steps, attracted by the partial
sunshine of a showery sky, and unable longer to bear the confinement
which the settled rain of the two preceding days had occasioned. The
weather was not tempting enough to draw the two others from their
pencil and their book, in spite of Marianne's declaration that the
day would be lastingly fair, and that every threatening cloud would
be drawn 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 animating gales of a high south-westerly wind, they pitied the
fears which had prevented their mother and Elinor from sharing such
delightful sensations.

{}``Is there a felicity in the world,'' said 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 suddenly
the clouds united over their heads, 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
consolation 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 which 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 Margaret, 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 accident
happened. He put down his gun and ran to her assistance. She had raised
herself from the ground, but her foot had been twisted in her fall,
and she was scarcely able to stand. The gentleman offered his services;
and perceiving that her modesty declined what her situation rendered
necessary, took her up in his arms without farther delay, and carried
her down the hill. Then passing through the garden, the gate of which
had been left open by Margaret, he bore her directly into the house,
whither Margaret was just arrived, and quitted not his hold till he
had seated her in a chair in the parlour.

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 secret admiration which equally sprung from his appearance, he apologized
for his intrusion by relating its cause, in a manner so frank and
so graceful that his person, which was uncommonly handsome, received
additional charms from his voice and expression. Had he been even
old, ugly, and vulgar, the gratitude and kindness 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.\ Dashwood then begged to know to whom
she was obliged. His name, he replied, was Willoughby, and his present
home was at Allenham, from whence he hoped she would allow him the
honour of calling tomorrow to enquire after Miss Dashwood. The honour
was readily granted, and he then departed, to make himself still more
interesting, in the midst of a 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 that the
rest, for the confusion 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 story; and in his carrying her into the house
with so little previous formality, 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 dresses a shooting-jacket was the most becoming. Her imagination
was busy, her reflections were pleasant, and the pain of a sprained
ankle was disregarded.

Sir John called on them as soon as the next interval of fair weather
that morning allowed him to get 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 Allenham.

{}``Willoughby!''\ cried Sir John; {}``what, is \textit{he} in
the country? That is good news however; I will ride over tomorrow,
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 shot, 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 pursuits, his talents, and genius?''

Sir John was rather puzzled.

{}``Upon my soul,'' said he, {}``I do not know much about him as
to all \textit{that}. But he is a pleasant, good humoured fellow,
and has got the nicest little black bitch of a pointer I ever saw.
Was she out with him today?''

But Marianne could no more satisfy him as to the colour of Mr.\ Willoughby's
pointer, than he could describe to her the shades of 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 estate of his
own in Somersetshire besides; and if I were you, I would not give
him up to my younger sister, in spite of all this tumbling down hills.
Miss Marianne must not expect to have all the men to herself. Brandon
will be jealous, if she does not take care.''

{}``I do not believe,'' said Mrs.\ Dashwood, with a good humoured
smile, {}``that Mr.\ Willoughby will be incommoded by the attempts
of either of \textit{my} daughters towards what you call \textit{catching}
him. It is not an employment 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.''

{}``Did he indeed?''\ cried Marianne with sparkling eyes, {}``and
with elegance, with spirit?''

{}``Yes; and he was up again at eight to ride to covert.''

{}``That is what I like; that is what a young man ought to be. Whatever
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 Brandon.''

{}``That is an expression, Sir John,'' said Marianne, warmly, {}``which
I particularly dislike. I abhor every common-place phrase by which
wit is intended; 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 their construction could ever be deemed clever, time has long
ago destroyed all its ingenuity.''

Sir John did not much understand this reproof; but he laughed as heartily
as if he did, and then replied,

{}``Ay, 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 ankles.''


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER 10}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER 10}

\markboth{SENSE AND SENSIBILITY}{CHAPTER 10}

Marianne's preserver, as Margaret, with more elegance than precision,
styled Willoughby, called at the cottage early the next morning to
make his personal enquiries. He was received 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 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 having 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 brilliant; her features
were all good; her smile was sweet and attractive; and in her eyes,
which were very dark, there was a life, a spirit, an eagerness, which
could hardly be seen without delight. From Willoughby their expression
was at first held back, by the embarrassment which the remembrance
of his assistance created. But when this passed away, when her 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 approbation 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 reserve in their discussion. They
speedily discovered that their enjoyment of dancing and music was
mutual, and that it arose from a general conformity of judgment in
all that related to either. Encouraged by this to a further examination
of his opinions, she proceeded to question him on the subject of books;
her favourite authors were brought forward and dwelt upon with so
rapturous 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 objection 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 \textit{one} morning I think you have done pretty well. You
have already ascertained Mr.\ Willoughby's opinion in almost every
matter of importance. You know what he thinks of Cowper and Scott;
you are certain of his estimating their beauties as he ought, and
you have received every assurance of his admiring Pope no more than
is proper. But how is your acquaintance to be long supported, under
such extraordinary despatch of every subject for discourse? You will
soon have exhausted each favourite topic. Another meeting will suffice
to explain 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 every common-place
notion of decorum; I have been open and sincere where I ought to have
been reserved, spiritless, dull, and deceitful---had I talked only
of the weather and the roads, and had I spoken only once in ten minutes,
this reproach would have been spared.''

{}``My love,'' said her mother, {}``you must not be offended with
Elinor---she was 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
acquaintance, 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 kindness, made such an excuse unnecessary before it had
ceased to be possible, by Marianne's perfect recovery. She was confined
for some days to the house; but never had any confinement been less
irksome. Willoughby was a young man 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 spirit which Edward had unfortunately
wanted.

In Mrs.\ Dashwood's estimation he was as faultless as in Marianne's;
and Elinor saw nothing to censure in him but a propensity, in which
he 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 opinion of other
people, in sacrificing general politeness to the enjoyment of undivided
attention where his heart was engaged, and in slighting 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 which had seized
her at sixteen and a half, of ever seeing a man who could satisfy
her ideas of perfection, had been rash and unjustifiable. Willoughby
was all that her fancy had delineated in that unhappy 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 abilities
were strong.

Her mother too, in whose mind not one speculative thought of their
marriage 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 to be noticed by them. Their attention and wit were
drawn off to his more fortunate rival; and the raillery which the
other had incurred before any partiality arose, was removed when his
feelings began really to call for the ridicule so justly annexed 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 equally striking 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 to a very lively one of five and twenty?\ and
as she could not even wish him successful, she heartily wished him
indifferent. 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 reserve appeared rather the result of some oppression
of spirits than of any natural gloominess of temper. Sir John had
dropped hints of past injuries and disappointments, which justified
her belief of his being an unfortunate man, and she regarded him with
respect 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 resolved to undervalue his merits.

{}``Brandon is just the kind of man,'' said Willoughby one day,
when they were talking of him together, {}``whom every body 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 patronised by \textit{you},'' replied 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 a woman 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 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 undiscerning, than you are prejudiced and unjust.''

{}``In defence of your protege 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 much information on various subjects; and he has always
answered my inquiries with 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 \textit{would} have told me so, I doubt not, had I made any
such inquiries, but they happened to be points on which I had been
previously informed.''

{}``Perhaps,'' said Willoughby, {}``his observations may have extended
to the existence of nabobs, gold mohrs, and palanquins.''

{}``I may venture to say that \textit{his} observations have stretched
much further than your candour. But why should you dislike him?''

{}``I do not dislike him. I consider him, on the contrary, as a very
respectable 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 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 commendation I am able to give of him is comparatively cold
and insipid. I can only pronounce him to be a sensible man, well-bred,
well-informed, of gentle address, and, I believe, possessing an amiable
heart.''

{}``Miss Dashwood,'' cried Willoughby, {}``you are now 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 artful. I have three unanswerable reasons for disliking
Colonel Brandon; he threatened me with rain when I wanted it to be
fine; he has found fault with the hanging of my curricle, and I cannot
persuade him to buy my brown mare. If it will be any satisfaction
to you, however, to be told, that I believe his character to be in
other respects irreproachable, I am ready to confess it. And in return
for an acknowledgment, which must give me some pain, you cannot deny
me the privilege of disliking him as much as ever.''


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER 11}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER 11}

\markboth{SENSE AND SENSIBILITY}{CHAPTER 11}

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 themselves, or that they should have
such frequent invitations and such constant visitors as to leave them
little leisure for serious employment. Yet such was the case. When
Marianne was recovered, the schemes of amusement at home and abroad,
which Sir John had been previously forming, were put into 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 meeting of the kind Willoughby was included; and the ease
and familiarity which naturally attended these parties were exactly
calculated to give increasing intimacy to his acquaintance with the
Dashwoods, to afford him opportunity of witnessing the excellencies
of Marianne, of marking his animated admiration of her, and of receiving,
in her behaviour to himself, the most pointed assurance of her 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 abhorred
all concealment where no real disgrace could attend unreserve; and
to aim at the restraint of sentiments which were not in themselves
illaudable, appeared to her not merely an unnecessary effort, but
a disgraceful subjection of reason to common-place and mistaken notions.
Willoughby thought the same; and their behaviour at all times, was
an illustration 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 conduct
made them of course most exceedingly laughed at; but ridicule could
not shame, and seemed hardly to provoke them.

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 consequence 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 attachment to Norland, which she brought
with her from Sussex, was more likely to be softened than she had
thought it possible before, by the charms which his society bestowed
on her present home.

Elinor's happiness was not so great. Her heart was not so much at
ease, nor her satisfaction in their amusements so pure. They afforded
her no companion that could make amends for what she had left behind,
nor that could teach her to think of Norland 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 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*{\raggedright CHAPTER 12}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER 12}

\markboth{SENSE AND SENSIBILITY}{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 \textit{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 \textit{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, \textit{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*{\raggedright CHAPTER 13}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER 13}

\markboth{SENSE AND SENSIBILITY}{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 \textit{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 has\-t\-i\-ly, {}``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 \textit{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 \textit{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*{\raggedright CHAPTER 14}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER 14}

\markboth{SENSE AND SENSIBILITY}{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 \textit{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.
\textit{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 \emph{in}convenience
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*{\raggedright CHAPTER 15}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER 15}

\markboth{SENSE AND SENSIBILITY}{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 \textit{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 be owned to
us must have happened. He did not speak, he did not behave like himself.
\textit{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 \textit{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
\textit{you}, I know; but you shall not talk \textit{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 \textit{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 \textit{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 \textit{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
\textit{one} is in favour of their engagement; but that \textit{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 \textit{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*{\raggedright CHAPTER 16}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER 16}

\markboth{SENSE AND SENSIBILITY}{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\ldots{}. But it may be months, perhaps, before
\textit{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 \textit{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 \textit{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
\textit{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*{\raggedright CHAPTER 17}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER 17}

\markboth{SENSE AND SENSIBILITY}{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, {}``mo\-n\-ey 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. \textit{Your} competence and \textit{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
\textit{that}.''

Elinor laughed. {}``\textit{Two} thousand a year! \textit{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 a-piece!''

{}``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 without my
help.''

{}``You must begin your improvements on this house,'' observed Elinor,
{}``and your difficulties will soon vanish.''

{}``What magnificent orders would travel from this family to London,''
said Edward, {}``in such an event! What a happy day for booksellers,
music-sellers, and print-shops! You, Miss Dashwood, would give a 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 \textit{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 re\-serv\-ed, Marianne?''

{}``Yes, very.''

{}``I do not understand you,'' replied he, co\-l\-ou\-r\-ing.
{}``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*{\raggedright CHAPTER 18}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER 18}

\markboth{SENSE AND SENSIBILITY}{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.''

\bigskip{} 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 villagers please me better than the finest
\emph{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 \textit{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 \textit{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 \ldots{}\ 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*{\raggedright CHAPTER 19}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER 19}

\markboth{SENSE AND SENSIBILITY}{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 were spared much solicitude on
her account.

Such behaviour as this, so exactly the reverse of her own, 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 affections it was impossible, with calm ones it could have
no merit. That her sister's affections \textit{were} calm, 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 lying 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 moments in abundance, when, if not by the absence
of her mother and sisters, at least by the nature of their employments,
conversation was forbidden among them, and every effect of solitude
was produced. Her mind was inevitably at liberty; her thoughts could
not be chained elsewhere; and the past and the future, on a subject
so interesting, must be before her, must force her attention, and
engross her memory, her reflection, and her fancy.

From a reverie of this kind, as she sat at her drawing-table, she
was roused one morning, soon after Edward's leaving them, by the arrival
of company. She happened to be quite alone. The closing of the little
gate, at the entrance of the green court 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,
but there were two others, a gentleman and lady, who were quite unknown
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 casement
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
being 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 in 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 \textit{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 coming 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 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
receive the rest of the party; Lady Middleton introduced the two strangers;
Mrs.\ Dashwood and Margaret came down stairs at the same time, and
they all sat down to look at one another, 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 expression of good humour in it that 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 happy, was hardly seated
before her admiration of the parlour and every thing in it burst forth.

{}``Well!\ what a delightful room this is! I never saw anything
so charming! Only think, Mamma, how it is improved since I was here
last! I always thought it such a sweet place, ma'am!''\ (turning
to Mrs.\ Dashwood) {}``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 you, 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 find wit in the inattention of any one, and could not help looking
with surprise at them both.

Mrs.\ Jennings, in the meantime, talked on as loud as she could,
and continued her account of their surprise, 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
surprise.

{}``You may believe how glad we all were to see them,'' added Mrs.\ Jennings,
leaning forward towards Elinor, and speaking in a low voice as if
she meant to be heard by no one else, though they were seated on different
sides of the room; {}``but, however, I can't help wishing they had
not travelled quite so fast, nor made such a long journey of it, for
they came all round by London upon account 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 immediately went into the passage, opened the front door, and ushered
her in himself. Mrs.\ Jennings asked her, as soon as she appeared,
if she had not been to Allenham; and Mrs.\ Palmer laughed so heartily
at the question, as to show she understood it. Mr.\ Palmer looked
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
drawings 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 Lady Middleton rose to go away, Mr.\ Palmer rose also, laid
down the newspaper, stretched himself and looked at them all around.

{}``My love, have you been asleep?''\ said his wife, laughing.

He made her no answer; and only observed, after again examining the
room, that it was very low pitched, and that the ceiling was crooked.
He then made his bow, and departed with the rest.

Sir John had been very urgent with them all to spend the next day
at the park. Mrs.\ Dashwood, who did not chuse to dine with them
oftener than they dined at the cottage, absolutely refused on her
own account; her daughters might do as they pleased. But they had
no curiosity to see how Mr.\ and Mrs.\ Palmer ate their dinner,
and no expectation of pleasure from them in any other way. They attempted,
therefore, likewise, to excuse themselves; the weather was uncertain,
and not likely to be good. But Sir John would not be satisfied---the
carriage should be sent for them and they must come. Lady Middleton
too, though she did not press their mother, pressed them. Mrs.\ Jennings
and Mrs.\ Palmer joined their entreaties, all seemed equally anxious
to avoid a family party; and the young ladies were obliged to yield.

{}``Why should they ask us?''\ said Marianne, as soon as they were
gone. {}``The rent of this cottage is said to be low; but we have
it on very hard terms, if we are to dine at the park whenever any
one is staying either with them, or with us.''

{}``They mean no less to be civil and kind to us now,'' said Elinor,
{}``by these frequent invitations, than by those which we received
from them a few weeks ago. The alteration is not in them, if their
parties are grown tedious and dull. We must look for the change elsewhere.''


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER 20}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER 20}

\markboth{SENSE AND SENSIBILITY}{CHAPTER 20}

As the Miss Dashwoods entered the drawing-room of the park the next
day, at one door, Mrs.\ Palmer came running in at the other, looking
as good humoured and merry as before. She took them all most affectionately
by the hand, and expressed great delight in seeing them again.

{}``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
tomorrow. We must go, for the Westons come to us next week you know.
It was quite a sudden thing our coming at all, and I knew nothing
of it till the carriage was coming to the door, and then Mr.\ Palmer
asked me if I would go with him to Barton. He is so droll! He never
tells me any thing! I am so sorry we cannot stay longer; however we
shall meet again in town very soon, I hope.''

They were obliged to put an end to such an 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 world for you, next door to ours, in Hanover-square. You
must come, indeed. I am sure I shall be very happy to chaperon you
at any time till I am confined, if Mrs.\ Dashwood should not like
to go into public.''

They thanked her; but were obliged to resist all her entreaties.

{}``Oh, my love,'' cried Mrs.\ Palmer to her husband, who just
then entered the room---{}``you must help me to persuade the Miss
Dashwoods 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. Dullness 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
been able to take your usual walk to Allenham today.''

Marianne looked very grave and said nothing.

{}``Oh, don't be so sly before us,'' said Mrs.\ Palmer; {}``for
we know all about it, I assure you; and I admire your taste very much,
for I think he is extremely handsome. We do not live a great way from
him in the country, you know. Not above ten miles, I dare say.''

{}``Much nearer thirty,'' said her husband.

{}``Ah, well!\ there is not much difference. I never was at his
house; 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 I suppose.''

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

{}``My dear,'' said he to his lady, {}``it is very provoking that
we should be so few. Why did not you ask the Gilberts to come to us
today?''

{}``Did not I tell you, Sir John, when you spoke to me about it before,
that it could not be done? They dined with us last.''

{}``You and I, Sir John,'' said Mrs.\ Jennings, {}``should not
stand upon such ceremony.''

{}``Then you would be very ill-bred,'' cried Mr.\ Palmer.

{}``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.''

{}``Ay, you may abuse me as you please,'' said the good-natured
old lady, {}``you have taken Charlotte off my hands, and cannot give
her back again. So there I have the whip hand of you.''

Charlotte laughed heartily to think that her husband could not get
rid of her; and exultingly said, she did not care how cross he was
to her, as they must live together. It was impossible for any one
to be more thoroughly good-natured, or more determined to be happy
than Mrs.\ 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 being so genuinely and unaffectedly ill-natured or ill-bred as
he wished to appear. His temper might perhaps be a little soured by
finding, like many others of his sex, that through some unaccountable
bias in favour of beauty, he was the husband of a very silly woman,---but
she knew that this kind of blunder was too common for any sensible
man to be lastingly hurt by it.---It was rather a wish of distinction,
she believed, which produced his contemptuous treatment of every body,
and his general abuse of every thing before him. It was the desire
of appearing superior to other people. The motive was too common to
be wondered at; but the means, however they might succeed by establishing
his superiority in ill-breeding, were not likely to attach any one
to him except his wife.

{}``Oh, my dear Miss Dashwood,'' said Mrs.\ Palmer soon afterwards,
{}``I have got such a favour to ask of you and your sister. Will
you come and spend some time at Cleveland this Christmas? Now, pray
do,---and come while the Westons are with us. You cannot think how
happy I shall be! It will be quite delightful!---My love,'' applying
to her husband, {}``don't you long to have the Miss Dashwoods come
to Cleveland?''

{}``Certainly,'' he replied, with a sneer---{}``I came into Devonshire
with 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 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 came to dine with us that
I never saw before, it is quite charming! But, poor fellow!\ it is
very fatiguing to him!\ for he is forced to make every body like
him.''

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

{}``How charming it will be,'' said Charlotte, {}``when he is in
Parliament!---won't it? How I shall laugh! It will be so ridiculous
to see all his letters directed to him with an M.P.---But do you know,
he says, he will never frank for me? He declares he won't. Don't you,
Mr.\ Palmer?''

Mr.\ Palmer took no notice of her.

{}``He cannot bear writing, you know,'' she continued---{}``he
says it is quite shocking.''

{}``No,'' said he, {}``I never said any thing so irrational. Don't
palm all your abuses of languages upon me.''

{}``There now; you see how droll he is. This is always the way with
him! Sometimes he won't speak to me for half a day together, and then
he comes out with something so droll---all about any thing in the
world.''

She surprised Elinor very much as they returned into the drawing-room,
by asking her whether she did not like Mr.\ Palmer excessively.

{}``Certainly,'' said Elinor; {}``he seems very agreeable.''

{}``Well---I am so glad you do. I thought you would, he is so pleasant;
and Mr.\ Palmer is excessively pleased with you and your sisters
I can tell you, and you can't think how disappointed he will be if
you don't come to Cleveland.---I can't imagine why you should object
to it.''

Elinor was again obliged to decline her invitation; and by changing
the subject, put a stop to her entreaties. She thought it probable
that as they lived in the same county, Mrs.\ Palmer might be able
to give some more particular account of Willoughby's general character,
than could be gathered from the Middletons' partial acquaintance with
him; and she was eager to gain from any one, such a confirmation of
his merits as might remove the possibility of fear from Marianne.
She began by inquiring if they saw much of Mr.\ Willoughby at Cleveland,
and whether they were intimately acquainted with him.

{}``Oh dear, yes; I know him extremely well,'' replied Mrs.\ Palmer;---{}``Not
that I ever spoke to him, indeed; but I have seen him for ever in
town. Somehow or other I never happened to be staying at Barton while
he was at Allenham. Mama saw him here once before;---but I was with
my uncle at Weymouth. However, I dare say we should have seen a great
deal of him in Somersetshire, if it had not happened very unluckily
that we should never have been in the country together. He is very
little at Combe, I believe; but if he were ever so much there, I do
not think Mr.\ Palmer would visit him, for he is in the opposition,
you know, and besides it is such a way off. I know why you inquire
about him, very well; your sister is to marry him. I am monstrous
glad of it, for then I shall have her for a neighbour you know.''

{}``Upon my word,'' replied Elinor, {}``you know much more of the
matter than I do, if you have any reason to expect such a match.''

{}``Don't pretend to deny it, because you know it is what every body
talks of. I assure you I heard of it in my way through town.''

{}``My dear Mrs.\ Palmer!''

{}``Upon my honour I did.---I met Colonel Brandon Monday morning
in Bond-street, just before we left town, and he told me of it directly.''

{}``You surprise me very much. Colonel Brandon tell you of it! Surely
you must be mistaken. To give such intelligence to a person who could
not be interested in it, even if it were true, is not what I should
expect Colonel Brandon to do.''

{}``But I do assure you it was so, for all that, and I will tell
you how it happened. When we met him, he turned back and walked with
us; and so we began talking of my brother and sister, and one thing
and another, and I said to him, `So, Colonel, there is a new family
come to Barton cottage, I hear, and 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 praises, he did nothing
but say fine things of you.''

{}``I am flattered by his commendation. He seems an excellent man;
and I think him uncommonly pleasing.''

{}``So do I.---He is such a charming man, that it is quite a pity
he should be so grave and so dull. Mamma says \textit{he} was in love
with your sister too.---I assure you it was a great compliment if
he was, for he hardly ever falls in love with any body.''

{}``Is Mr.\ Willoughby much known in your part of Somersetshire?''
said Elinor.

{}``Oh!\ yes, extremely well; that is, I do not believe many people
are acquainted with him, because Combe Magna is so far off; but they
all think him extremely agreeable I assure you. Nobody is more liked
than Mr.\ Willoughby wherever he goes, and so you may tell your sister.
She is a monstrous lucky girl to get him, upon my honour; not but
that he is much more lucky in getting her, because she is so very
handsome and agreeable, that nothing can be good enough for her. However,
I don't think her hardly at all handsomer than you, I assure you;
for I think you both excessively pretty, and so does Mr.\ Palmer
too I am sure, though we could not get him to own it last night.''

Mrs.\ Palmer's information respecting Willoughby was not very material;
but any testimony in his favour, however small, was pleasing to her.

{}``I am so glad we are got acquainted at last,'' continued Charlotte.---{}``And
now I hope we shall always be great friends. You can't think how much
I longed to see you! It is so delightful that you should live at the
cottage! Nothing can be like it, to be sure! And I am so glad your
sister is going to be well married! I hope you will be a great deal
at Combe Magna. It is a sweet place, by all accounts.''

{}``You have been long acquainted with Colonel Brandon, have not
you?''

{}``Yes, a great while; ever since my sister married.---He was a
particular friend of Sir John's. I believe,'' she added in a low
voice, {}``he would have been very glad to have had me, if he could.
Sir John and Lady Middleton wished it very much. But mama did not
think the match good enough for me, otherwise Sir John would have
mentioned it to the Colonel, and we should have been married immediately.''

{}``Did not Colonel Brandon know of Sir John's proposal to your mother
before it was made? Had he never owned his affection to yourself?''

{}``Oh, no; but if mama had not objected to it, I dare say he would
have liked it of all things. He had not seen me then above twice,
for it was before I left school. However, I am much happier as I am.
Mr.\ Palmer is the kind of man I like.''


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER 21}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER 21}

\markboth{SENSE AND SENSIBILITY}{CHAPTER 21}

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 unsuitableness which often existed between husband
and wife, before Sir John's and Mrs.\ Jennings's active zeal in the
cause of society, procured her some other new acquaintance to see
and observe.

In a morning's excursion to Exeter, they had met with two young ladies,
whom Mrs.\ Jennings had the satisfaction of discovering to be her
relations, and this was enough for Sir John to invite them directly
to the park, as soon as their present engagements at Exeter were over.
Their engagements at Exeter instantly gave way before such an invitation,
and Lady Middleton was thrown into no little alarm on the return of
Sir John, by hearing that she was very soon to receive a visit from
two girls whom she had never seen in her life, and of whose elegance,---whose
tolerable gentility even, she could have no proof; for the assurances
of her husband and mother on that subject went for nothing at all.
Their being her relations too made it so much the worse; and Mrs.\ Jennings's
attempts at consolation were therefore unfortunately founded, when
she advised her daughter not to care about their being so fashionable;
because they were all cousins and must put up with one another. As
it was impossible, however, now to prevent their coming, Lady Middleton
resigned herself to the idea of it, with all the philosophy of a well-bred
woman, contenting herself with merely giving her husband a gentle
reprimand on the subject five or six times every day.

The young ladies arrived: their appearance was by no means ungenteel
or unfashionable. Their dress was very smart, their manners very civil,
they were delighted with the house, and in raptures with the furniture,
and they happened to be so doatingly fond of children that Lady Middleton's
good opinion was engaged in their favour before they had been an hour
at the Park. She declared them to be very agreeable girls indeed,
which for her ladyship was enthusiastic admiration. Sir John's confidence
in his own judgment rose with this animated praise, and he set off
directly for the cottage to tell the Miss Dashwoods of the Miss Steeles'
arrival, and to assure them of their being the sweetest girls in the
world. From such commendation as this, however, there was not much
to be learned; Elinor well knew that the sweetest girls in the world
were to be met with in every part of England, under every possible
variation of form, face, temper and understanding. Sir John wanted
the whole family to walk to the Park directly and look at his guests.
Benevolent, philanthropic man! It was painful to him even to keep
a third cousin to himself.

{}``Do come now,'' said he---{}``pray come---you must come---I
declare you shall come---You can't think how you will like them. Lucy
is monstrous pretty, and so good humoured and agreeable! The children
are all hanging about her already, as if she was an old acquaintance.
And they both long to see you of all things, for they have heard at
Exeter that you are the most beautiful creatures in the world; and
I have told them it is all very true, and a great deal more. You will
be delighted with them I am sure. They have brought the whole coach
full of playthings for the children. How can you be so cross as not
to come? Why they are your cousins, you know, after a fashion. \textit{You}
are my cousins, and they are my wife's, so you must be related.''

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

When their promised visit to the Park and consequent introduction
to these young ladies took place, they found in the appearance of
the eldest, who was nearly thirty, with a very plain and not a sensible
face, nothing to admire; but in the other, who was not more than two
or three and twenty, they acknowledged considerable beauty; her 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
what constant and judicious attention they were making themselves
agreeable to Lady Middleton. With her children they were in continual
raptures, extolling their beauty, courting their notice, and humouring
their whims; and such of their time as could be spared from the importunate
demands which this politeness made on it, was spent in admiration
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 into unceasing delight.
Fortunately for those who pay their court through such foibles, a
fond mother, though, in pursuit of praise for her children, the most
rapacious of human beings, is likewise the most credulous; her demands
are exorbitant; but she will swallow any thing; and the excessive
affection and endurance of the Miss Steeles towards her offspring
were viewed therefore by Lady Middleton without the smallest surprise
or distrust. She saw with maternal complacency all the impertinent
encroachments and mischievous tricks to which her cousins submitted.
She saw their sashes untied, their hair pulled about their ears, their
work-bags searched, and their knives and scissors stolen away, and
felt no doubt of its being a reciprocal enjoyment. It suggested no
other surprise than that Elinor and Marianne should sit so composedly
by, without claiming a share in what was passing.

{}``John is in such spirits today!''\ said she, on his taking Miss
Steeles's pocket handkerchief, and throwing it out of window---{}``He
is full of monkey tricks.''

And soon afterwards, on the second boy's violently pinching one of
the same lady's fingers, she fondly observed, {}``How playful William
is!''

{}``And here is my sweet little Annamaria,'' she added, tenderly
caressing a little girl of three years old, who had not made a noise
for the last two minutes; {}``And she is always so gentle and quiet---Never
was there such a quiet little thing!''

But unfortunately in bestowing these embraces, a pin in her ladyship'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
excessive; but it could not surpass the alarm of the Miss Steeles,
and every thing was done by all three, in so critical an emergency,
which affection could suggest as likely to assuage the agonies of
the little sufferer. She was seated in her mother's lap, covered with
kisses, her wound bathed with lavender-water, by one of the Miss Steeles,
who was on her knees to attend her, and her mouth stuffed with sugar
plums by the other. With such a reward for her tears, the child was
too wise to cease crying. She still screamed and sobbed lustily, kicked
her two brothers for offering to touch her, and all their united soothings
were ineffectual till Lady Middleton luckily remembering that in a
scene of similar distress last week, some apricot marmalade had been
successfully applied for a bruised temple, the same remedy was eagerly
proposed for this unfortunate scratch, and a slight intermission of
screams in the young lady on hearing it, gave them reason to hope
that it would not be rejected.---She was carried out of the room therefore
in her mother's arms, in quest of this medicine, and as the two boys
chose to follow, though earnestly entreated by their mother to stay
behind, the four young ladies were left in a quietness which the room
had not known for many hours.

{}``Poor little creatures!''\ said Miss Steele, as soon as they
were gone. {}``It might have been a very sad accident.''

{}``Yet I hardly know how,'' cried Marianne, {}``unless it had
been under totally different circumstances. But this is the usual
way of heightening alarm, where there is nothing to be alarmed at
in reality.''

{}``What a sweet woman Lady Middleton is!''\ said Lucy Steele.

Marianne was silent; it was impossible for her to say what she did
not feel, however trivial the occasion; and upon Elinor therefore
the whole task of telling lies when politeness required it, always
fell. She did her best when thus called on, by speaking of Lady Middleton
with more warmth than she felt, though with far less than Miss Lucy.

{}``And Sir John too,'' cried the elder sister, {}``what a charming
man he is!''

Here too, Miss Dashwood's commendation, being only simple and just,
came in without any \emph{\'{e}clat}. She merely observed that he
was perfectly good humoured and friendly.

{}``And what a charming little family they have! I never saw such
fine children in my life.---I declare I quite doat upon them already,
and indeed I am always distractedly fond of children.''

{}``I should guess so,'' said Elinor, with a smile, {}``from what
I have witnessed this morning.''

{}``I have a notion,'' said Lucy, {}``you think the little Middletons
rather too much indulged; perhaps they may be the outside of enough;
but it is so natural in Lady Middleton; 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 some surprise at the familiarity of this question, or at least
of the manner in which it was spoken, Elinor replied that she was.

{}``Norland is a prodigious beautiful place, is not it?''\ added
Miss Steele.

{}``We have heard Sir John admire it excessively,'' said Lucy, who
seemed to think some apology necessary for the freedom of her sister.

{}``I think every one \textit{must} admire it,'' replied Elinor,
{}``who ever saw the place; though it is not to be supposed that
any one can estimate its beauties as we do.''

{}``And had you a great many smart \emph{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 there are not as many genteel 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 \emph{beaux} in Exeter; but you
know, how could I tell what smart \emph{beaux} there might be about
Norland; and I was only afraid the Miss Dashwoods might find it dull
at Barton, if they had not so many as they used to have. But perhaps
you young ladies may not care about the \emph{beaux}, and had as lief
be without them as with them. For my part, I think they are vastly
agreeable, provided they dress smart and behave civil. But I can't
bear to see them dirty and nasty. Now there's Mr.\ Rose at Exeter,
a prodigious smart young man, quite a \emph{beau}, clerk to Mr.\ Simpson,
you know, and yet if you do but meet him of a morning, he is not fit
to be seen.---I suppose your brother was quite a \emph{beau}, Miss
Dashwood, before he married, as he was so rich?''

{}``Upon my word,'' replied Elinor, {}``I cannot tell you, for
I do not perfectly comprehend the meaning of the word. But this I
can say, that if he ever was a \emph{beau} before he married, he is
one still for there is not the smallest alteration in him.''

{}``Oh!\ dear!\ one never thinks of married men's being \emph{beaux}---they
have something else to do.''

{}``Lord! Anne,'' cried her sister, {}``you can talk of nothing
but \emph{beaux};---you will make Miss Dashwood believe you think
of nothing else.'' And then to turn the discourse, she began admiring
the house and the furniture.

This specimen of the Miss Steeles was enough. The vulgar freedom and
folly of the eldest left her no 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 proportion was now dealt out to his
fair cousins, whom they declared to be the most beautiful, elegant,
accomplished, and agreeable girls they had ever beheld, and with whom
they were particularly anxious to be better acquainted.---And to be
better acquainted therefore, Elinor soon found was their inevitable
lot, for as Sir John was entirely on the side of the Miss Steeles,
their party would be too strong for opposition, and that kind of intimacy
must be submitted to, which consists of 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 continual schemes for their
meeting were effectual, he had not a doubt of their being established
friends.

To do him justice, he did every thing in his power to promote their
unreserve, by making the Miss Steeles 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 a very smart \emph{beau} since she came to Barton.

{}``'Twill be a fine thing to have her married so young to be sure,''
said she, {}``and I hear he is quite a \emph{beau}, and prodigious
handsome. And I hope you may have as good luck yourself soon,---but
perhaps you may have a friend in the corner already.''

Elinor could not suppose that Sir John would be more nice in proclaiming
his 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 affections
with so much significancy and so many nods and winks, as to excite
general attention. The letter F---had been likewise invariably brought
forward, and found productive of such countless jokes, that its character
as the wittiest letter in the alphabet had been long established with
Elinor.

The Miss Steeles, as she expected, had now all the benefit of these
jokes, and in the eldest of them they raised a curiosity to know the
name of the gentleman alluded to, which, though often impertinently
expressed, was perfectly of a piece with her general inquisitiveness
into the concerns of their family. But Sir John did not sport long
with the curiosity which he delighted to raise, for he had at least
as much pleasure in telling the name, as Miss Steele had in hearing
it.

{}``His name is Ferrars,'' said he, in a very audible whisper; {}``but
pray do not tell it, for it's a great secret.''

{}``Ferrars!''\ repeated Miss Steele; {}``Mr.\ Ferrars is the
happy man, is he? What!\ your sister-in-law's brother, Miss Dashwood?\ a
very agreeable young man to be sure; I know him very well.''

{}``How can you say so, Anne?''\ cried Lucy, who generally made
an amendment to all her sister's assertions. {}``Though we have seen
him once or twice at my uncle's, it is rather too much to pretend
to know him very well.''

Elinor heard all this with attention and surprise. {}``And who was
this uncle? Where did he live? How came they acquainted?''\ She
wished very much to have the subject continued, though she did not
chuse to join in it herself; but nothing more of it was said, and
for the first time in her life, she thought Mrs.\ Jennings deficient
either in curiosity after petty information, or in a disposition to
communicate it. The manner in which Miss Steele had spoken of Edward,
increased her curiosity; for it struck her as being rather ill-natured,
and suggested the suspicion of that lady's knowing, or fancying herself
to know something to his disadvantage.---But her curiosity was unavailing,
for no farther notice was taken of Mr.\ Ferrars's name by Miss Steele
when alluded to, or even openly mentioned by Sir John.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER 22}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER 22}

\markboth{SENSE AND SENSIBILITY}{CHAPTER 22}

Marianne, who had never much toleration for any thing like impertinence,
vulgarity, inferiority of parts, or even difference of taste from
herself, was at this time particularly ill-disposed, from the state
of her spirits, to be pleased with the Miss Steeles, or to encourage
their advances; and to the invariable coldness of her behaviour towards
them, which checked every endeavour at intimacy on their side, Elinor
principally attributed that preference of herself which soon became
evident in the manners of both, but especially of Lucy, who missed
no opportunity of engaging her in conversation, or of striving to
improve their acquaintance by an easy and frank communication of her
sentiments.

Lucy was naturally clever; her remarks were often just and amusing;
and as a companion for half an hour Elinor frequently found her agreeable;
but her powers had received no aid from education: she was ignorant
and illiterate; and her deficiency of all mental improvement, her
want of information in the most common particulars, could not be concealed
from Miss Dashwood, in spite of her constant endeavour to appear to
advantage. Elinor saw, and pitied her for, the neglect of abilities
which education might have rendered so respectable; but she saw, with
less tenderness of feeling, the thorough want of delicacy, of rectitude,
and integrity of mind, which her attentions, her assiduities, her
flatteries at the Park betrayed; and she could have no lasting satisfaction
in the company of a person who joined insincerity with ignorance;
whose want of instruction prevented their meeting in conversation
on terms of equality, and whose conduct toward others made every shew
of attention and deference towards herself perfectly valueless.

{}``You will think my question an odd one, I dare say,'' said Lucy
to her one day, as they were walking together from the park to the
cottage---{}``but pray, are you personally acquainted with your sister-in-law's
mother, Mrs.\ Ferrars?''

Elinor \textit{did} think the question a very odd one, and her countenance
expressed it, as she answered that she had never seen Mrs.\ Ferrars.

{}``Indeed!''\ replied Lucy; {}``I wonder at that, for I thought
you must have seen her at Norland sometimes. Then, perhaps, you cannot
tell me what sort of a woman she is?''

{}``No,'' returned Elinor, cautious of giving her real opinion of
Edward's mother, and not very desirous of satisfying what seemed impertinent
curiosity---{}``I know nothing of her.''

{}``I am sure you think me very strange, for enquiring about her
in such a way,'' said Lucy, eyeing Elinor 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 impertinently curious. I am
sure I would rather do any thing in the world than be thought so by
a person whose good opinion is so well worth having as yours. And
I am sure I should not have the smallest fear of trusting \textit{you};
indeed, I should be very glad of your advice how to manage in such
and uncomfortable situation as I am; but, however, there is no occasion
to trouble \textit{you}. I am sorry you do not happen to know Mrs.\ Ferrars.''

{}``I am sorry I do \textit{not},'' said Elinor, in great astonishment,
{}``if it could be of any use to \textit{you} to know my opinion
of her. But really I never understood that you were at all connected
with that family, and therefore I am a little surprised, I confess,
at so serious an inquiry into her character.''

{}``I dare say you are, and I am 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 present---but the time \textit{may}
come---how soon it will come must depend upon herself---when we may
be very intimately connected.''

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

{}``Good heavens!''\ cried Elinor, {}``what do you mean? Are you
acquainted with Mr.\ Robert Ferrars? Can you be?'' And she did not
feel much delighted with the idea of such a sister-in-law.

{}``No,'' replied Lucy, {}``not to Mr.\ \textit{Robert} Ferrars---I
never saw him in my life; but,'' fixing her eyes upon Elinor, {}``to
his eldest brother.''

What felt Elinor at that moment? Astonishment, that would have been
as painful as it was strong, had not an immediate disbelief of the
assertion attended it. She turned towards Lucy in silent amazement,
unable to divine the reason or object of such a declaration; and though
her complexion varied, she stood firm in incredulity, and felt in
no danger of an hysterical 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 always meant to be a great secret, and I am sure has been faithfully
kept so by me to this hour. Not a soul of all my relations know of
it but Anne, and I never should have mentioned it to you, if I had
not felt the greatest dependence in the world upon your secrecy; and
I really thought my behaviour in asking so many questions about Mrs.\ Ferrars
must seem so odd, that it ought to be explained. And I do not think
Mr.\ Ferrars can be displeased, when he knows I have trusted you,
because I know he has the highest opinion in the world of all your
family, and looks upon yourself and the other Miss Dashwoods quite
as his own sisters.''---She paused.

Elinor for a few moments remained silent. Her 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 calmness
of manner, which tolerably well concealed her surprise and solicitude---{}``May
I ask if your engagement is of long standing?''

{}``We have been engaged these four years.''

{}``Four years!''

{}``Yes.''

Elinor, 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 considerable while.''

{}``Your uncle!''

{}``Yes; Mr.\ Pratt. Did you never hear him talk of Mr.\ Pratt?''

{}``I think I have,'' replied Elinor, with an exertion of spirits,
which increased with her increase of emotion.

{}``He was four years with my uncle, who lives at Longstaple, near
Plymouth. It was there our acquaintance begun, for my sister and me
was often staying with my uncle, and it was there our engagement was
formed, though not till a year after he had quitted as a pupil; but
he was almost always with us afterwards. I was very unwilling to enter
into it, as you may imagine, without the knowledge and approbation
of his mother; but I was too young, and loved him too well, to be
so prudent as I ought to have been.---Though you do not know him so
well as me, Miss Dashwood, you must have seen enough of him to be
sensible he is very capable of making a woman sincerely attached to
him.''

{}``Certainly,'' answered Elinor, without knowing what she said;
but after a moment's reflection, she added, with revived security
of Edward's honour and love, and her companion's falsehood---{}``Engaged
to Mr.\ Edward Ferrars!---I confess myself so totally surprised at
what you tell me, that really---I beg your pardon; but surely there
must be some mistake of person or name. We cannot mean the same Mr.\ Ferrars.''

{}``We can mean no other,'' cried Lucy, smiling. {}``Mr.\ Edward
Ferrars, the eldest son of Mrs.\ Ferrars, of Park Street, and brother
of your sister-in-law, Mrs.\ John Dashwood, is the person I mean;
you must allow that I 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 keep the matter secret.---You knew nothing of me,
or my family, and, therefore, there could be no \textit{occasion}
for ever mentioning my name to you; and, as he was always particularly
afraid of his sister's suspecting any thing, \textit{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 engaged,'' said she with a firm voice.

{}``Yes; and heaven knows how much longer we may have to wait. Poor
Edward! It puts him quite out of heart.'' Then taking a small miniature
from her pocket, she added, {}``To prevent the possibility of mistake,
be so good as to look at this face. It does not do him justice, to
be sure, but yet I think you cannot be deceived as to the person it
was drew for.---I have had it above these three years.''

She put it into her hands as she spoke; and when Elinor saw the painting,
whatever other doubts her fear of a too hasty decision, or her wish
of detecting falsehood might suffer to linger in her mind, she could
have none of its being Edward's face. She returned it almost instantly,
acknowledging the likeness.

{}``I have never been able,'' continued Lucy, {}``to give him my
picture in return, which I am very much vexed at, for he has been
always so anxious to get it! But I am determined to set for it the
very first opportunity.''

{}``You are quite in the right,'' replied Elinor calmly. They then
proceeded a few paces in silence. Lucy spoke first.

{}``I am sure,'' said she, {}``I have no doubt in the world of
your faithfully keeping this secret, because you must know of what
importance it is to us, not to have it reach his mother; for she would
never approve of it, I dare say. I shall have no fortune, and I fancy
she is an exceeding proud woman.''

{}``I certainly did not seek your confidence,'' said Elinor; {}``but
you do me no more than justice in imagining that I may be depended
on. Your secret is safe with me; but pardon me if I express some surprise
at so unnecessary a communication. You must at least have felt that
my being acquainted with it could not add to its safety.''

As she said this, she looked earnestly at Lucy, hoping to discover
something in her countenance; perhaps the falsehood of the greatest
part of what she had been saying; but Lucy's countenance suffered
no change.

{}``I was afraid you would think I was taking a great liberty with
you,'' said she, {}``in telling you all this. I have not known you
long to be sure, personally at least, but I have known you and all
your family by description a great while; and as soon as I saw you,
I felt almost as if you was an old acquaintance. Besides in the present
case, I really thought some explanation was due to you after my making
such particular inquiries about Edward's mother; and I am so unfortunate,
that I have not a creature whose advice I can ask. Anne is the only
person that knows of it, and she has no judgment at all; indeed, she
does me a great deal more harm than good, for I am in constant fear
of her betraying me. She does not know how to hold her tongue, as
you must perceive, and I am sure I was in the greatest fright in the
world t'other day, when Edward's name was mentioned by Sir John, lest
she should out with it all. You can't think how much I go through
in my mind from it altogether. I only wonder that I am alive after
what I have suffered for Edward's sake these last four years. Every
thing in such suspense and uncertainty; and seeing him so seldom---we
can hardly meet above twice a-year. I am sure I wonder my heart is
not quite broke.''

Here she took out her handkerchief; but Elinor did not feel very compassionate.

{}``Sometimes.'' continued Lucy, after wiping her eyes, {}``I think
whether it would not be better for us both to break off the matter
entirely.'' As she said this, she looked directly at her companion.
{}``But then at other times I have not resolution enough for it.---I
cannot bear the thoughts of making him so miserable, as I know the
very mention of such a thing would do. And on my own 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 circumstances. Your own judgment
must direct you.''

{}``To be sure,'' continued Lucy, after a few minutes silence on
both sides, {}``his mother must provide for him sometime or other;
but poor Edward is so cast down by it! Did you not think him dreadful
low-spirited when he was at Barton? He was so miserable when he left
us at Longstaple, to go to you, that I was afraid you would think
him quite ill.''

{}``Did he come from your uncle's, then, when he visited us?''

{}``Oh, yes; he had been staying a fortnight with us. Did you think
he came directly from town?''

{}``No,'' replied Elinor, most feelingly sensible of every fresh
circumstance in favour of Lucy's veracity; {}``I 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
nothing farther of those friends, at his total silence with respect
even to their names.

{}``Did not you think him sadly out of spirits?''\ repeated Lucy.

{}``We did, indeed, particularly so when he first arrived.''

{}``I begged him to exert himself for fear you should suspect what
was the matter; but it made him so melancholy, 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 showing the direction
to Elinor. {}``You know his hand, I dare say, a charming one it is;
but that is not written so well as usual.---He was tired, I dare say,
for he had just filled the sheet to me as full as possible.''

Elinor saw that it \textit{was} his hand, and she could doubt no longer.
This picture, she had allowed herself to believe, might have been
accidentally obtained; it might not have been Edward's gift; but a
correspondence between them by letter, could subsist only under a
positive engagement, could be authorised by nothing else; for a few
moments, she was almost overcome---her heart sunk within her, and
she could hardly stand; but exertion was indispensably necessary;
and she struggled so resolutely against the oppression of her feelings,
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 \textit{that}. If he had but my picture, he says he should
be easy. I gave him a lock of my hair set in a ring when he was at
Longstaple last, and that was some comfort to him, he said, but not
equal to a picture. Perhaps you might notice the ring when you saw
him?''

{}``I did,'' said Elinor, with a composure 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 conversation
could be continued no farther. After sitting with them a few minutes,
the Miss Steeles returned to the Park, and Elinor was then at liberty
to think and be wretched.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER 23}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER 23}

\markboth{SENSE AND SENSIBILITY}{CHAPTER 23}

However small Elinor's general dependence on Lucy's veracity might
be, it was impossible for her on serious reflection to suspect it
in the present case, where no temptation could be answerable to the
folly of inventing a falsehood of such a description. What Lucy had
asserted to be true, therefore, Elinor could not, dared not longer
doubt; supported as it was too on every side by such probabilities
and proofs, and contradicted by nothing but her own wishes. Their
opportunity of acquaintance in the house of Mr.\ Pratt was a foundation
for the rest, at once indisputable and alarming; and Edward's visit
near Plymouth, his melancholy state of mind, his dissatisfaction at
his own prospects, his uncertain behaviour towards herself, the intimate
knowledge of the Miss Steeles as to Norland and their family connections,
which had often surprised her, the picture, the letter, the ring,
formed altogether such a body of evidence, as overcame every fear
of condemning him unfairly, and established as a fact, which no partiality
could set aside, his ill-treatment of herself.---Her resentment of
such behaviour, her indignation at having been its dupe, for a short
time made her feel only for herself; but other ideas, other considerations,
soon arose. Had Edward been intentionally deceiving her? Had he feigned
a regard for her which he did not feel? Was his engagement to Lucy
an engagement of the heart? No; whatever it might once have been,
she could not believe it such at present. His affection was all her
own. She could not be deceived in that. Her mother, sisters, Fanny,
all had been conscious of his regard for her at Norland; it was not
an illusion of her own vanity. He certainly loved her. What a softener
of the heart was this persuasion! How much could it not tempt her
to forgive! He had been blamable, highly blamable, in remaining at
Norland after he first felt her influence over him to be more than
it ought to be. In that, he could not be defended; but if he had injured
her, how much more had he injured himself; if her case were pitiable,
his was hopeless. His imprudence had made her miserable for a while;
but it seemed to have deprived himself of all chance of ever being
otherwise. She might in time regain tranquillity; but \textit{he},
what had he to look forward to? Could he ever be tolerably happy with
Lucy Steele; could he, were his affection for herself out of the question,
with his integrity, his delicacy, and well-informed mind, be satisfied
with a wife like her---illiterate, artful, and selfish?

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

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

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

The necessity of concealing from her mother and Marianne, what had
been entrusted in confidence to herself, though it obliged her to
unceasing exertion, was no aggravation of Elinor's distress. On the
contrary it was a relief to her, to be spared the communication of
what would give such affliction to them, and to be saved likewise
from hearing that condemnation of Edward, which would probably flow
from the excess of their partial affection for herself, and which
was more than she felt equal to support.

From their counsel, or their conversation, she knew she could receive
no assistance, their tenderness and sorrow must add to her distress,
while her self-command would neither receive encouragement from their
example nor from their praise. She was stronger alone, and her own
good sense so well supported her, that her firmness was as unshaken,
her appearance of cheerfulness as invariable, as with regrets so poignant
and so fresh, it was possible for them to be.

Much as she had suffered from her first conversation with Lucy on
the subject, she soon felt an earnest wish of renewing it; and this
for more reasons than one. She wanted to hear many particulars of
their engagement repeated again, she wanted more clearly to understand
what Lucy really felt for Edward, whether there were any sincerity
in her declaration of tender regard for him, and she particularly
wanted to convince Lucy, by her readiness to enter on the matter again,
and her calmness in conversing on it, that she was no otherwise interested
in it than as a friend, which she very much feared her involuntary
agitation, in their morning discourse, must have left at least doubtful.
That Lucy was disposed to be jealous of her appeared very probable:
it was plain that Edward had always spoken highly in her praise, not
merely from Lucy's assertion, but from her venturing to trust her
on so short a personal acquaintance, with a secret so confessedly
and evidently important. And even Sir John's joking intelligence must
have had some weight. But indeed, while Elinor remained so well assured
within herself of being really beloved by Edward, it required no other
consideration of probabilities to make it natural that Lucy should
be jealous; and that she was so, her very confidence was a proof.
What other reason for the disclosure of the affair could there be,
but that Elinor might be informed by it of Lucy's superior claims
on Edward, and be taught to avoid him in future? She had little difficulty
in understanding thus much of her rival's intentions, and while she
was firmly resolved to act by her as every principle of honour and
honesty directed, to combat her own affection for Edward and to see
him as little as possible; she could not deny herself the comfort
of endeavouring to convince Lucy that her heart was unwounded. And
as she could now have nothing more painful to hear on the subject
than had already been told, she did not mistrust her own ability of
going through a repetition of particulars with composure.

But it was not immediately that an opportunity of doing so could be
commanded, though Lucy was as well disposed as herself to take advantage
of any that occurred; for the weather was not often fine enough to
allow of their joining in a walk, where they might most easily separate
themselves from the others; and though they met at least every other
evening either at the park or cottage, and chiefly at the former,
they could not be supposed to meet for the sake of conversation. Such
a thought would never enter either Sir John or Lady Middleton's head;
and therefore very little leisure was ever given for a general chat,
and none at all for particular discourse. They met for the sake of
eating, drinking, and laughing together, playing at cards, or consequences,
or any other game that was sufficiently noisy.

One or two meetings of this kind had taken place, without affording
Elinor any chance of engaging Lucy in private, when Sir John called
at the cottage one morning, to beg, in the name of charity, that they
would all dine with Lady Middleton that day, as he was obliged to
attend the club at Exeter, and she would otherwise be quite alone,
except her mother and the two Miss Steeles. Elinor, who foresaw a
fairer opening for the point she had in view, in such a party as this
was likely to be, more at liberty among themselves under the tranquil
and well-bred direction of Lady Middleton than when her husband united
them together in one noisy purpose, immediately accepted the invitation;
Margaret, with her mother's permission, was equally compliant, and
Marianne, though always unwilling to join any of their parties, was
persuaded by her mother, who could not bear to have her seclude herself
from any chance of amusement, to go likewise.

The young ladies went, and Lady Middleton was happily preserved from
the frightful solitude which had threatened her. The insipidity of
the meeting was exactly such as Elinor had expected; it produced not
one novelty of thought or expression, and nothing could be less interesting
than the whole of their discourse both in the dining parlour and drawing
room: to the latter, the children accompanied them, and while they
remained there, she was too well convinced of the impossibility of
engaging Lucy's attention to attempt it. They quitted it only with
the removal of the tea-things. The card-table was then placed, and
Elinor began to wonder at herself for having ever entertained a hope
of finding time for conversation at the park. They all rose up in
preparation for a round game.

{}``I am glad,'' said Lady Middleton to Lucy, {}``you are not going
to finish poor little Annamaria's basket this evening; for I am sure
it must hurt your eyes to work filigree by candlelight. And we will
make the dear little love some amends for her disappointment to-morrow,
and then I hope she will not much mind it.''

This hint was enough, Lucy recollected herself instantly and replied,
{}``Indeed you are very much mistaken, Lady Middleton; I am only
waiting to know whether you can make your party without me, or I should
have been at my filigree already. I would not disappoint the little
angel for all the world: and if you want me at the card-table now,
I am resolved to finish the basket after supper.''

{}``You are very good, I hope it won't hurt your eyes---will you
ring the bell for some working candles? My poor little girl would
be sadly disappointed, I know, if the basket was not finished tomorrow,
for though I told her it certainly would not, I am sure she depends
upon having it done.''

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

Lady Middleton proposed a rubber of Casino to the others. No one made
any objection but Marianne, who with her usual inattention to the
forms of general civility, exclaimed, {}``Your Ladyship will have
the goodness to excuse \textit{me}---you know I detest cards. I shall
go to the piano-forte; I have not touched it since it was tuned.''
And without farther ceremony, she turned away and walked to the instrument.

Lady Middleton looked as if she thanked heaven that \textit{she} had
never made so rude a speech.

{}``Marianne can never keep long from that instrument you know, ma'am,''
said Elinor, endeavouring to smooth away the offence; {}``and I do
not much wonder at it; for it is the very best toned piano-forte I
ever heard.''

The remaining five were now to draw their cards.

{}``Perhaps,'' continued Elinor, {}``if I should happen to cut
out, I may be of some use to Miss Lucy Steele, in rolling her papers
for her; and there is so much still to be done to the basket, that
it must be impossible I think for her labour singly, to finish it
this evening. I should like the work exceedingly, if she would allow
me a share in it.''

{}``Indeed I shall be very much obliged to you for your help,''
cried Lucy, {}``for I find there is more to be done to it than I
thought there was; and it would be a shocking thing to disappoint
dear Annamaria after all.''

{}``Oh!\ that would be terrible, indeed,'' said Miss Steele---{}``Dear
little soul, how I do love her!''

{}``You are very kind,'' said Lady Middleton to Elinor; {}``and
as you really like the work, perhaps you will be as well pleased not
to cut in till another rubber, or will you take your chance now?''

Elinor joyfully profited by the first of these proposals, and thus
by a little of that address which Marianne could never condescend
to practise, gained her own end, and pleased Lady Middleton at the
same time. Lucy made room for her with ready attention, and the two
fair rivals were thus seated side by side at the same table, and,
with the utmost harmony, engaged in forwarding the same work. The
pianoforte at which Marianne, wrapped up in her own music and her
own thoughts, had by this time forgotten that any body was in the
room besides herself, was luckily so near them that Miss Dashwood
now judged she might safely, under the shelter of its noise, introduce
the interesting subject, without any risk of being heard at the card-table.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER 24}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER 24}

\markboth{SENSE AND SENSIBILITY}{CHAPTER 24}

In a firm, though cautious tone, Elinor thus began.

{}``I should be undeserving of the confidence you have honoured me
with, if I felt no desire for its continuance, or no farther curiosity
on its subject. I will not apologize therefore for bringing it forward
again.''

{}``Thank you,'' cried Lucy warmly, {}``for breaking the ice; you
have set my heart at ease by it; for I was somehow or other afraid
I had offended you by what I told you that Monday.''

{}``Offended me! How could you suppose so? Believe me,'' and Elinor
spoke it with the truest sincerity, {}``nothing could be farther
from my intention than to give you such an idea. Could you have a
motive for the trust, that was not honourable and flattering to me?''

{}``And yet I do assure you,'' replied Lucy, her little sharp eyes
full of meaning, {}``there seemed to me to be a coldness and displeasure
in your manner that made me quite uncomfortable. I felt sure that
you was angry with me; and have been quarrelling with myself ever
since, for having took such a liberty as to trouble you with my affairs.
But I am very glad to find it was only my own fancy, and that you
really do not blame me. If you knew what a consolation it was to me
to relieve my heart speaking to you of what I am always thinking of
every moment of my life, your compassion would make you overlook every
thing else I am sure.''

{}``Indeed, I can easily believe that it was a very great relief
to you, to acknowledge your situation to me, and be assured that you
shall never have reason to repent it. Your case is a very unfortunate
one; you seem to me to be surrounded with difficulties, and you will
have need of all your mutual affection to support you under them.
Mr.\ Ferrars, I believe, is entirely dependent on his mother.''

{}``He has only two thousand pounds of his own; it would be madness
to marry upon that, though for my own part, I could give up every
prospect of more without a sigh. I have been always used to a very
small income, and could struggle with any poverty for him; but I love
him too well to be the selfish means of robbing him, perhaps, of all
that his mother might give him if he married to please her. We must
wait, it may be for many years. With almost every other man in the
world, it would be an alarming prospect; but Edward's affection and
constancy nothing can deprive me of I know.''

{}``That conviction must be every thing to you; and he is undoubtedly
supported by the same trust in your's. If the strength of your reciprocal
attachment had failed, as between many people, and under many circumstances
it naturally would during a four years' engagement, your situation
would have been pitiable, indeed.''

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

{}``Edward's love for me,'' said Lucy, {}``has been pretty well
put to the test, by our long, very long absence since we were first
engaged, and it has stood the trial so well, that I should be unpardonable
to doubt it now. I can safely say that he has never gave me one moment's
alarm on that account from the first.''

Elinor hardly knew whether to smile or sigh at this assertion.

Lucy went on. {}``I am rather of a jealous temper too by nature,
and from our different situations in life, from his being so much
more in the world than me, and our continual separation, I was enough
inclined for suspicion, to have found out the truth in an instant,
if there had been the slightest alteration in his behaviour to me
when we met, or any lowness of spirits that I could not account for,
or if he had talked more of one lady than another, or seemed in any
respect less happy at Longstaple than he used to be. I do not mean
to say that I am particularly observant or quick-sighted in general,
but in such a case I am sure I could not be deceived.''

{}``All this,'' thought Elinor, {}``is very pretty; but it can
impose upon neither of us.''

{}``But what,'' said she after a short silence, {}``are your views?\ or
have you none but that of waiting for Mrs.\ Ferrars's death, which
is a melancholy and shocking extremity?---Is her son determined to
submit to this, and to all the tediousness of the many years of suspense
in which it may involve you, rather than run the risk of her displeasure
for a while by owning the truth?''

{}``If we could be certain that it would be only for a while! But
Mrs.\ Ferrars is a very headstrong proud woman, and in her first
fit of anger upon hearing it, would very likely secure every thing
to Robert, and the idea of that, for Edward's sake, frightens away
all my inclination for hasty measures.''

{}``And for your own sake too, or you are carrying your disinterestedness
beyond reason.''

Lucy looked at Elinor again, and was silent.

{}``Do you know Mr.\ Robert Ferrars?''\ asked Elinor.

{}``Not at all---I never saw him; but I fancy he is very unlike his
brother---silly and a great coxcomb.''

{}``A great coxcomb!''\ repeated Miss Steele, whose ear had caught
those words by a sudden pause in Marianne's music.---{}``Oh, they
are talking of their favourite \emph{beaux}, I dare say.''

{}``No sister,'' cried Lucy, {}``you are mistaken there, our favourite
\emph{beaux} are \textit{not} great coxcombs.''

{}``I can answer for it that Miss Dashwood's is not,'' said Mrs.\ Jennings,
laughing heartily; {}``for he is one of the modestest, prettiest
behaved young men I ever saw; but as for Lucy, she is such a sly little
creature, there is no finding out who \textit{she} likes.''

{}``Oh,'' cried Miss Steele, looking significantly round at them,
{}``I dare say Lucy's \emph{beau} is quite as modest and pretty behaved
as Miss Dashwood's.''

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

{}``I will honestly tell you of one scheme which has lately come
into my head, for bringing matters to bear; indeed I am bound to let
you into the secret, for you are a party concerned. I dare say you
have seen enough of Edward to know that he would prefer the church
to every other profession; now my plan is that he should take orders
as soon as he can, and then through your interest, which I am sure
you would be kind enough to use out of friendship for him, and I hope
out of some regard to me, your brother might be persuaded to give
him Norland living; which I understand is a very good one, and the
present incumbent not likely to live a great while. That would be
enough for us to marry upon, and we might trust to time and chance
for the rest.''

{}``I should always be happy,'' replied Elinor, {}``to show any
mark of my esteem and friendship for Mr.\ Ferrars; but do you not
perceive that my interest on such an occasion would be perfectly unnecessary?
He is brother to Mrs.\ John Dashwood---\textit{that} must be recommendation
enough to her husband.''

{}``But Mrs.\ John Dashwood would not much approve of Edward's going
into orders.''

{}``Then I rather suspect that my interest would do very little.''

They were again silent for many minutes. At length Lucy exclaimed
with a deep sigh,

{}``I believe it would be the wisest way to put an end to the business
at once by dissolving the engagement. We seem so beset with difficulties
on every side, that though it would make us miserable for a time,
we should be happier perhaps in the end. But you will not give me
your advice, Miss Dashwood?''

{}``No,'' answered Elinor, with a smile, which concealed very agitated
feelings, {}``on such a subject I certainly will not. You know very
well that my opinion would have no weight with you, unless it were
on the side of your wishes.''

{}``Indeed you wrong me,'' replied Lucy, with great solemnity; {}``I
know nobody of whose judgment I think so highly as I do of yours;
and I do really believe, that if you was to say to me, `I advise you
by all means to put an end to your engagement with Edward Ferrars,
it will be more for the happiness of both of you,' I should resolve
upon doing it immediately.''

Elinor blushed for the insincerity of Edward's future wife, and replied,
{}``This compliment would effectually frighten me from giving any
opinion on the subject had I formed one. It raises my influence much
too high; the power of dividing two people so tenderly attached is
too much for an indifferent person.''

{}``'Tis because you are an indifferent person,'' said Lucy, with
some pique, and laying a particular stress on those words, {}``that
your judgment might justly have such weight with me. If you could
be supposed to be biased in any respect by your own feelings, your
opinion would not be worth having.''

Elinor thought it wisest to make no answer to this, lest they might
provoke each other to an unsuitable increase of ease and unreserve;
and was even partly determined never to mention the subject again.
Another pause therefore of many minutes' duration, succeeded this
speech, and Lucy was still the first to end it.

{}``Shall you be in town this winter, Miss Dashwood?''\ said she
with all her accustomary complacency.

{}``Certainly not.''

{}``I am sorry for that,'' returned the other, while her eyes brightened
at the information, {}``it would have gave me such pleasure to meet
you there! But I dare say you will go for all that. To be sure, your
brother and sister will ask you to come to them.''

{}``It will not be in my power to accept their invitation if they
do.''

{}``How unlucky that is! I had quite depended upon meeting you there.
Anne and me are to go the latter end of January to some relations
who have been wanting us to visit them these several years! But I
only go for the sake of seeing Edward. He will be there in February,
otherwise London would have no charms for me; I have not spirits for
it.''

Elinor was soon called to the card-table by the conclusion of the
first rubber, and the confidential discourse of the two ladies was
therefore at an end, to which both of them submitted without any reluctance,
for nothing had been said on either side to make them dislike each
other less than they had done before; and Elinor sat down to the card
table with the melancholy persuasion that Edward was not only without
affection for the person who was to be his wife; but that he had not
even the chance of being tolerably happy in marriage, which sincere
affection on \textit{her} side would have given, for self-interest
alone could induce a woman to keep a man to an engagement, of which
she seemed so thoroughly aware that he was weary.

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

The visit of the Miss Steeles at Barton Park was lengthened far beyond
what the first invitation implied. Their favour increased; they could
not be spared; Sir John would not hear of their going; and in spite
of their numerous and long arranged engagements in Exeter, in spite
of the absolute necessity of returning to fulfill them immediately,
which was in full force at the end of every week, they were prevailed
on to stay nearly two months at the park, and to assist in the due
celebration of that festival which requires a more than ordinary share
of private balls and large dinners to proclaim its importance.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER 25}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER 25}

\markboth{SENSE AND SENSIBILITY}{CHAPTER 25}

Though Mrs.\ Jennings was in the habit of spending a large portion
of the year at the houses of her children and friends, she was not
without a settled habitation of her own. Since the death of her husband,
who had traded with success in a less elegant part of the town, she
had resided every winter in a house in one of the streets near Portman
Square. Towards this home, she began on the approach of January to
turn her thoughts, and thither she one day abruptly, and very unexpectedly
by them, asked the elder Misses Dashwood to accompany her. Elinor,
without observing the varying complexion of her sister, and the animated
look which spoke no indifference to the plan, immediately gave a grateful
but absolute denial for both, in which she believed herself to be
speaking their united inclinations. The reason alleged was their determined
resolution of not leaving their mother at that time of the year. Mrs.\ Jennings
received the refusal with some surprise, and repeated her invitation
immediately.

{}``Oh, Lord! I am sure your mother can spare you very well, and
I \textit{do} beg you will favour me with your company, for I've quite
set my heart upon it. Don't fancy that you will be any inconvenience
to me, for I shan't put myself at all out of my way for you. It will
only be sending Betty by the coach, and I hope I can afford \textit{that}.
We three shall be able to go very well in my chaise; and when we are
in town, if you do not like to go wherever I do, well and good, you
may always go with one of my daughters. I am sure your mother will
not object to it; for I have had such good luck in getting my own
children off my hands that she will think me a very fit person to
have the charge of you; and if I don't get one of you at least well
married before I have done with you, it shall not be my fault. I shall
speak a good word for you to all the young men, you may depend upon
it.''

{}``I have a notion,'' said Sir John, {}``that Miss Marianne would
not object to such a scheme, if her elder sister would come into it.
It is very hard indeed that she should not have a little pleasure,
because Miss Dashwood does not wish it. So I would advise you two,
to set off for town, when you are tired of Barton, without saying
a word to Miss Dashwood about it.''

{}``Nay,'' cried Mrs.\ Jennings, {}``I am sure I shall be monstrous
glad of Miss Marianne's company, whether Miss Dashwood will go or
not, only the more the merrier say I, and I thought it would be more
comfortable for them to be together; because, if they got tired of
me, they might talk to one another, and laugh at my old ways behind
my back. But one or the other, if not both of them, I must have. Lord
bless me!\ how do you think I can live poking by myself, I who have
been always used till this winter to have Charlotte with me. Come,
Miss Marianne, let us strike hands upon the bargain, and if Miss Dashwood
will change her mind by and bye, why so much the better.''

{}``I thank you, ma'am, sincerely thank you,'' said Marianne, with
warmth: {}``your invitation has insured my gratitude for ever, and
it would give me such happiness, yes, almost the greatest happiness
I am capable of, to be able to accept it. But my mother, my dearest,
kindest mother,---I feel the justice of what Elinor has urged, and
if she were to be made less happy, less comfortable by our absence---Oh!\ no,
nothing should tempt me to leave her. It should not, must not be a
struggle.''

Mrs.\ Jennings repeated her assurance that Mrs.\ Dashwood could
spare them perfectly well; and Elinor, who now understood her sister,
and saw to what indifference to almost every thing else she was carried
by her eagerness to be with Willoughby again, made no farther direct
opposition to the plan, and merely referred it to her mother's decision,
from whom however she scarcely expected to receive any support in
her endeavour to prevent a visit, which she could not approve of for
Marianne, and which on her own account she had particular reasons
to avoid. Whatever Marianne was desirous of, her mother would be eager
to promote---she could not expect to influence the latter to cautiousness
of conduct in an affair respecting which she had never been able to
inspire her with distrust; and she dared not explain the motive of
her own disinclination for going to London. That Marianne, fastidious
as she was, thoroughly acquainted with Mrs.\ Jennings' manners, and
invariably disgusted by them, should overlook every inconvenience
of that kind, should disregard whatever must be most wounding to her
irritable feelings, in her pursuit of one object, was such a proof,
so strong, so full, of the importance of that object to her, as Elinor,
in spite of all that had passed, was not prepared to witness.

On being informed of the invitation, Mrs.\ Dashwood, persuaded that
such an excursion would be productive of much amusement to both her
daughters, and perceiving through all her affectionate attention to
herself, how much the heart of Marianne was in it, would not hear
of their declining the offer upon \textit{her} account; insisted on
their both accepting it directly; and then began to foresee, with
her usual cheerfulness, a variety of advantages that would accrue
to them all, from this separation.

{}``I am delighted with the plan,'' she cried, {}``it is exactly
what I could wish. Margaret and I shall be as much benefited by it
as yourselves. When you and the Middletons are gone, we shall go on
so quietly and happily together with our books and our music! You
will find Margaret so improved when you come back again! I have a
little plan of alteration for your bedrooms too, which may now be
performed without any inconvenience to any one. It is very right that
you \textit{should} go to town; I would have every young woman of
your condition in life acquainted with the manners and amusements
of London. You will be under the care of a motherly good sort of woman,
of whose kindness to you I can have no doubt. And in all probability
you will see your brother, and whatever may be his faults, or the
faults of his wife, when I consider whose son he is, I cannot bear
to have you so wholly estranged from each other.''

{}``Though with your usual anxiety for our happiness,'' said Elinor,
{}``you have been obviating every impediment to the present scheme
which occurred to you, there is still one objection which, in my opinion,
cannot be so easily removed.''

Marianne's countenance sunk.

{}``And what,'' said Mrs.\ Dashwood, {}``is my dear prudent Elinor
going to suggest? What formidable obstacle is she now to bring forward?
Do let me hear a word about the expense of it.''

{}``My objection is this; though I think very well of Mrs.\ Jennings's
heart, she is not a woman whose society can afford us pleasure, or
whose protection will give us consequence.''

{}``That is very true,'' replied her mother, {}``but of her society,
separately from that of other people, you will scarcely have any thing
at all, and you will almost always appear in public with Lady Middleton.''

{}``If Elinor is frightened away by her dislike of Mrs.\ Jennings,''
said Marianne, {}``at least it need not prevent \textit{my} accepting
her invitation. I have no such scruples, and I am sure I could put
up with every unpleasantness of that kind with very little effort.''

Elinor could not help smiling at this display of indifference towards
the manners of a person, to whom she had often had difficulty in persuading
Marianne to behave with tolerable politeness; and resolved within
herself, that if her sister persisted in going, she would go likewise,
as she did not think it proper that Marianne should be left to the
sole guidance of her own judgment, or that Mrs.\ Jennings should
be abandoned to the mercy of Marianne for all the comfort of her domestic
hours. To this determination she was the more easily reconciled, by
recollecting that Edward Ferrars, by Lucy's account, was not to be
in town before February; and that their visit, without any unreasonable
abridgement, might be previously finished.

{}``I will have you \textit{both} go,'' said Mrs.\ Dashwood; {}``these
objections are nonsensical. You will have much pleasure in being in
London, and especially in being together; and if Elinor would ever
condescend to anticipate enjoyment, she would foresee it there from
a variety of sources; she would, perhaps, expect some from improving
her acquaintance with her sister-in-law's family.''

Elinor had often wished for an opportunity of attempting to weaken
her mother's dependence on the attachment of Edward and herself, that
the shock might be less when the whole truth were revealed, and now
on this attack, though almost hopeless of success, she forced herself
to begin her design by saying, as calmly as she could, {}``I like
Edward Ferrars very much, and shall always be glad to see him; but
as to the rest of the family, it is a matter of perfect indifference
to me, whether I am ever known to them or not.''

Mrs.\ Dashwood smiled, and said nothing. Marianne lifted up her eyes
in astonishment, and Elinor conjectured that she might as well have
held her tongue.

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

Elinor submitted to the arrangement which counteracted her wishes
with less reluctance than she had expected to feel. With regard to
herself, it was now a matter of unconcern whether she went to town
or not, and when she saw her mother so thoroughly pleased with the
plan, and her sister exhilarated by it in look, voice, and manner,
restored to all her usual animation, and elevated to more than her
usual gaiety, she could not be dissatisfied with the cause, and would
hardly allow herself to distrust the consequence.

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

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


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER 26}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER 26}

\markboth{SENSE AND SENSIBILITY}{CHAPTER 26}

Elinor could not find herself in the carriage with Mrs.\ Jennings,
and beginning a journey to London under her protection, and as her
guest, without wondering at her own situation, so short had their
acquaintance with that lady been, so wholly unsuited were they in
age and disposition, and so many had been her objections against such
a measure only a few days before! But these objections had all, with
that happy ardour of youth which Marianne and her mother equally shared,
been overcome or overlooked; and Elinor, in spite of every occasional
doubt of Willoughby's constancy, could not witness the rapture of
delightful expectation which filled the whole soul and beamed in the
eyes of Marianne, without feeling how blank was her own prospect,
how cheerless her own state of mind in the comparison, and how gladly
she would engage in the solicitude of Marianne's situation to have
the same animating object in view, the same possibility of hope. A
short, a very short time however must now decide what Willoughby's
intentions were; in all probability he was already in town. Marianne's
eagerness to be gone declared her dependence on finding him there;
and Elinor was resolved not only upon gaining every new light as to
his character which her own observation or the intelligence of others
could give her, but likewise upon watching his behaviour to her sister
with such zealous attention, as to ascertain what he was and what
he meant, before many meetings had taken place. Should the result
of her observations be unfavourable, she was determined at all events
to open the eyes of her sister; should it be otherwise, her exertions
would be of a different nature---she must then learn to avoid every
selfish comparison, and banish every regret which might lessen her
satisfaction in the happiness of Marianne.

They were three days on their journey, and Marianne's behaviour as
they travelled was a happy specimen of what future complaisance and
companionableness to Mrs.\ Jennings might be expected to be. She
sat in silence almost all the way, wrapt in her own meditations, and
scarcely ever voluntarily speaking, except when any object of picturesque
beauty within their view drew from her an exclamation of delight exclusively
addressed to her sister. To atone for this conduct therefore, Elinor
took immediate possession of the post of civility which she had assigned
herself, behaved with the greatest attention to Mrs.\ Jennings, talked
with her, laughed with her, and listened to her whenever she could;
and Mrs.\ Jennings on her side treated them both with all possible
kindness, was solicitous on every occasion for their ease and enjoyment,
and only disturbed that she could not make them choose their own dinners
at the inn, nor extort a confession of their preferring salmon to
cod, or boiled fowls to veal cutlets. They reached town by three o'clock
the third day, glad to be released, after such a journey, from the
confinement of a carriage, and ready to enjoy all the luxury of a
good fire.

The house was handsome, and handsomely fitted up, and the young ladies
were immediately put in possession of a very comfortable apartment.
It had formerly been Charlotte's, and over the mantelpiece still hung
a landscape in coloured silks of her performance, in proof of her
having spent seven years at a great school in town to some effect.

As dinner was not to be ready in less than two hours from their arrival,
Elinor determined to employ the interval in writing to her mother,
and sat down for that purpose. In a few moments Marianne did the same.
{}``I am writing home, Marianne,'' said Elinor; {}``had not you
better defer your letter for a day or two?''

{}``I am \textit{not} going to write to my mother,'' replied Marianne,
hastily, and as if wishing to avoid any farther inquiry. Elinor said
no more; it immediately struck her that she must then be writing to
Willoughby; and the conclusion which as instantly followed was, that,
however mysteriously they might wish to conduct the affair, they must
be engaged. This conviction, though not entirely satisfactory, gave
her pleasure, and she continued her letter with greater alacrity.
Marianne's was finished in a very few minutes; in length it could
be no more than a note; it was then folded up, sealed, and directed
with eager rapidity. Elinor thought she could distinguish a large
W in the direction; and no sooner was it complete than Marianne, ringing
the bell, requested the footman who answered it to get that letter
conveyed for her to the two-penny post. This decided the matter at
once.

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

It was a great satisfaction to Elinor that Mrs.\ Jennings, by being
much engaged in her own room, could see little of what was passing.
The tea things were brought in, and already had Marianne been disappointed
more than once by a rap at a neighbouring door, when a loud one was
suddenly heard which could not be mistaken for one at any other house,
Elinor felt secure of its announcing Willoughby's approach, and Marianne,
starting up, moved towards the door. Every thing was silent; this
could not be borne many seconds; she opened the door, advanced a few
steps towards the stairs, and after listening half a minute, returned
into the room in all the agitation which a conviction of having heard
him would naturally produce; in the ecstasy of her feelings at that
instant she could not help exclaiming, {}``Oh, Elinor, it is Willoughby,
indeed it is!''\ and seemed almost ready to throw herself into his
arms, when Colonel Brandon appeared.

It was too great a shock to be borne with calmness, and she immediately
left the room. Elinor was disappointed too; but at the same time her
regard for Colonel Brandon ensured his welcome with her; and she felt
particularly hurt that a man so partial to her sister should perceive
that she experienced nothing but grief and disappointment in seeing
him. She instantly saw that it was not unnoticed by him, that he even
observed Marianne as she quitted the room, with such astonishment
and concern, as hardly left him the recollection of what civility
demanded towards herself.

{}``Is your sister ill?''\ said he.

Elinor answered in some distress that she was, and then talked of
head-aches, low spirits, and over fatigues; and of every thing to
which she could decently attribute her sister's behaviour.

He heard her with the most earnest attention, but seeming to recollect
himself, said no more on the subject, and began directly to speak
of his pleasure at seeing them in London, making the usual inquiries
about their journey, and the friends they had left behind.

In this calm kind of way, with very little interest on either side,
they continued to talk, both of them out of spirits, and the thoughts
of both engaged elsewhere. Elinor wished very much to ask whether
Willoughby were then in town, but she was afraid of giving him pain
by any enquiry after his rival; and at length, by way of saying something,
she asked if he had been in London ever since she had seen him last.
{}``Yes,'' he replied, with some embarrassment, {}``almost ever
since; I have been once or twice at Delaford for a few days, but it
has never been in my power to return to Barton.''

This, and the manner in which it was said, immediately brought back
to her remembrance all the circumstances of his quitting that place,
with the uneasiness and suspicions they had caused to Mrs.\ Jennings,
and she was fearful that her question had implied much more curiosity
on the subject than she had ever felt.

Mrs.\ Jennings soon came in. {}``Oh! Colonel,'' said she, with
her usual noisy cheerfulness, {}``I am monstrous glad to see you---sorry
I could not come before---beg your pardon, but I have been forced
to look about me a little, and settle my matters; for it is a long
while since I have been at home, and you know one has always a world
of little odd things to do after one has been away for any time; and
then I have had Cartwright to settle with---Lord, I have been as busy
as a bee ever since dinner! But pray, Colonel, how came you to conjure
out that I should be in town today?''

{}``I had the pleasure of hearing it at Mr.\ Palmer's, where I have
been dining.''

{}``Oh, you did; well, and how do they all do at their house? How
does Charlotte do? I warrant you she is a fine size by this time.''

{}``Mrs.\ Palmer appeared quite well, and I am commissioned to tell
you, that you will certainly see her to-morrow.''

{}``Ay, to be sure, I thought as much. Well, Colonel, I have brought
two young ladies with me, you see---that is, you see but one of them
now, but there is another somewhere. Your friend, Miss Marianne, too---which
you will not be sorry to hear. I do not know what you and Mr.\ Willoughby
will do between you about her. Ay, it is a fine thing to be young
and handsome. Well! I was young once, but I never was very handsome---worse
luck for me. However, I got a very good husband, and I don't know
what the greatest beauty can do more. Ah!\ poor man!\ he has been
dead these eight years and better. But Colonel, where have you been
to since we parted? And how does your business go on? Come, come,
let's have no secrets among friends.''

He replied with his accustomary mildness to all her inquiries, but
without satisfying her in any. Elinor now began to make the tea, and
Marianne was obliged to appear again.

After her entrance, Colonel Brandon became more thoughtful and silent
than he had been before, and Mrs.\ Jennings could not prevail on
him to stay long. No other visitor appeared that evening, and the
ladies were unanimous in agreeing to go early to bed.

Marianne rose the next morning with recovered spirits and happy looks.
The disappointment of the evening before seemed forgotten in the expectation
of what was to happen that day. They had not long finished their breakfast
before Mrs.\ Palmer's barouche stopped at the door, and in a few
minutes she came laughing into the room: so delighted to see them
all, that it was hard to say whether she received most pleasure from
meeting her mother or the Miss Dashwoods again. So surprised at their
coming to town, though it was what she had rather expected all along;
so angry at their accepting her mother's invitation after having declined
her own, though at the same time she would never have forgiven them
if they had not come!

{}``Mr.\ Palmer will be so happy to see you,'' said she; {}``What
do you think he said when he heard of your coming with Mamma? I forget
what it was now, but it was something so droll!''

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

Wherever they went, she was evidently always on the watch. In Bond
Street especially, where much of their business lay, her eyes were
in constant inquiry; and in whatever shop the party were engaged,
her mind was equally abstracted from every thing actually before them,
from all that interested and occupied the others. Restless and dissatisfied
every where, her sister could never obtain her opinion of any article
of purchase, however it might equally concern them both: she received
no pleasure from anything; was only impatient to be at home again,
and could with difficulty govern her vexation at the tediousness of
Mrs.\ Palmer, whose eye was caught by every thing pretty, expensive,
or new; who was wild to buy all, could determine on none, and dawdled
away her time in rapture and indecision.

It was late in the morning before they returned home; and no sooner
had they entered the house than Marianne flew eagerly up stairs, and
when Elinor followed, she found her turning from the table with a
sorrowful countenance, which declared that no Willoughby had been
there.

{}``Has no letter been left here for me since we went out?''\ said
she to the footman who then entered with the parcels. She was answered
in the negative. {}``Are you quite sure of it?''\ she replied.
{}``Are you certain that no servant, no porter has left any letter
or note?''

The man replied that none had.

{}``How very odd!''\ said she, in a low and disappointed voice,
as she turned away to the window.

{}``How odd, indeed!''\ repeated Elinor within herself, regarding
her sister with uneasiness. {}``If she had not known him to be in
town she would not have written to him, as she did; she would have
written to Combe Magna; and if he is in town, how odd that he should
neither come nor write! Oh!\ my dear mother, you must be wrong in
permitting an engagement between a daughter so young, a man so little
known, to be carried on in so doubtful, so mysterious a manner! I
long to inquire; and how will \textit{my} interference be borne.''

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

Mrs.\ Palmer and two elderly ladies of Mrs.\ Jennings's intimate
acquaintance, whom she had met and invited in the morning, dined with
them. The former left them soon after tea to fulfill her evening engagements;
and Elinor was obliged to assist in making a whist table for the others.
Marianne was of no use on these occasions, as she would never learn
the game; but though her time was therefore at her own disposal, the
evening was by no means more productive of pleasure to her than to
Elinor, for it was spent in all the anxiety of expectation and the
pain of disappointment. She sometimes endeavoured for a few minutes
to read; but the book was soon thrown aside, and she returned to the
more interesting employment of walking backwards and forwards across
the room, pausing for a moment whenever she came to the window, in
hopes of distinguishing the long-expected rap.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER 27}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER 27}

\markboth{SENSE AND SENSIBILITY}{CHAPTER 27}

{}``If this open weather holds much longer,'' said Mrs.\ Jennings,
when they met at breakfast the following morning, {}``Sir John will
not like leaving Barton next week; 'tis a sad thing for sportsmen
to lose a day's pleasure. Poor souls! I always pity them when they
do; they seem to take it so much to heart.''

{}``That is true,'' cried Marianne, in a cheerful voice, and walking
to the window as she spoke, to examine the day. {}``I had not thought
of that. This weather will keep many sportsmen in the country.''

It was a lucky recollection, all her good spirits were restored by
it. {}``It is charming weather for \textit{them} indeed,'' she continued,
as she sat down to the breakfast table with a happy countenance. {}``How
much they must enjoy it! But'' (with a little return of anxiety)
{}``it cannot be expected to last long. At this time of the year,
and after such a series of rain, we shall certainly have very little
more of it. Frosts will soon set in, and in all probability with severity.
In another day or two perhaps; this extreme mildness can hardly last
longer---nay, perhaps it may freeze tonight!''

{}``At any rate,'' said Elinor, wishing to prevent Mrs.\ Jennings
from seeing her sister's thoughts as clearly as she did, {}``I dare
say we shall have Sir John and Lady Middleton in town by the end of
next week.''

{}``Ay, my dear, I'll warrant you we do. Mary always has her own
way.''

{}``And now,'' silently conjectured Elinor, {}``she will write
to Combe by this day's post.''

But if she \textit{did}, the letter was written and sent away with
a privacy which eluded all her watchfulness to ascertain the fact.
Whatever the truth of it might be, and far as Elinor was from feeling
thorough contentment about it, yet while she saw Marianne in spirits,
she could not be very uncomfortable herself. And Marianne was in spirits;
happy in the mildness of the weather, and still happier in her expectation
of a frost.

The morning was chiefly spent in leaving cards at the houses of Mrs.\ Jennings's
acquaintance to inform them of her being in town; and Marianne was
all the time busy in observing the direction of the wind, watching
the variations of the sky and imagining an alteration in the air.

{}``Don't you find it colder than it was in the morning, Elinor?
There seems to me a very decided difference. I can hardly keep my
hands warm even in my muff. It was not so yesterday, I think. The
clouds seem parting too, the sun will be out in a moment, and we shall
have a clear afternoon.''

Elinor was alternately diverted and pained; but Marianne persevered,
and saw every night in the brightness of the fire, and every morning
in the appearance of the atmosphere, the certain symptoms of approaching
frost.

The Miss Dashwoods had no greater reason to be dissatisfied with Mrs.\ Jennings's
style of living, and set of acquaintance, than with her behaviour
to themselves, which was invariably kind. Every thing in her household
arrangements was conducted on the most liberal plan, and excepting
a few old city friends, whom, to Lady Middleton's regret, she had
never dropped, she visited no one to whom an introduction could at
all discompose the feelings of her young companions. Pleased to find
herself more comfortably situated in that particular than she had
expected, Elinor was very willing to compound for the want of much
real enjoyment from any of their evening parties, which, whether at
home or abroad, formed only for cards, could have little to amuse
her.

Colonel Brandon, who had a general invitation to the house, was with
them almost every day; he came to look at Marianne and talk to Elinor,
who often derived more satisfaction from conversing with him than
from any other daily occurrence, but who saw at the same time with
much concern his continued regard for her sister. She feared it was
a strengthening regard. It grieved her to see the earnestness with
which he often watched Marianne, and his spirits were certainly worse
than when at Barton.

About a week after their arrival, it became certain that Willoughby
was also arrived. His card was on the table when they came in from
the morning's drive.

{}``Good God!''\ cried Marianne, {}``he has been here while we
were out.'' Elinor, rejoiced to be assured of his being in London,
now ventured to say, {}``Depend upon it, he will call again tomorrow.''
But Marianne seemed hardly to hear her, and on Mrs.\ Jenning's entrance,
escaped with the precious card.

This event, while it raised the spirits of Elinor, restored to those
of her sister all, and more than all, their former agitation. From
this moment her mind was never quiet; the expectation of seeing him
every hour of the day, made her unfit for any thing. She insisted
on being left behind, the next morning, when the others went out.

Elinor's thoughts were full of what might be passing in Berkeley Street
during their absence; but a moment's glance at her sister when they
returned was enough to inform her, that Willoughby had paid no second
visit there. A note was just then brought in, and laid on the table,

{}``For me!''\ cried Marianne, stepping hastily forward.

{}``No, ma'am, for my mistress.''

But Marianne, not convinced, took it instantly up.

{}``It is indeed for Mrs.\ Jennings; how provoking!''

{}``You are expecting a letter, then?''\ said Elinor, unable to
be longer silent.

{}``Yes, a little---not much.''

After a short pause. {}``You have no confidence in me, Marianne.''

{}``Nay, Elinor, this reproach from \textit{you}---you who have confidence
in no one!''

{}``Me!''\ returned Elinor in some confusion; {}``indeed, Marianne,
I have nothing to tell.''

{}``Nor I,'' answered Marianne with energy, {}``our situations
then are alike. We have neither of us any thing to tell; you, because
you do not communicate, and I, because I conceal nothing.''

Elinor, distressed by this charge of reserve in herself, which she
was not at liberty to do away, knew not how, under such circumstances,
to press for greater openness in Marianne.

Mrs.\ Jennings soon appeared, and the note being given her, she read
it aloud. It was from Lady Middleton, announcing their arrival in
Conduit Street the night before, and requesting the company of her
mother and cousins the following evening. Business on Sir John's part,
and a violent cold on her own, prevented their calling in Berkeley
Street. The invitation was accepted; but when the hour of appointment
drew near, necessary as it was in common civility to Mrs.\ Jennings,
that they should both attend her on such a visit, Elinor had some
difficulty in persuading her sister to go, for still she had seen
nothing of Willoughby; and therefore was not more indisposed for amusement
abroad, than unwilling to run the risk of his calling again in her
absence.

Elinor found, when the evening was over, that disposition is not materially
altered by a change of abode, for although scarcely settled in town,
Sir John had contrived to collect around him, nearly twenty young
people, and to amuse them with a ball. This was an affair, however,
of which Lady Middleton did not approve. In the country, an unpremeditated
dance was very allowable; but in London, where the reputation of elegance
was more important and less easily attained, it was risking too much
for the gratification of a few girls, to have it known that Lady Middleton
had given a small dance of eight or nine couple, with two violins,
and a mere side-board collation.

Mr.\ and Mrs.\ Palmer were of the party; from the former, whom they
had not seen before since their arrival in town, as he was careful
to avoid the appearance of any attention to his mother-in-law, and
therefore never came near her, they received no mark of recognition
on their entrance. He looked at them slightly, without seeming to
know who they were, and merely nodded to Mrs.\ Jennings from the
other side of the room. Marianne gave one glance round the apartment
as she entered: it was enough---\textit{he} was not there---and she
sat down, equally ill-disposed to receive or communicate pleasure.
After they had been assembled about an hour, Mr.\ Palmer sauntered
towards the Miss Dashwoods to express his surprise on seeing them
in town, though Colonel Brandon had been first informed of their arrival
at his house, and he had himself said something very droll on hearing
that they were to come.

{}``I thought you were both in Devonshire,'' said he.

{}``Did you?''\ replied Elinor.

{}``When do you go back again?''

{}``I do not know.'' And thus ended their discourse.

Never had Marianne been so unwilling to dance in her life, as she
was that evening, and never so much fatigued by the exercise. She
complained of it as they returned to Berkeley Street.

{}``Aye, aye,'' said Mrs.\ Jennings, {}``we know the reason of
all that very well; if a certain person who shall be nameless, had
been there, you would not have been a bit tired: and to say the truth
it was not very pretty of him not to give you the meeting when he
was invited.''

{}``Invited!''\ cried Marianne.

{}``So my daughter Middleton told me, for it seems Sir John met him
somewhere in the street this morning.'' Marianne said no more, but
looked exceedingly hurt. Impatient in this situation to be doing something
that might lead to her sister's relief, Elinor resolved to write the
next morning to her mother, and hoped by awakening her fears for the
health of Marianne, to procure those inquiries which had been so long
delayed; and she was still more eagerly bent on this measure by perceiving
after breakfast on the morrow, that Marianne was again writing to
Willoughby, for she could not suppose it to be to any other person.

About the middle of the day, Mrs.\ Jennings went out by herself on
business, and Elinor began her letter directly, while Marianne, too
restless for employment, too anxious for conversation, walked from
one window to the other, or sat down by the fire in melancholy meditation.
Elinor was very earnest in her application to her mother, relating
all that had passed, her suspicions of Willoughby's inconstancy, urging
her by every plea of duty and affection to demand from Marianne an
account of her real situation with respect to him.

Her letter was scarcely finished, when a rap foretold a visitor, and
Colonel Brandon was announced. Marianne, who had seen him from the
window, and who hated company of any kind, left the room before he
entered it. He looked more than usually grave, and though expressing
satisfaction at finding Miss Dashwood alone, as if he had somewhat
in particular to tell her, sat for some time without saying a word.
Elinor, persuaded that he had some communication to make in which
her sister was concerned, impatiently expected its opening. It was
not the first time of her feeling the same kind of conviction; for,
more than once before, beginning with the observation of {}``your
sister looks unwell to-day,'' or {}``your sister seems out of spirits,''
he had appeared on the point, either of disclosing, or of inquiring,
something particular about her. After a pause of several minutes,
their silence was broken, by his asking her in a voice of some agitation,
when he was to congratulate her on the acquisition of a brother? Elinor
was not prepared for such a question, and having no answer ready,
was obliged to adopt the simple and common expedient, of asking what
he meant? He tried to smile as he replied, {}``your sister's engagement
to Mr.\ Willoughby is very generally known.''

{}``It cannot be generally known,'' returned Elinor, {}``for her
own family do not know it.''

He looked surprised and said, {}``I beg your pardon, I am afraid
my inquiry has been impertinent; but I had not supposed any secrecy
intended, as they openly correspond, and their marriage is universally
talked of.''

{}``How can that be? By whom can you have heard it mentioned?''

{}``By many---by some of whom you know nothing, by others with whom
you are most intimate, Mrs.\ Jennings, Mrs.\ Palmer, and the Middletons.
But still I might not have believed it, for where the mind is perhaps
rather unwilling to be convinced, it will always find something to
support its doubts, if I had not, when the servant let me in today,
accidentally seen a letter in his hand, directed to Mr.\ Willoughby
in your sister's writing. I came to inquire, but I was convinced before
I could ask the question. Is every thing finally settled? Is it impossible
to---? But I have no right, and I could have no chance of succeeding.
Excuse me, Miss Dashwood. I believe I have been wrong in saying so
much, but I hardly know what to do, and on your prudence I have the
strongest dependence. Tell me that it is all absolutely resolved on,
that any attempt, that in short concealment, if concealment be possible,
is all that remains.''

These words, which conveyed to Elinor a direct avowal of his love
for her sister, affected her very much. She was not immediately able
to say anything, and even when her spirits were recovered, she debated
for a short time, on the answer it would be most proper to give. The
real state of things between Willoughby and her sister was so little
known to herself, that in endeavouring to explain it, she might be
as liable to say too much as too little. Yet as she was convinced
that Marianne's affection for Willoughby, could leave no hope of Colonel
Brandon's success, whatever the event of that affection might be,
and at the same time wished to shield her conduct from censure, she
thought it most prudent and kind, after some consideration, to say
more than she really knew or believed. She acknowledged, therefore,
that though she had never been informed by themselves of the terms
on which they stood with each other, of their mutual affection she
had no doubt, and of their correspondence she was not astonished to
hear.

He listened to her with silent attention, and on her ceasing to speak,
rose directly from his seat, and after saying in a voice of emotion,
{}``to your sister I wish all imaginable happiness; to Willoughby
that he may endeavour to deserve her,''---took leave, and went away.

Elinor derived no comfortable feelings from this conversation, to
lessen the uneasiness of her mind on other points; she was left, on
the contrary, with a melancholy impression of Colonel Brandon's unhappiness,
and was prevented even from wishing it removed, by her anxiety for
the very event that must confirm it.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER 28}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER 28}

\markboth{SENSE AND SENSIBILITY}{CHAPTER 28}

Nothing occurred during the next three or four days, to make Elinor
regret what she had done, in applying to her mother; for Willoughby
neither came nor wrote. They were engaged about the end of that time
to attend Lady Middleton to a party, from which Mrs.\ Jennings was
kept away by the indisposition of her youngest daughter; and for this
party, Marianne, wholly dispirited, careless of her appearance, and
seeming equally indifferent whether she went or staid, prepared, without
one look of hope or one expression of pleasure. She sat by the drawing-room
fire after tea, till the moment of Lady Middleton's arrival, without
once stirring from her seat, or altering her attitude, lost in her
own thoughts, and insensible of her sister's presence; and when at
last they were told that Lady Middleton waited for them at the door,
she started as if she had forgotten that any one was expected.

They arrived in due time at the place of destination, and as soon
as the string of carriages before them would allow, alighted, ascended
the stairs, heard their names announced from one landing-place to
another in an audible voice, and entered a room splendidly lit up,
quite full of company, and insufferably hot. When they had paid their
tribute of politeness by curtsying to the lady of the house, they
were permitted to mingle in the crowd, and take their share of the
heat and inconvenience, to which their arrival must necessarily add.
After some time spent in saying little or doing less, Lady Middleton
sat down to Cassino, and as Marianne was not in spirits for moving
about, she and Elinor luckily succeeding to chairs, placed themselves
at no great distance from the table.

They had not remained in this manner long, before Elinor perceived
Willoughby, standing within a few yards of them, in earnest conversation
with a very fashionable looking young woman. She soon caught his eye,
and he immediately bowed, but without attempting to speak to her,
or to approach Marianne, though he could not but see her; and then
continued his discourse with the same lady. Elinor turned involuntarily
to Marianne, to see whether it could be unobserved by her. At that
moment she first perceived him, and her whole countenance glowing
with sudden delight, she would have moved towards him instantly, had
not her sister caught hold of her.

{}``Good heavens!''\ she exclaimed, {}``he is there---he is there---Oh!\ why
does he not look at me?\ why cannot I speak to him?''

{}``Pray, pray be composed,'' cried Elinor, {}``and do not betray
what you feel to every body present. Perhaps he has not observed you
yet.''

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

At last he turned round again, and regarded them both; she started
up, and pronouncing his name in a tone of affection, held out her
hand to him. He approached, and addressing himself rather to Elinor
than Marianne, as if wishing to avoid her eye, and determined not
to observe her attitude, inquired in a hurried manner after Mrs.\ Dashwood,
and asked how long they had been in town. Elinor was robbed of all
presence of mind by such an address, and was unable to say a word.
But the feelings of her sister were instantly expressed. Her face
was crimsoned over, and she exclaimed, in a voice of the greatest
emotion, {}``Good God! Willoughby, what is the meaning of this? Have
you not received my letters? Will you not shake hands with me?''

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

{}``I did myself the honour of calling in Berkeley Street last Tuesday,
and very much regretted that I was not fortunate enough to find yourselves
and Mrs.\ Jennings at home. My card was not lost, I hope.''

{}``But have you not received my notes?''\ cried Marianne in the
wildest anxiety. {}``Here is some mistake I am sure---some dreadful
mistake. What can be the meaning of it? Tell me, Willoughby; for heaven's
sake tell me, what is the matter?''

He made no reply; his complexion changed and all his embarrassment
returned; but as if, on catching the eye of the young lady with whom
he had been previously talking, he felt the necessity of instant exertion,
he recovered himself again, and after saying, {}``Yes, I had the
pleasure of receiving the information of your arrival in town, which
you were so good as to send me,'' turned hastily away with a slight
bow and joined his friend.

Marianne, now looking dreadfully white, and unable to stand, sunk
into her chair, and Elinor, expecting every moment to see her faint,
tried to screen her from the observation of others, while reviving
her with lavender water.

{}``Go to him, Elinor,'' she cried, as soon as she could speak,
{}``and force him to come to me. Tell him I must see him again---must
speak to him instantly.---I cannot rest---I shall not have a moment's
peace till this is explained---some dreadful misapprehension or other.---Oh
go to him this moment.''

{}``How can that be done? No, my dearest Marianne, you must wait.
This is not the place for explanations. Wait only till tomorrow.''

With difficulty however could she prevent her from following him herself;
and to persuade her to check her agitation, to wait, at least, with
the appearance of composure, till she might speak to him with more
privacy and more effect, was impossible; for Marianne continued incessantly
to give way in a low voice to the misery of her feelings, by exclamations
of wretchedness. In a short time Elinor saw Willoughby quit the room
by the door towards the staircase, and telling Marianne that he was
gone, urged the impossibility of speaking to him again that evening,
as a fresh argument for her to be calm. She instantly begged her sister
would entreat Lady Middleton to take them home, as she was too miserable
to stay a minute longer.

Lady Middleton, though in the middle of a rubber, on being informed
that Marianne was unwell, was too polite to object for a moment to
her wish of going away, and making over her cards to a friend, they
departed as soon the carriage could be found. Scarcely a word was
spoken during their return to Berkeley Street. Marianne was in a silent
agony, too much oppressed even for tears; but as Mrs.\ Jennings was
luckily not come home, they could go directly to their own room, where
hartshorn restored her a little to herself. She was soon undressed
and in bed, and as she seemed desirous of being alone, her sister
then left her, and while she waited the return of Mrs.\ Jennings,
had leisure enough for thinking over the past.

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

As for Marianne, on the pangs which so unhappy a meeting must already
have given her, and on those still more severe which might await her
in its probable consequence, she could not reflect without the deepest
concern. Her own situation gained in the comparison; for while she
could \textit{esteem} Edward as much as ever, however they might be
divided in future, her mind might be always supported. But every circumstance
that could embitter such an evil seemed uniting to heighten the misery
of Marianne in a final separation from Willoughby---in an immediate
and irreconcilable rupture with him.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER 29}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER 29}

\markboth{SENSE AND SENSIBILITY}{CHAPTER 29}

Before the house-maid had lit their fire the next day, or the sun
gained any power over a cold, gloomy morning in January, Marianne,
only half dressed, was kneeling against one of the window-seats for
the sake of all the little light she could command from it, and writing
as fast as a continual flow of tears would permit her. In this situation,
Elinor, roused from sleep by her agitation and sobs, first perceived
her; and after observing her for a few moments with silent anxiety,
said, in a tone of the most considerate gentleness,

{}``Marianne, may I ask---?''

{}``No, Elinor,'' she replied, {}``ask nothing; you will soon know
all.''

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

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

At breakfast she neither ate, nor attempted to eat any thing; and
Elinor's attention was then all employed, not in urging her, not in
pitying her, nor in appearing to regard her, but in endeavouring to
engage Mrs.\ Jenning's notice entirely to herself.

As this was a favourite meal with Mrs.\ Jennings, it lasted a considerable
time, and they were just setting themselves, after it, round the common
working table, when a letter was delivered to Marianne, which she
eagerly caught from the servant, and, turning of a death-like paleness,
instantly ran out of the room. Elinor, who saw as plainly by this,
as if she had seen the direction, that it must come from Willoughby,
felt immediately such a sickness at heart as made her hardly able
to hold up her head, and sat in such a general tremour as made her
fear it impossible to escape Mrs.\ Jenning's notice. That good lady,
however, saw only that Marianne had received a letter from Willoughby,
which appeared to her a very good joke, and which she treated accordingly,
by hoping, with a laugh, that she would find it to her liking. Of
Elinor's distress, she was too busily employed in measuring lengths
of worsted for her rug, to see any thing at all; and calmly continuing
her talk, as soon as Marianne disappeared, she said,

{}``Upon my word, I never saw a young woman so desperately in love
in my life! \textit{My} girls were nothing to her, and yet they used
to be foolish enough; but as for Miss Marianne, she is quite an altered
creature. I hope, from the bottom of my heart, he won't keep her waiting
much longer, for it is quite grievous to see her look so ill and forlorn.
Pray, when are they to be married?''

Elinor, though never less disposed to speak than at that moment, obliged
herself to answer such an attack as this, and, therefore, trying to
smile, replied, {}``And have you really, Ma'am, talked yourself into
a persuasion of my sister's being engaged to Mr.\ Willoughby? I thought
it had been only a joke, but so serious a question seems to imply
more; and I must beg, therefore, that you will not deceive yourself
any longer. I do assure you that nothing would surprise me more than
to hear of their being going to be married.''

{}``For shame, for shame, Miss Dashwood!\ how can you talk so? Don't
we all know that it must be a match, that they were over head and
ears in love with each other from the first moment they met? Did not
I see them together in Devonshire every day, and all day long; and
did not I know that your sister came to town with me on purpose to
buy wedding clothes? Come, come, this won't do. Because you are so
sly about it yourself, you think nobody else has any senses; but it
is no such thing, I can tell you, for it has been known all over town
this ever so long. I tell every body of it and so does Charlotte.''

{}``Indeed, Ma'am,'' said Elinor, very seriously, {}``you are mistaken.
Indeed, you are doing a very unkind thing in spreading the report,
and you will find that you have though you will not believe me now.''

Mrs.\ Jennings laughed again, but Elinor had not spirits to say more,
and eager at all events to know what Willoughby had written, hurried
away to their room, where, on opening the door, she saw Marianne stretched
on the bed, almost choked by grief, one letter in her hand, and two
or three others laying by her. Elinor drew near, but without saying
a word; and seating herself on the bed, took her hand, kissed her
affectionately several times, and then gave way to a burst of tears,
which at first was scarcely less violent than Marianne's. The latter,
though unable to speak, seemed to feel all the tenderness of this
behaviour, and after some time thus spent in joint affliction, she
put all the letters into Elinor's hands; and then covering her face
with her handkerchief, almost screamed with agony. Elinor, who knew
that such grief, shocking as it was to witness it, must have its course,
watched by her till this excess of suffering had somewhat spent itself,
and then turning eagerly to Willoughby's letter, read as follows:

\begin{quotation}
\hspace{\stretch{1}}\noun{{}``Bond Street, January.}

\noindent {}``\textit{\emph{\noun{My}}} \textit{\emph{\noun{Dear}}}
\textit{\emph{\noun{Madam}}}\emph{\noun{,}}

{}``I have just had the honour of receiving your letter, for which
I beg to return my sincere acknowledgments. I am much concerned to
find there was anything in my behaviour last night that did not meet
your approbation; and though I am quite at a loss to discover in what
point I could be so unfortunate as to offend you, I entreat your forgiveness
of what I can assure you to have been perfectly unintentional. I shall
never reflect on my former acquaintance with your family in Devonshire
without the most grateful pleasure, and flatter myself it will not
be broken by any mistake or misapprehension of my actions. My esteem
for your whole family is very sincere; but if I have been so unfortunate
as to give rise to a belief of more than I felt, or meant to express,
I shall reproach myself for not having been more guarded in my professions
of that esteem. That I should ever have meant more you will allow
to be impossible, when you understand that my affections have been
long engaged elsewhere, and it will not be many weeks, I believe,
before this engagement is fulfilled. It is with great regret that
I obey your commands in returning the letters with which I have been
honoured from you, and the lock of hair, which you so obligingly bestowed
on me.

{}``I am, dear Madam,

\noindent \hspace{\stretch{1}}{}``Your most obedient\hspace{\stretch{1}}

\noindent \hspace{\stretch{1}}{}``humble servant,\hspace{\stretch{1}}

\hspace{\stretch{1}}{}``\textit{\emph{\noun{John}}} \textit{\emph{\noun{Willoughby}}}.'' 
\end{quotation}
With what indignation such a letter as this must be read by Miss Dashwood,
may be imagined. Though aware, before she began it, that it must bring
a confession of his inconstancy, and confirm their separation for
ever, she was not aware that such language could be suffered to announce
it; nor could she have supposed Willoughby capable of departing so
far from the appearance of every honourable and delicate feeling---so
far from the common decorum of a gentleman, as to send a letter so
impudently cruel: a letter which, instead of bringing with his desire
of a release any professions of regret, acknowledged no breach of
faith, denied all peculiar affection whatever---a letter of which
every line was an insult, and which proclaimed its writer to be deep
in hardened villainy.

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

In her earnest meditations on the contents of the letter, on the depravity
of that mind which could dictate it, and probably, on the very different
mind of a very different person, who had no other connection whatever
with the affair than what her heart gave him with every thing that
passed, Elinor forgot the immediate distress of her sister, forgot
that she had three letters on her lap yet unread, and so entirely
forgot how long she had been in the room, that when on hearing a carriage
drive up to the door, she went to the window to see who could be coming
so unreasonably early, she was all astonishment to perceive Mrs.\ Jennings's
chariot, which she knew had not been ordered till one. Determined
not to quit Marianne, though hopeless of contributing, at present,
to her ease, she hurried away to excuse herself from attending Mrs.\ Jennings,
on account of her sister being indisposed. Mrs.\ Jennings, with a
thoroughly good-humoured concern for its cause, admitted the excuse
most readily, and Elinor, after seeing her safe off, returned to Marianne,
whom she found attempting to rise from the bed, and whom she reached
just in time to prevent her from falling on the floor, faint and giddy
from a long want of proper rest and food; for it was many days since
she had any appetite, and many nights since she had really slept;
and now, when her mind was no longer supported by the fever of suspense,
the consequence of all this was felt in an aching head, a weakened
stomach, and a general nervous faintness. A glass of wine, which Elinor
procured for her directly, made her more comfortable, and she was
at last able to express some sense of her kindness, by saying,

{}``Poor Elinor!\ how unhappy I make you!''

{}``I only wish,'' replied her sister, {}``there were any thing
I \textit{could} do, which might be of comfort to you.''

This, as every thing else would have been, was too much for Marianne,
who could only exclaim, in the anguish of her heart, {}``Oh! Elinor,
I am miserable, indeed,'' before her voice was entirely lost in sobs.

Elinor could no longer witness this torrent of unresisted grief in
silence.

{}``Exert yourself, dear Marianne,'' she cried, {}``if you would
not kill yourself and all who love you. Think of your mother; think
of her misery while \textit{you} suffer: for her sake you must exert
yourself.''

{}``I cannot, I cannot,'' cried Marianne; {}``leave me, leave me,
if I distress you; leave me, hate me, forget me!\ but do not torture
me so. Oh!\ how easy for those, who have no sorrow of their own to
talk of exertion! Happy, happy Elinor, \textit{you} cannot have an
idea of what I suffer.''

{}``Do you call \textit{me} happy, Marianne? Ah!\ if you knew!---And
can you believe me to be so, while I see you so wretched!''

{}``Forgive me, forgive me,'' throwing her arms round her sister's
neck; {}``I know you feel for me; I know what a heart you have; but
yet you are---you must be happy; Edward loves you---what, oh what,
can do away such happiness as that?''

{}``Many, many circumstances,'' said Elinor, solemnly.

{}``No, no, no,'' cried Marianne wildly, {}``he loves you, and
only you. You \textit{can} have no grief.''

{}``I can have no pleasure while I see you in this state.''

{}``And you will never see me otherwise. Mine is a misery which nothing
can do away.''

{}``You must not talk so, Marianne. Have you no comforts?\ no friends?
Is your loss such as leaves no opening for consolation? Much as you
suffer now, think of what you would have suffered if the discovery
of his character had been delayed to a later period---if your engagement
had been carried on for months and months, as it might have been,
before he chose to put an end to it. Every additional day of unhappy
confidence, on your side, would have made the blow more dreadful.''

{}``Engagement!''\ cried Marianne, {}``there has been no engagement.''

{}``No engagement!''

{}``No, he is not so unworthy as you believe him. He has broken no
faith with me.''

{}``But he told you that he loved you.''

{}``Yes---no---never absolutely. It was every day implied, but never
professedly declared. Sometimes I thought it had been---but it never
was.''

{}``Yet you wrote to him?''---

{}``Yes---could that be wrong after all that had passed?---But I
cannot talk.''

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

\begin{quotation}
\hspace{\stretch{1}}\noun{{}``Berkeley Street, }

\hspace{\stretch{1}}\noun{{}``January.}

\noindent {}``How surprised you will be, Willoughby, on receiving
this; and I think you will feel something more than surprise, when
you know that I am in town. An opportunity of coming hither, though
with Mrs.\ Jennings, was a temptation we could not resist. I wish
you may receive this in time to come here to-night, but I will not
depend on it. At any rate I shall expect you to-morrow. For the present,
\emph{adieu}.

\hspace{\stretch{1}}{}``\noun{M.D}.'' 
\end{quotation}
{}

Her second note, which had been written on the morning after the dance
at the Middletons', was in these words:---

\begin{quotation}
\noindent {}``I cannot express my disappointment in having missed
you the day before yesterday, nor my astonishment at not having received
any answer to a note which I sent you above a week ago. I have been
expecting to hear from you, and still more to see you, every hour
of the day. Pray call again as soon as possible, and explain the reason
of my having expected this in vain. You had better come earlier another
time, because we are generally out by one. We were last night at Lady
Middleton's, where there was a dance. I have been told that you were
asked to be of the party. But could it be so? You must be very much
altered indeed since we parted, if that could be the case, and you
not there. But I will not suppose this possible, and I hope very soon
to receive your personal assurance of its being otherwise.

\hspace{\stretch{1}}{}``\noun{M.D}.'' 
\end{quotation}
{}

The contents of her last note to him were these:---

\begin{quotation}
\noindent {}``What am I to imagine, Willoughby, by your behaviour
last night? Again I demand an explanation of it. I was prepared to
meet you with the pleasure which our separation naturally produced,
with the familiarity which our intimacy at Barton appeared to me to
justify. I was repulsed indeed! I have passed a wretched night in
endeavouring to excuse a conduct which can scarcely be called less
than insulting; but though I have not yet been able to form any reasonable
apology for your behaviour, I am perfectly ready to hear your justification
of it. You have perhaps been misinformed, or purposely deceived, in
something concerning me, which may have lowered me in your opinion.
Tell me what it is, explain the grounds on which you acted, and I
shall be satisfied, in being able to satisfy you. It would grieve
me indeed to be obliged to think ill of you; but if I am to do it,
if I am to learn that you are not what we have hitherto believed you,
that your regard for us all was insincere, that your behaviour to
me was intended only to deceive, let it be told as soon as possible.
My feelings are at present in a state of dreadful indecision; I wish
to acquit you, but certainty on either side will be ease to what I
now suffer. If your sentiments are no longer what they were, you will
return my notes, and the lock of my hair which is in your possession.

\hspace{\stretch{1}}{}``\noun{M.D.}'' 
\end{quotation}
{}

That such letters, so full of affection and confidence, could have
been so answered, Elinor, for Willoughby's sake, would have been unwilling
to believe. But her condemnation of him did not blind her to the impropriety
of their having been written at all; and she was silently grieving
over the imprudence which had hazarded such unsolicited proofs of
tenderness, not warranted by anything preceding, and most severely
condemned by the event, when Marianne, perceiving that she had finished
the letters, observed to her that they contained nothing but what
any one would have written in the same situation.

{}``I felt myself,'' she added, {}``to be as solemnly engaged to
him, as if the strictest legal covenant had bound us to each other.''

{}``I can believe it,'' said Elinor; {}``but unfortunately he did
not feel the same.''

{}``He \textit{did} feel the same, Elinor---for weeks and weeks he
felt it. I know he did. Whatever may have changed him now, (and nothing
but the blackest art employed against me can have done it), I was
once as dear to him as my own soul could wish. This lock of hair,
which now he can so readily give up, was begged of me with the most
earnest supplication. Had you seen his look, his manner, had you heard
his voice at that moment! Have you forgot the last evening of our
being together at Barton? The morning that we parted too! When he
told me that it might be many weeks before we met again---his distress---can
I ever forget his distress?''

For a moment or two she could say no more; but when this emotion had
passed away, she added, in a firmer tone,

{}``Elinor, I have been cruelly used; but not by Willoughby.''

{}``Dearest Marianne, who but himself? By whom can he have been instigated?''

{}``By all the world, rather than by his own heart. I could rather
believe every creature of my acquaintance leagued together to ruin
me in his opinion, than believe his nature capable of such cruelty.
This woman of whom he writes---whoever she be---or any one, in short,
but your own dear self, mama, and Edward, may have been so barbarous
to bely me. Beyond you three, is there a creature in the world whom
I would not rather suspect of evil than Willoughby, whose heart I
know so well?''

Elinor would not contend, and only replied, {}``Whoever may have
been so detestably your enemy, let them be cheated of their malignant
triumph, my dear sister, by seeing how nobly the consciousness of
your own innocence and good intentions supports your spirits. It is
a reasonable and laudable pride which resists such malevolence.''

{}``No, no,'' cried Marianne, {}``misery such as mine has no pride.
I care not who knows that I am wretched. The triumph of seeing me
so may be open to all the world. Elinor, Elinor, they who suffer little
may be proud and independent as they like---may resist insult, or
return mortification---but I cannot. I must feel---I must be wretched---and
they are welcome to enjoy the consciousness of it that can.''

{}``But for my mother's sake and mine---''

{}``I would do more than for my own. But to appear happy when I am
so miserable---Oh!\ who can require it?''

Again they were both silent. Elinor was employed in walking thoughtfully
from the fire to the window, from the window to the fire, without
knowing that she received warmth from one, or discerning objects through
the other; and Marianne, seated at the foot of the bed, with her head
leaning against one of its posts, again took up Willoughby's letter,
and, after shuddering over every sentence, exclaimed---

{}``It is too much! Oh, Willoughby, Willoughby, could this be yours!
Cruel, cruel---nothing can acquit you. Elinor, nothing can. Whatever
he might have heard against me---ought he not to have suspended his
belief?\ ought he not to have told me of it, to have given me the
power of clearing myself? `The lock of hair,''' (repeating it from
the letter,) {}```which you so obligingly bestowed on me'---That
is unpardonable. Willoughby, where was your heart when you wrote those
words? Oh, barbarously insolent!---Elinor, can he be justified?''

{}``No, Marianne, in no possible way.''

{}``And yet this woman---who knows what her art may have been?---how
long it may have been premeditated, and how deeply contrived by her!---Who
is she?---Who can she be?---Whom did I ever hear him talk of as young
and attractive among his female acquaintance?---Oh!\ no one, no one---he
talked to me only of myself.''

Another pause ensued; Marianne was greatly agitated, and it ended
thus.

{}``Elinor, I must go home. I must go and comfort mama. Can not we
be gone to-morrow?''

{}``To-morrow, Marianne!''

{}``Yes, why should I stay here? I came only for Willoughby's sake---and
now who cares for me? Who regards me?''

{}``It would be impossible to go to-morrow. We owe Mrs.\ Jennings
much more than civility; and civility of the commonest kind must prevent
such a hasty removal as that.''

{}``Well then, another day or two, perhaps; but I cannot stay here
long, I cannot stay to endure the questions and remarks of all these
people. The Middletons and Palmers---how am I to bear their pity?
The pity of such a woman as Lady Middleton! Oh, what would \textit{he}
say to that!''

Elinor advised her to lie down again, and for a moment she did so;
but no attitude could give her ease; and in restless pain of mind
and body she moved from one posture to another, till growing more
and more hysterical, her sister could with difficulty keep her on
the bed at all, and for some time was fearful of being constrained
to call for assistance. Some lavender drops, however, which she was
at length persuaded to take, were of use; and from that time till
Mrs.\ Jennings returned, she continued on the bed quiet and motionless.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER 30}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER 30}

\markboth{SENSE AND SENSIBILITY}{CHAPTER 30}

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

{}``How do you do my dear?''---said she in a voice of great compassion
to Marianne, who turned away her face without attempting to answer.

{}``How is she, Miss Dashwood?---Poor thing!\ she looks very bad.---No
wonder. Ay, it is but too true. He is to be married very soon---a
good-for-nothing fellow! I have no patience with him. Mrs.\ Taylor
told me of it half an hour ago, and she was told it by a particular
friend of Miss Grey herself, else I am sure I should not have believed
it; and I was almost ready to sink as it was. Well, said I, all I
can say is, that if this be true, he has used a young lady of my acquaintance
abominably ill, and I wish with all my soul his wife may plague his
heart out. And so I shall always say, my dear, you may depend on it.
I have no notion of men's going on in this way; and if ever I meet
him again, I will give him such a dressing as he has not had this
many a day. But there is one comfort, my dear Miss Marianne; he is
not the only young man in the world worth having; and with your pretty
face you will never want admirers. Well, poor thing! I won't disturb
her any longer, for she had better have her cry out at once and have
done with. The Parrys and Sandersons luckily are coming tonight you
know, and that will amuse her.''

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

Marianne, to the surprise of her sister, determined on dining with
them. Elinor even advised her against it. But {}``no, she would go
down; she could bear it very well, and the bustle about her would
be less.'' Elinor, pleased to have her governed for a moment by such
a motive, though believing it hardly possible that she could sit out
the dinner, said no more; and adjusting her dress for her as well
as she could, while Marianne still remained on the bed, was ready
to assist her into the dining room as soon as they were summoned to
it.

When there, though looking most wret\-ch\-ed\-ly, she ate more
and was calmer than her sister had expected. Had she tried to speak,
or had she been conscious of half Mrs.\ Jennings's well-meant but
ill-judged attentions to her, this calmness could not have been maintained;
but not a syllable escaped her lips; and the abstraction of her thoughts
preserved her in ignorance of every thing that was passing before
her.

Elinor, who did justice to Mrs.\ Jennings's kindness, though its
effusions were often distressing, and sometimes almost ridiculous,
made her those acknowledgments, and returned her those civilities,
which her sister could not make or return for herself. Their good
friend saw that Marianne was unhappy, and felt that every thing was
due to her which might make her at all less so. She treated her therefore,
with all the indulgent fondness of a parent towards a favourite child
on the last day of its holidays. Marianne was to have the best place
by the fire, was to be tempted to eat by every delicacy in the house,
and to be amused by the relation of all the news of the day. Had not
Elinor, in the sad countenance of her sister, seen a check to all
mirth, she could have been entertained by Mrs.\ Jennings's endeavours
to cure a disappointment in love, by a variety of sweetmeats and olives,
and a good fire. As soon, however, as the consciousness of all this
was forced by continual repetition on Marianne, she could stay no
longer. With a hasty exclamation of Misery, and a sign to her sister
not to follow her, she directly got up and hurried out of the room.

{}``Poor soul!''\ cried Mrs.\ Jennings, as soon as she was gone,
{}``how it grieves me to see her! And I declare if she is not gone
away without finishing her wine! And the dried cherries too! Lord!\ nothing
seems to do her any good. I am sure if I knew of any thing she would
like, I would send all over the town for it. Well, it is the oddest
thing to me, that a man should use such a pretty girl so ill! But
when there is plenty of money on one side, and next to none on the
other, Lord bless you!\ they care no more about such things!---''

{}``The lady then---Miss Grey I think you called her---is very rich?''

{}``Fifty thousand pounds, my dear. Did you ever see her?\ a smart,
stylish girl they say, but not handsome. I remember her aunt very
well, Biddy Henshawe; she married a very wealthy man. But the family
are all rich together. Fifty thousand pounds!\ and by all accounts,
it won't come before it's wanted; for they say he is all to pieces.
No wonder!\ dashing about with his curricle and hunters! Well, it
don't signify talking; but when a young man, be who he will, comes
and makes love to a pretty girl, and promises marriage, he has no
business to fly off from his word only because he grows poor, and
a richer girl is ready to have him. Why don't he, in such a case,
sell his horses, let his house, turn off his servants, and make a
thorough reform at once? I warrant you, Miss Marianne would have been
ready to wait till matters came round. But that won't do now-a-days;
nothing in the way of pleasure can ever be given up by the young men
of this age.''

{}``Do you know what kind of a girl Miss Grey is? Is she said to
be amiable?''

{}``I never heard any harm of her; indeed I hardly ever heard her
mentioned; except that Mrs.\ Taylor did say this morning, that one
day Miss Walker hinted to her, that she believed Mr.\ and Mrs.\ Ellison
would not be sorry to have Miss Grey married, for she and Mrs.\ Ellison
could never agree.''---

{}``And who are the Ellisons?''

{}``Her guardians, my dear. But now she is of age and may choose
for herself; and a pretty choice she has made!---What now,'' after
pausing a moment---{}``your poor sister is gone to her own room,
I suppose, to moan by herself. Is there nothing one can get to comfort
her? Poor dear, it seems quite cruel to let her be alone. Well, by-and-by
we shall have a few friends, and that will amuse her a little. What
shall we play at? She hates whist I know; but is there no round game
she cares for?''

{}``Dear ma'am, this kindness is quite unnecessary. Marianne, I dare
say, will not leave her room again this evening. I shall persuade
her if I can to go early to bed, for I am sure she wants rest.''

{}``Aye, I believe that will be best for her. Let her name her own
supper, and go to bed. Lord!\ no wonder she has been looking so bad
and so cast down this last week or two, for this matter I suppose
has been hanging over her head as long as that. And so the letter
that came today finished it! Poor soul! I am sure if I had had a notion
of it, I would not have joked her about it for all my money. But then
you know, how should I guess such a thing? I made sure of its being
nothing but a common love letter, and you know young people like to
be laughed at about them. Lord!\ how concerned Sir John and my daughters
will be when they hear it! If I had my senses about me I might have
called in Conduit Street in my way home, and told them of it. But
I shall see them tomorrow.''

{}``It would be unnecessary I am sure, for you to caution Mrs.\ Palmer
and Sir John against ever naming Mr.\ Willoughby, or making the slightest
allusion to what has passed, before my sister. Their own good-nature
must point out to them the real cruelty of appearing to know any thing
about it when she is present; and the less that may ever be said to
myself on the subject, the more my feelings will be spared, as you
my dear madam will easily believe.''

{}``Oh! Lord!\ yes, that I do indeed. It must be terrible for you
to hear it talked of; and as for your sister, I am sure I would not
mention a word about it to her for the world. You saw I did not all
dinner time. No more would Sir John, nor my daughters, for they are
all very thoughtful and considerate; especially if I give them a hint,
as I certainly will. For my part, I think the less that is said about
such things, the better, the sooner 'tis blown over and forgot. And
what does talking ever do you know?''

{}``In this affair it can only do harm; more so perhaps than in many
cases of a similar kind, for it has been attended by circumstances
which, for the sake of every one concerned in it, make it unfit to
become the public conversation. I must do \textit{this} justice to
Mr.\ Willoughby---he has broken no positive engagement with my sister.''

{}``Law, my dear! Don't pretend to defend him. No positive engagement
indeed!\ after taking her all over Allenham House, and fixing on
the very rooms they were to live in hereafter!''

Elinor, for her sister's sake, could not press the subject farther,
and she hoped it was not required of her for Willoughby's; since,
though Marianne might lose much, he could gain very little by the
enforcement of the real truth. After a short silence on both sides,
Mrs.\ Jennings, with all her natural hilarity, burst forth again.

{}``Well, my dear, 'tis a true saying about an ill-wind, for it will
be all the better for Colonel Brandon. He will have her at last; aye,
that he will. Mind me, now, if they an't married by Mid-summer. Lord!\ how
he'll chuckle over this news! I hope he will come tonight. It will
be all to one a better match for your sister. Two thousand a year
without debt or drawback---except the little love-child, indeed; aye,
I had forgot her; but she may be 'prenticed out at a small cost, and
then what does it signify? Delaford is a nice place, I can tell you;
exactly what I call a nice old fashioned place, full of comforts and
conveniences; quite shut in with great garden walls that are covered
with the best fruit-trees in the country; and such a mulberry tree
in one corner! Lord!\ how Charlotte and I did stuff the only time
we were there! Then, there is a dove-cote, some delightful stew-ponds,
and a very pretty canal; and every thing, in short, that one could
wish for; and, moreover, it is close to the church, and only a quarter
of a mile from the turnpike-road, so 'tis never dull, for if you only
go and sit up in an old yew arbour behind the house, you may see all
the carriages that pass along. Oh!\ 'tis a nice place! A butcher
hard by in the village, and the parsonage-house within a stone's throw.
To my fancy, a thousand times prettier than Barton Park, where they
are forced to send three miles for their meat, and have not a neighbour
nearer than your mother. Well, I shall spirit up the Colonel as soon
as I can. One shoulder of mutton, you know, drives another down. If
we \textit{can} but put Willoughby out of her head!''

{}``Ay, if we can do \textit{that}, Ma'am,'' said Elinor, {}``we
shall do very well with or without Colonel Brandon.'' And then rising,
she went away to join Marianne, whom she found, as she expected, in
her own room, leaning, in silent misery, over the small remains of
a fire, which, till Elinor's entrance, had been her only light.

{}``You had better leave me,'' was all the notice that her sister
received from her.

{}``I will leave you,'' said Elinor, {}``if you will go to bed.''
But this, from the momentary perverseness of impatient suffering,
she at first refused to do. Her sister's earnest, though gentle persuasion,
however, soon softened her to compliance, and Elinor saw her lay her
aching head on the pillow, and as she hoped, in a way to get some
quiet rest before she left her.

In the drawing-room, whither she then repaired, she was soon joined
by Mrs.\ Jennings, with a wine-glass, full of something, in her hand.

{}``My dear,'' said she, entering, {}``I have just recollected
that I have some of the finest old Constantia wine in the house that
ever was tasted, so I have brought a glass of it for your sister.
My poor husband!\ how fond he was of it! Whenever he had a touch
of his old colicky gout, he said it did him more good than any thing
else in the world. Do take it to your sister.''

{}``Dear Ma'am,'' replied Elinor, smiling at the difference of the
complaints for which it was recommended, {}``how good you are! But
I have just left Marianne in bed, and, I hope, almost asleep; and
as I think nothing will be of so much service to her as rest, if you
will give me leave, I will drink the wine myself.''

Mrs.\ Jennings, though regretting that she had not been five minutes
earlier, was satisfied with the compromise; and Elinor, as she swallowed
the chief of it, reflected, that though its effects on a colicky gout
were, at present, of little importance to her, its healing powers,
on a disappointed heart might be as reasonably tried on herself as
on her sister.

Colonel Brandon came in while the party were at tea, and by his manner
of looking round the room for Marianne, Elinor immediately fancied
that he neither expected nor wished to see her there, and, in short,
that he was already aware of what occasioned her absence. Mrs.\ Jennings
was not struck by the same thought; for soon after his entrance, she
walked across the room to the tea-table where Elinor presided, and
whispered---{}``The Colonel looks as grave as ever you see. He knows
nothing of it; do tell him, my dear.''

He shortly afterwards drew a chair close to her's, and, with a look
which perfectly assured her of his good information, inquired after
her sister.

{}``Marianne is not well,'' said she. {}``She has been indisposed
all day, and we have persuaded her to go to bed.''

{}``Perhaps, then,'' he hesitatingly replied, {}``what I heard
this morning may be---there may be more truth in it than I could believe
possible at first.''

{}``What did you hear?''

{}``That a gentleman, whom I had reason to think---in short, that
a man, whom I \textit{knew} to be engaged---but how shall I tell you?
If you know it already, as surely you must, I may be spared.''

{}``You mean,'' answered Elinor, with forced calmness, {}``Mr.\ Willoughby's
marriage with Miss Grey. Yes, we \textit{do} know it all. This seems
to have been a day of general elucidation, for this very morning first
unfolded it to us. Mr.\ Willoughby is unfathomable! Where did you
hear it?''

{}``In a stationer's shop in Pall Mall, where I had business. Two
ladies were waiting for their carriage, and one of them was giving
the other an account of the intended match, in a voice so little attempting
concealment, that it was impossible for me not to hear all. The name
of Willoughby, John Willoughby, frequently repeated, first caught
my attention; and what followed was a positive assertion that every
thing was now finally settled respecting his marriage with Miss Grey---it
was no longer to be a secret---it would take place even within a few
weeks, with many particulars of preparations and other matters. One
thing, especially, I remember, because it served to identify the man
still more:---as soon as the ceremony was over, they were to go to
Combe Magna, his seat in Somersetshire. My astonishment!---but it
would be impossible to describe what I felt. The communicative lady
I learnt, on inquiry, for I stayed in the shop till they were gone,
was a Mrs.\ Ellison, and that, as I have been since informed, is
the name of Miss Grey's guardian.''

{}``It is. But have you likewise heard that Miss Grey has fifty thousand
pounds? In that, if in any thing, we may find an explanation.''

{}``It may be so; but Willoughby is capable---at least I think''---he
stopped a moment; then added in a voice which seemed to distrust itself,
{}``And your sister---how did she---''

{}``Her sufferings have been very severe. I have only to hope that
they may be proportionately short. It has been, it is a most cruel
affliction. Till yesterday, I believe, she never doubted his regard;
and even now, perhaps---but I am almost convinced that he never was
really attached to her. He has been very deceitful!\ and, in some
points, there seems a hardness of heart about him.''

{}``Ah!''\ said Colonel Brandon, {}``there is, indeed! But your
sister does not---I think you said so---she does not consider quite
as you do?''

{}``You know her disposition, and may believe how eagerly she would
still justify him if she could.''

He made no answer; and soon afterwards, by the removal of the tea-things,
and the arrangement of the card parties, the subject was necessarily
dropped. Mrs.\ Jennings, who had watched them with pleasure while
they were talking, and who expected to see the effect of Miss Dashwood's
communication, in such an instantaneous gaiety on Colonel Brandon's
side, as might have become a man in the bloom of youth, of hope and
happiness, saw him, with amazement, remain the whole evening more
serious and thoughtful than usual.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER 31}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER 31}

\markboth{SENSE AND SENSIBILITY}{CHAPTER 31}

From a night of more sleep than she had expected, Marianne awoke the
next morning to the same consciousness of misery in which she had
closed her eyes.

Elinor encouraged her as much as possible to talk of what she felt;
and before breakfast was ready, they had gone through the subject
again and again; and with the same steady conviction and affectionate
counsel on Elinor's side, the same impetuous feelings and varying
opinions on Marianne's, as before. Sometimes she could believe Willoughby
to be as unfortunate and as innocent as herself, and at others, lost
every consolation in the impossibility of acquitting him. At one moment
she was absolutely indifferent to the observation of all the world,
at another she would seclude herself from it for ever, and at a third
could resist it with energy. In one thing, however, she was uniform,
when it came to the point, in avoiding, where it was possible, the
presence of Mrs.\ Jennings, and in a determined silence when obliged
to endure it. Her heart was hardened against the belief of Mrs.\ Jennings's
entering into her sorrows with any compassion.

{}``No, no, no, it cannot be,'' she cried; {}``she cannot feel.
Her kindness is not sympathy; her good-nature is not tenderness. All
that she wants is gossip, and she only likes me now because I supply
it.''

Elinor had not needed this to be assured of the injustice to which
her sister was often led in her opinion of others, by the irritable
refinement of her own mind, and the too great importance placed by
her on the delicacies of a strong sensibility, and the graces of a
polished manner. Like half the rest of the world, if more than half
there be that are clever and good, Marianne, with excellent abilities
and an excellent disposition, was neither reasonable nor candid. She
expected from other people the same opinions and feelings as her own,
and she judged of their motives by the immediate effect of their actions
on herself. Thus a circumstance occurred, while the sisters were together
in their own room after breakfast, which sunk the heart of Mrs.\ Jennings
still lower in her estimation; because, through her own weakness,
it chanced to prove a source of fresh pain to herself, though Mrs.\ Jennings
was governed in it by an impulse of the utmost goodwill.

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

{}``Now, my dear, I bring you something that I am sure will do you
good.''

Marianne heard enough. In one moment her imagination placed before
her a letter from Willoughby, full of tenderness and contrition, explanatory
of all that had passed, satisfactory, convincing; and instantly followed
by Willoughby himself, rushing eagerly into the room to inforce, at
her feet, by the eloquence of his eyes, the assurances of his letter.
The work of one moment was destroyed by the next. The hand writing
of her mother, never till then unwelcome, was before her; and, in
the acuteness of the disappointment which followed such an ecstasy
of more than hope, she felt as if, till that instant, she had never
suffered.

The cruelty of Mrs.\ Jennings no language, within her reach in her
moments of happiest eloquence, could have expressed; and now she could
reproach her only by the tears which streamed from her eyes with passionate
violence---a reproach, however, so entirely lost on its object, that
after many expressions of pity, she withdrew, still referring her
to the letter of comfort. But the letter, when she was calm enough
to read it, brought little comfort. Willoughby filled every page.
Her mother, still confident of their engagement, and relying as warmly
as ever on his constancy, had only been roused by Elinor's application,
to intreat from Marianne greater openness towards them both; and this,
with such tenderness towards her, such affection for Willoughby, and
such a conviction of their future happiness in each other, that she
wept with agony through the whole of it.

All her impatience to be at home again now returned; her mother was
dearer to her than ever; dearer through the very excess of her mistaken
confidence in Willoughby, and she was wildly urgent to be gone. Elinor,
unable herself to determine whether it were better for Marianne to
be in London or at Barton, offered no counsel of her own except of
patience till their mother's wishes could be known; and at length
she obtained her sister's consent to wait for that knowledge.

Mrs.\ Jennings left them earlier than usual; for she could not be
easy till the Middletons and Palmers were able to grieve as much as
herself; and positively refusing Elinor's offered attendance, went
out alone for the rest of the morning. Elinor, with a very heavy heart,
aware of the pain she was going to communicate, and perceiving, by
Marianne's letter, how ill she had succeeded in laying any foundation
for it, then sat down to write her mother an account of what had passed,
and entreat her directions for the future; while Marianne, who came
into the drawing-room on Mrs.\ Jennings's going away, remained fixed
at the table where Elinor wrote, watching the advancement of her pen,
grieving over her for the hardship of such a task, and grieving still
more fondly over its effect on her mother.

In this manner they had continued about a quarter of an hour, when
Marianne, whose nerves could not then bear any sudden noise, was startled
by a rap at the door.

{}``Who can this be?''\ cried Elinor. {}``So early too! I thought
we \textit{had} been safe.''

Marianne moved to the window---

{}``It is Colonel Brandon!''\ said she, with vexation. {}``We
are never safe from \textit{him}.''

{}``He will not come in, as Mrs.\ Jennings is from home.''

{}``I will not trust to \textit{that},'' retreating to her own room.
{}``A man who has nothing to do with his own time has no conscience
in his intrusion on that of others.''

The event proved her conjecture right, though it was founded on injustice
and error; for Colonel Brandon \textit{did} come in; and Elinor, who
was convinced that solicitude for Marianne brought him thither, and
who saw \textit{that} solicitude in his disturbed and melancholy look,
and in his anxious though brief inquiry after her, could not forgive
her sister for esteeming him so lightly.

{}``I met Mrs.\ Jennings in Bond Street,'' said he, after the first
salutation, {}``and she encouraged me to come on; and I was the more
easily encouraged, because I thought it probable that I might find
you alone, which I was very desirous of doing. My object---my wish---my
sole wish in desiring it---I hope, I believe it is---is to be a means
of giving comfort;---no, I must not say comfort---not present comfort---but
conviction, lasting conviction to your sister's mind. My regard for
her, for yourself, for your mother---will you allow me to prove it,
by relating some circumstances which nothing but a \textit{very} sincere
regard---nothing but an earnest desire of being useful---I think I
am justified---though where so many hours have been spent in convincing
myself that I am right, is there not some reason to fear I may be
wrong?''\ He stopped.

{}``I understand you,'' said Elinor. {}``You have something to
tell me of Mr.\ Willoughby, that will open his character farther.
Your telling it will be the greatest act of friendship that can be
shewn Marianne. \textit{My} gratitude will be insured immediately
by any information tending to that end, and \textit{hers} must be
gained by it in time. Pray, pray let me hear it.''

{}``You shall; and, to be brief, when I quitted Barton last October,---but
this will give you no idea---I must go farther back. You will find
me a very awkward narrator, Miss Dashwood; I hardly know where to
begin. A short account of myself, I believe, will be necessary, and
it \textit{shall} be a short one. On such a subject,'' sighing heavily,
{}``can I have little temptation to be diffuse.''

He stopt a moment for recollection, and then, with another sigh, went
on.

{}``You have probably entirely forgotten a conversation---(it is
not to be supposed that it could make any impression on you)---a conversation
between us one evening at Barton Park---it was the evening of a dance---in
which I alluded to a lady I had once known, as resembling, in some
measure, your sister Marianne.''

{}``Indeed,'' answered Elinor, {}``I have \textit{not} forgotten
it.'' He looked pleased by this remembrance, and added,

{}``If I am not deceived by the uncertainty, the partiality of tender
recollection, there is a very strong resemblance between them, as
well in mind as person. The same warmth of heart, the same eagerness
of fancy and spirits. This lady was one of my nearest relations, an
orphan from her infancy, and under the guardianship of my father.
Our ages were nearly the same, and from our earliest years we were
playfellows and friends. I cannot remember the time when I did not
love Eliza; and my affection for her, as we grew up, was such, as
perhaps, judging from my present forlorn and cheerless gravity, you
might think me incapable of having ever felt. Her's, for me, was,
I believe, fervent as the attachment of your sister to Mr.\ Willoughby
and it was, though from a different cause, no less unfortunate. At
seventeen she was lost to me for ever. She was married---married against
her inclination to my brother. Her fortune was large, and our family
estate much encumbered. And this, I fear, is all that can be said
for the conduct of one, who was at once her uncle and guardian. My
brother did not deserve her; he did not even love her. I had hoped
that her regard for me would support her under any difficulty, and
for some time it did; but at last the misery of her situation, for
she experienced great unkindness, overcame all her resolution, and
though she had promised me that nothing---but how blindly I relate!
I have never told you how this was brought on. We were within a few
hours of eloping together for Scotland. The treachery, or the folly,
of my cousin's maid betrayed us. I was banished to the house of a
relation far distant, and she was allowed no liberty, no society,
no amusement, till my father's point was gained. I had depended on
her fortitude too far, and the blow was a severe one---but had her
marriage been happy, so young as I then was, a few months must have
reconciled me to it, or at least I should not have now to lament it.
This however was not the case. My brother had no regard for her; his
pleasures were not what they ought to have been, and from the first
he treated her unkindly. The consequence of this, upon a mind so young,
so lively, so inexperienced as Mrs.\ Brandon's, was but too natural.
She resigned herself at first to all the misery of her situation;
and happy had it been if she had not lived to overcome those regrets
which the remembrance of me occasioned. But can we wonder that, with
such a husband to provoke inconstancy, and without a friend to advise
or restrain her (for my father lived only a few months after their
marriage, and I was with my regiment in the East Indies) she should
fall? Had I remained in England, perhaps---but I meant to promote
the happiness of both by removing from her for years, and for that
purpose had procured my exchange. The shock which her marriage had
given me,'' he continued, in a voice of great agitation, {}``was
of trifling weight---was nothing to what I felt when I heard, about
two years afterwards, of her divorce. It was \textit{that} which threw
this gloom,---even now the recollection of what I suffered---''

He could say no more, and rising hastily walked for a few minutes
about the room. Elinor, affected by his relation, and still more by
his distress, could not speak. He saw her concern, and coming to her,
took her hand, pressed it, and kissed it with grateful respect. A
few minutes more of silent exertion enabled him to proceed with composure.

{}``It was nearly three years after this unhappy period before I
returned to England. My first care, when I \textit{did} arrive, was
of course to seek for her; but the search was as fruitless as it was
melancholy. I could not trace her beyond her first seducer, and there
was every reason to fear that she had removed from him only to sink
deeper in a life of sin. Her legal allowance was not adequate to her
fortune, nor sufficient for her comfortable maintenance, and I learnt
from my brother that the power of receiving it had been made over
some months before to another person. He imagined, and calmly could
he imagine it, that her extravagance, and consequent distress, had
obliged her to dispose of it for some immediate relief. At last, however,
and after I had been six months in England, I \textit{did} find her.
Regard for a former servant of my own, who had since fallen into misfortune,
carried me to visit him in a spunging-house, where he was confined
for debt; and there, the same house, under a similar confinement,
was my unfortunate sister. So altered---so faded---worn down by acute
suffering of every kind!\ hardly could I believe the melancholy and
sickly figure before me, to be the remains of the lovely, blooming,
healthful girl, on whom I had once doted. What I endured in so beholding
her---but I have no right to wound your feelings by attempting to
describe it---I have pained you too much already. That she was, to
all appearance, in the last stage of a consumption, was---yes, in
such a situation it was my greatest comfort. Life could do nothing
for her, beyond giving time for a better preparation for death; and
that was given. I saw her placed in comfortable lodgings, and under
proper attendants; I visited her every day during the rest of her
short life: I was with her in her last moments.''

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

{}``Your sister, I hope, cannot be offended,'' said he, {}``by
the resemblance I have fancied between her and my poor disgraced relation.
Their fates, their fortunes, cannot be the same; and had the natural
sweet disposition of the one been guarded by a firmer mind, or a happier
marriage, she might have been all that you will live to see the other
be. But to what does all this lead? I seem to have been distressing
you for nothing. Ah! Miss Dashwood---a subject such as this---untouched
for fourteen years---it is dangerous to handle it at all! I \textit{will}
be more collected---more concise. She left to my care her only child,
a little girl, the offspring of her first guilty connection, who was
then about three years old. She loved the child, and had always kept
it with her. It was a valued, a precious trust to me; and gladly would
I have discharged it in the strictest sense, by watching over her
education myself, had the nature of our situations allowed it; but
I had no family, no home; and my little Eliza was therefore placed
at school. I saw her there whenever I could, and after the death of
my brother, (which happened about five years ago, and which left to
me the possession of the family property,) she visited me at Delaford.
I called her a distant relation; but I am well aware that I have in
general been suspected of a much nearer connection with her. It is
now three years ago (she had just reached her fourteenth year,) that
I removed her from school, to place her under the care of a very respectable
woman, residing in Dorsetshire, who had the charge of four or five
other girls of about the same time of life; and for two years I had
every reason to be pleased with her situation. But last February,
almost a twelvemonth back, she suddenly disappeared. I had allowed
her, (imprudently, as it has since turned out,) at her earnest desire,
to go to Bath with one of her young friends, who was attending her
father there for his health. I knew him to be a very good sort of
man, and I thought well of his daughter---better than she deserved,
for, with a most obstinate and ill-judged secrecy, she would tell
nothing, would give no clue, though she certainly knew all. He, her
father, a well-meaning, but not a quick-sighted man, could really,
I believe, give no information; for he had been generally confined
to the house, while the girls were ranging over the town and making
what acquaintance they chose; and he tried to convince me, as thoroughly
as he was convinced himself, of his daughter's being entirely unconcerned
in the business. In short, I could learn nothing but that she was
gone; all the rest, for eight long months, was left to conjecture.
What I thought, what I feared, may be imagined; and what I suffered
too.''

{}``Good heavens!''\ cried Elinor, {}``could it be---could Willoughby!''---

{}``The first news that reached me of her,'' he continued, {}``came
in a letter from herself, last October. It was forwarded to me from
Delaford, and I received it on the very morning of our intended party
to Whitwell; and this was the reason of my leaving Barton so suddenly,
which I am sure must at the time have appeared strange to every body,
and which I believe gave offence to some. Little did Mr.\ Willoughby
imagine, I suppose, when his looks censured me for incivility in breaking
up the party, that I was called away to the relief of one whom he
had made poor and miserable; but \textit{had} he known it, what would
it have availed? Would he have been less gay or less happy in the
smiles of your sister? No, he had already done that, which no man
who \textit{can} feel for another would do. He had left the girl whose
youth and innocence he had seduced, in a situation of the utmost distress,
with no creditable home, no help, no friends, ignorant of his address!
He had left her, promising to return; he neither returned, nor wrote,
nor relieved her.''

{}``This is beyond every thing!''\ exclaimed Elinor.

{}``His character is now before you; expensive, dissipated, and worse
than both. Knowing all this, as I have now known it many weeks, guess
what I must have felt on seeing your sister as fond of him as ever,
and on being assured that she was to marry him: guess what I must
have felt for all your sakes. When I came to you last week and found
you alone, I came determined to know the truth; though irresolute
what to do when it \textit{was} known. My behaviour must have seemed
strange to you then; but now you will comprehend it. To suffer you
all to be so deceived; to see your sister---but what could I do? I
had no hope of interfering with success; and sometimes I thought your
sister's influence might yet reclaim him. But now, after such dishonorable
usage, who can tell what were his designs on her. Whatever they may
have been, however, she may now, and hereafter doubtless \textit{will}
turn with gratitude towards her own condition, when she compares it
with that of my poor Eliza, when she considers the wretched and hopeless
situation of this poor girl, and pictures her to herself, with an
affection for him so strong, still as strong as her own, and with
a mind tormented by self-reproach, which must attend her through life.
Surely this comparison must have its use with her. She will feel her
own sufferings to be nothing. They proceed from no misconduct, and
can bring no disgrace. On the contrary, every friend must be made
still more her friend by them. Concern for her unhappiness, and respect
for her fortitude under it, must strengthen every attachment. Use
your own discretion, however, in communicating to her what I have
told you. You must know best what will be its effect; but had I not
seriously, and from my heart believed it might be of service, might
lessen her regrets, I would not have suffered myself to trouble you
with this account of my family afflictions, with a recital which may
seem to have been intended to raise myself at the expense of others.''

Elinor's thanks followed this speech with grateful earnestness; attended
too with the assurance of her expecting material advantage to Marianne,
from the communication of what had passed.

{}``I have been more pained,'' said she, {}``by her endeavors to
acquit him than by all the rest; for it irritates her mind more than
the most perfect conviction of his unworthiness can do. Now, though
at first she will suffer much, I am sure she will soon become easier.
Have you,'' she continued, after a short silence, {}``ever seen
Mr.\ Willoughby since you left him at Barton?''

{}``Yes,'' he replied gravely, {}``once I have. One meeting was
unavoidable.''

Elinor, startled by his manner, looked at him anxiously, saying,

{}``What?\ have you met him to---''

{}``I could meet him no other way. Eliza had confessed to me, though
most reluctantly, the name of her lover; and when he returned to town,
which was within a fortnight after myself, we met by appointment,
he to defend, I to punish his conduct. We returned unwounded, and
the meeting, therefore, never got abroad.''

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

{}``Such,'' said Colonel Brandon, after a pause, {}``has been the
unhappy resemblance between the fate of mother and daughter!\ and
so imperfectly have I discharged my trust!''

{}``Is she still in town?''

{}``No; as soon as she recovered from her lying-in, for I found her
near her delivery, I removed her and her child into the country, and
there she remains.''

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


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER 32}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER 32}

\markboth{SENSE AND SENSIBILITY}{CHAPTER 32}

When the particulars of this conversation were repeated by Miss Dashwood
to her sister, as they very soon were, the effect on her was not entirely
such as the former had hoped to see. Not that Marianne appeared to
distrust the truth of any part of it, for she listened to it all with
the most steady and submissive attention, made neither objection nor
remark, attempted no vindication of Willoughby, and seemed to shew
by her tears that she felt it to be impossible. But though this behaviour
assured Elinor that the conviction of this guilt \textit{was} carried
home to her mind, though she saw with satisfaction the effect of it,
in her no longer avoiding Colonel Brandon when he called, in her speaking
to him, even voluntarily speaking, with a kind of compassionate respect,
and though she saw her spirits less violently irritated than before,
she did not see her less wretched. Her mind did become settled, but
it was settled in a gloomy dejection. She felt the loss of Willoughby's
character yet more heavily than she had felt the loss of his heart;
his seduction and desertion of Miss Williams, the misery of that poor
girl, and the doubt of what his designs might \textit{once} have been
on herself, preyed altogether so much on her spirits, that she could
not bring herself to speak of what she felt even to Elinor; and, brooding
over her sorrows in silence, gave more pain to her sister than could
have been communicated by the most open and most frequent confession
of them.

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

Against the interest of her own individual comfort, Mrs.\ Dashwood
had determined that it would be better for Marianne to be any where,
at that time, than at Barton, where every thing within her view would
be bringing back the past in the strongest and most afflicting manner,
by constantly placing Willoughby before her, such as she had always
seen him there. She recommended it to her daughters, therefore, by
all means not to shorten their visit to Mrs.\ Jennings; the length
of which, though never exactly fixed, had been expected by all to
comprise at least five or six weeks. A variety of occupations, of
objects, and of company, which could not be procured at Barton, would
be inevitable there, and might yet, she hoped, cheat Marianne, at
times, into some interest beyond herself, and even into some amusement,
much as the ideas of both might now be spurned by her.

From all danger of seeing Willoughby again, her mother considered
her to be at least equally safe in town as in the country, since his
acquaintance must now be dropped by all who called themselves her
friends. Design could never bring them in each other's way: negligence
could never leave them exposed to a surprise; and chance had less
in its favour in the crowd of London than even in the retirement of
Barton, where it might force him before her while paying that visit
at Allenham on his marriage, which Mrs.\ Dashwood, from foreseeing
at first as a probable event, had brought herself to expect as a certain
one.

She had yet another reason for wishing her children to remain where
they were; a letter from her son-in-law had told her that he and his
wife were to be in town before the middle of February, and she judged
it right that they should sometimes see their brother.

Marianne had promised to be guided by her mother's opinion, and she
submitted to it therefore without opposition, though it proved perfectly
different from what she wished and expected, though she felt it to
be entirely wrong, formed on mistaken grounds, and that by requiring
her longer continuance in London it deprived her of the only possible
alleviation of her wretchedness, the personal sympathy of her mother,
and doomed her to such society and such scenes as must prevent her
ever knowing a moment's rest.

But it was a matter of great consolation to her, that what brought
evil to herself would bring good to her sister; and Elinor, on the
other hand, suspecting that it would not be in her power to avoid
Edward entirely, comforted herself by thinking, that though their
longer stay would therefore militate against her own happiness, it
would be better for Marianne than an immediate return into Devonshire.

Her carefulness in guarding her sister from ever hearing Willoughby's
name mentioned, was not thrown away. Marianne, though without knowing
it herself, reaped all its advantage; for neither Mrs.\ Jennings,
nor Sir John, nor even Mrs.\ Palmer herself, ever spoke of him before
her. Elinor wished that the same forbearance could have extended towards
herself, but that was impossible, and she was obliged to listen day
after day to the indignation of them all.

Sir John, could not have thought it possible. {}``A man of whom he
had always had such reason to think well! Such a good-natured fellow!
He did not believe there was a bolder rider in England! It was an
unaccountable business. He wished him at the devil with all his heart.
He would not speak another word to him, meet him where he might, for
all the world! No, not if it were to be by the side of Barton covert,
and they were kept watching for two hours together. Such a scoundrel
of a fellow!\ such a deceitful dog! It was only the last time they
met that he had offered him one of Folly's puppies!\ and this was
the end of it!''

Mrs.\ Palmer, in her way, was equally angry. {}``She was determined
to drop his acquaintance immediately, and she was very thankful that
she had never been acquainted with him at all. She wished with all
her heart Combe Magna was not so near Cleveland; but it did not signify,
for it was a great deal too far off to visit; she hated him so much
that she was resolved never to mention his name again, and she should
tell everybody she saw, how good-for-nothing he was.''

The rest of Mrs.\ Palmer's sympathy was shewn in procuring all the
particulars in her power of the approaching marriage, and communicating
them to Elinor. She could soon tell at what coachmaker's the new carriage
was building, by what painter Mr.\ Willoughby's portrait was drawn,
and at what warehouse Miss Grey's clothes might be seen.

The calm and polite unconcern of Lady Middleton on the occasion was
a happy relief to Elinor's spirits, oppressed as they often were by
the clamorous kindness of the others. It was a great comfort to her
to be sure of exciting no interest in \textit{one} person at least
among their circle of friends: a great comfort to know that there
was \textit{one} who would meet her without feeling any curiosity
after particulars, or any anxiety for her sister's health.

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

Lady Middleton expressed her sense of the affair about once every
day, or twice, if the subject occurred very often, by saying, {}``It
is very shocking, indeed!''\ and by the means of this continual
though gentle vent, was able not only to see the Miss Dashwoods from
the first without the smallest emotion, but very soon to see them
without recollecting a word of the matter; and having thus supported
the dignity of her own sex, and spoken her decided censure of what
was wrong in the other, she thought herself at liberty to attend to
the interest of her own assemblies, and therefore determined (though
rather against the opinion of Sir John) that as Mrs.\ Willoughby
would at once be a woman of elegance and fortune, to leave her card
with her as soon as she married.

Colonel Brandon's delicate, unobtrusive enquiries were never unwelcome
to Miss Dashwood. He had abundantly earned the privilege of intimate
discussion of her sister's disappointment, by the friendly zeal with
which he had endeavoured to soften it, and they always conversed with
confidence. His chief reward for the painful exertion of disclosing
past sorrows and present humiliations, was given in the pitying eye
with which Marianne sometimes observed him, and the gentleness of
her voice whenever (though it did not often happen) she was obliged,
or could oblige herself to speak to him. \textit{These} assured him
that his exertion had produced an increase of good-will towards himself,
and \textit{these} gave Elinor hopes of its being farther augmented
hereafter; but Mrs.\ Jennings, who knew nothing of all this, who
knew only that the Colonel continued as grave as ever, and that she
could neither prevail on him to make the offer himself, nor commission
her to make it for him, began, at the end of two days, to think that,
instead of Midsummer, they would not be married till Michaelmas, and
by the end of a week that it would not be a match at all. The good
understanding between the Colonel and Miss Dashwood seemed rather
to declare that the honours of the mulberry-tree, the canal, and the
yew arbour, would all be made over to \textit{her}; and Mrs.\ Jennings
had, for some time ceased to think at all of Mrs.\ Ferrars.

Early in February, within a fortnight from the receipt of Willoughby's
letter, Elinor had the painful office of informing her sister that
he was married. She had taken care to have the intelligence conveyed
to herself, as soon as it was known that the ceremony was over, as
she was desirous that Marianne should not receive the first notice
of it from the public papers, which she saw her eagerly examining
every morning.

She received the news with resolute composure; made no observation
on it, and at first shed no tears; but after a short time they would
burst out, and for the rest of the day, she was in a state hardly
less pitiable than when she first learnt to expect the event.

The Willoughbys left town as soon as they were married; and Elinor
now hoped, as there could be no danger of her seeing either of them,
to prevail on her sister, who had never yet left the house since the
blow first fell, to go out again by degrees as she had done before.

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

Elinor only was sorry to see them. Their presence always gave her
pain, and she hardly knew how to make a very gracious return to the
overpowering delight of Lucy in finding her \textit{still} in town.

{}``I should have been quite disappointed if I had not found you
here \textit{still},'' said she repeatedly, with a strong emphasis
on the word. {}``But I always thought I \textit{should}. I was almost
sure you would not leave London yet awhile; though you \textit{told}
me, you know, at Barton, that you should not stay above a \textit{month}.
But I thought, at the time, that you would most likely change your
mind when it came to the point. It would have been such a great pity
to have went away before your brother and sister came. And now to
be sure you will be in no hurry to be gone. I am amazingly glad you
did not keep to \textit{your} \textit{word}.''

Elinor perfectly understood her, and was forced to use all her self-command
to make it appear that she did \textit{not}.

{}``Well, my dear,'' said Mrs.\ Jennings, {}``and how did you
travel?''

{}``Not in the stage, I assure you,'' replied Miss Steele, with
quick exultation; {}``we came post all the way, and had a very smart
\emph{beau} to attend us. Dr.\ Davies was coming to town, and so
we thought we'd join him in a post-chaise; and he behaved very genteelly,
and paid ten or twelve shillings more than we did.''

{}``Oh, oh!''\ cried Mrs.\ Jennings; {}``very pretty, indeed!\ and
the Doctor is a single man, I warrant you.''

{}``There now,'' said Miss Steele, affectedly simpering, {}``everybody
laughs at me so about the Doctor, and I cannot think why. My cousins
say they are sure I have made a conquest; but for my part I declare
I never think about him from one hour's end to another. `Lord!\ here
comes your \emph{beau}, Nancy,' my cousin said t'other day, when she
saw him crossing the street to the house. My \emph{beau}, indeed!\ said
I---I cannot think who you mean. The Doctor is no \emph{beau} of mine.''

{}``Aye, aye, that is very pretty talking---but it won't do---the
Doctor is the man, I see.''

{}``No, indeed!''\ replied her cousin, with affected earnestness,
{}``and I beg you will contradict it, if you ever hear it talked
of.''

Mrs.\ Jennings directly gave her the gratifying assurance that she
certainly would \textit{not}, and Miss Steele was made completely
happy.

{}``I suppose you will go and stay with your brother and sister,
Miss Dashwood, when they come to town,'' said Lucy, returning, after
a cessation of hostile hints, to the charge.

{}``No, I do not think we shall.''

{}``Oh, yes, I dare say you will.''

Elinor would not humour her by farther opposition.

{}``What a charming thing it is that Mrs.\ Dashwood can spare you
both for so long a time together!''

{}``Long a time, indeed!''\ interposed Mrs.\ Jennings. {}``Why,
their visit is but just begun!''

Lucy was silenced.

{}``I am sorry we cannot see your sister, Miss Dashwood,'' said
Miss Steele. {}``I am sorry she is not well---'' for Marianne had
left the room on their arrival.

{}``You are very good. My sister will be equally sorry to miss the
pleasure of seeing you; but she has been very much plagued lately
with nervous head-aches, which make her unfit for company or conversation.''

{}``Oh, dear, that is a great pity!\ but such old friends as Lucy
and me!---I think she might see \textit{us}; and I am sure we would
not speak a word.''

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

{}``Oh, if that's all,'' cried Miss Steele, {}``we can just as
well go and see \textit{her}.''

Elinor began to find this impertinence too much for her temper; but
she was saved the trouble of checking it, by Lucy's sharp reprimand,
which now, as on many occasions, though it did not give much sweetness
to the manners of one sister, was of advantage in governing those
of the other.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER 33}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER 33}

\markboth{SENSE AND SENSIBILITY}{CHAPTER 33}

After some opposition, Marianne yielded to her sister's entreaties,
and consented to go out with her and Mrs.\ Jennings one morning for
half an hour. She expressly conditioned, however, for paying no visits,
and would do no more than accompany them to Gray's in Sackville Street,
where Elinor was carrying on a negotiation for the exchange of a few
old-fashioned jewels of her mother.

When they stopped at the door, Mrs.\ Jennings recollected that there
was a lady at the other end of the street on whom she ought to call;
and as she had no business at Gray's, it was resolved, that while
her young friends transacted their's, she should pay her visit and
return for them.

On ascending the stairs, the Miss Dashwoods found so many people before
them in the room, that there was not a person at liberty to tend to
their orders; and they were obliged to wait. All that could be done
was, to sit down at that end of the counter which seemed to promise
the quickest succession; one gentleman only was standing there, and
it is probable that Elinor was not without hope of exciting his politeness
to a quicker despatch. But the correctness of his eye, and the delicacy
of his taste, proved to be beyond his politeness. He was giving orders
for a toothpick-case for himself, and till its size, shape, and ornaments
were determined, all of which, after examining and debating for a
quarter of an hour over every toothpick-case in the shop, were finally
arranged by his own inventive fancy, he had no leisure to bestow any
other attention on the two ladies, than what was comprised in three
or four very broad stares; a kind of notice which served to imprint
on Elinor the remembrance of a person and face, of strong, natural,
sterling insignificance, though adorned in the first style of fashion.

Marianne was spared from the troublesome feelings of contempt and
resentment, on this impertinent examination of their features, and
on the puppyism of his manner in deciding on all the different horrors
of the different toothpick-cases presented to his inspection, by remaining
unconscious of it all; for she was as well able to collect her thoughts
within herself, and be as ignorant of what was passing around her,
in Mr.\ Gray's shop, as in her own bedroom.

At last the affair was decided. The ivory, the gold, and the pearls,
all received their appointment, and the gentleman having named the
last day on which his existence could be continued without the possession
of the toothpick-case, drew on his gloves with leisurely care, and
bestowing another glance on the Miss Dashwoods, but such a one as
seemed rather to demand than express admiration, walked off with a
happy air of real conceit and affected indifference.

Elinor lost no time in bringing her business forward, was on the point
of concluding it, when another gentleman presented himself at her
side. She turned her eyes towards his face, and found him with some
surprise to be her brother.

Their affection and pleasure in meeting was just enough to make a
very creditable appearance in Mr.\ Gray's shop. John Dashwood was
really far from being sorry to see his sisters again; it rather gave
them satisfaction; and his inquiries after their mother were respectful
and attentive.

Elinor found that he and Fanny had been in town two days.

{}``I wished very much to call upon you yesterday,'' said he, {}``but
it was impossible, for we were obliged to take Harry to see the wild
beasts at Exeter Exchange; and we spent the rest of the day with Mrs.\ Ferrars.
Harry was vastly pleased. \textit{This} morning I had fully intended
to call on you, if I could possibly find a spare half hour, but one
has always so much to do on first coming to town. I am come here to
bespeak Fanny a seal. But tomorrow I think I shall certainly be able
to call in Berkeley Street, and be introduced to your friend Mrs.\ Jennings.
I understand she is a woman of very good fortune. And the Middletons
too, you must introduce me to \textit{them}. As my mother-in-law's
relations, I shall be happy to show them every respect. They are excellent
neighbours to you in the country, I understand.''

{}``Excellent indeed. Their attention to our comfort, their friendliness
in every particular, is more than I can express.''

{}``I am extremely glad to hear it, upon my word; extremely glad
indeed. But so it ought to be; they are people of large fortune, they
are related to you, and every civility and accommodation that can
serve to make your situation pleasant might be reasonably expected.
And so you are most comfortably settled in your little cottage and
want for nothing! Edward brought us a most charming account of the
place: the most complete thing of its kind, he said, that ever was,
and you all seemed to enjoy it beyond any thing. It was a great satisfaction
to us to hear it, I assure you.''

Elinor did feel a little ashamed of her brother; and was not sorry
to be spared the necessity of answering him, by the arrival of Mrs.\ Jennings's
servant, who came to tell her that his mistress waited for them at
the door.

Mr.\ Dashwood attended them down stairs, was introduced to Mrs.\ Jennings
at the door of her carriage, and repeating his hope of being able
to call on them the next day, took leave.

His visit was duly paid. He came with a pretence at an apology from
their sister-in-law, for not coming too; {}``but she was so much
engaged with her mother, that really she had no leisure for going
any where.'' Mrs.\ Jennings, however, assured him directly, that
she should not stand upon ceremony, for they were all cousins, or
something like it, and she should certainly wait on Mrs.\ John Dashwood
very soon, and bring her sisters to see her. His manners to \textit{them},
though calm, were perfectly kind; to Mrs.\ Jennings, most attentively
civil; and on Colonel Brandon's coming in soon after himself, he eyed
him with a curiosity which seemed to say, that he only wanted to know
him to be rich, to be equally civil to \textit{him}.

After staying with them half an hour, he asked Elinor to walk with
him to Conduit Street, and introduce him to Sir John and Lady Middleton.
The weather was remarkably fine, and she readily consented. As soon
as they were out of the house, his enquiries began.

{}``Who is Colonel Brandon? Is he a man of fortune?''

{}``Yes; he has very good property in Dorsetshire.''

{}``I am glad of it. He seems a most gentlemanlike man; and I think,
Elinor, I may congratulate you on the prospect of a very respectable
establishment in life.''

{}``Me, brother!\ what do you mean?''

{}``He likes you. I observed him narrowly, and am convinced of it.
What is the amount of his fortune?''

{}``I believe about two thousand a year.''

{}``Two thousand a-year;'' and then working himself up to a pitch
of enthusiastic generosity, he added, {}``Elinor, I wish with all
my heart it were \textit{twice} as much, for your sake.''

{}``Indeed I believe you,'' replied Elinor; {}``but I am very sure
that Colonel Brandon has not the smallest wish of marrying \textit{me}.''

{}``You are mistaken, Elinor; you are very much mistaken. A very
little trouble on your side secures him. Perhaps just at present he
may be undecided; the smallness of your fortune may make him hang
back; his friends may all advise him against it. But some of those
little attentions and encouragements which ladies can so easily give
will fix him, in spite of himself. And there can be no reason why
you should not try for him. It is not to be supposed that any prior
attachment on your side---in short, you know as to an attachment of
that kind, it is quite out of the question, the objections are insurmountable---you
have too much sense not to see all that. Colonel Brandon must be the
man; and no civility shall be wanting on my part to make him pleased
with you and your family. It is a match that must give universal satisfaction.
In short, it is a kind of thing that''---lowering his voice to an
important whisper---{}``will be exceedingly welcome to \textit{all}
\textit{parties}.'' Recollecting himself, however, he added, {}``That
is, I mean to say---your friends are all truly anxious to see you
well settled; Fanny particularly, for she has your interest very much
at heart, I assure you. And her mother too, Mrs.\ Ferrars, a very
good-natured woman, I am sure it would give her great pleasure; she
said as much the other day.''

Elinor would not vouchsafe any answer.

{}``It would be something remarkable, now,'' he continued, {}``something
droll, if Fanny should have a brother and I a sister settling at the
same time. And yet it is not very unlikely.''

{}``Is Mr.\ Edward Ferrars,'' said Elinor, with resolution, {}``going
to be married?''

{}``It is not actually settled, but there is such a thing in agitation.
He has a most excellent mother. Mrs.\ Ferrars, with the utmost liberality,
will come forward, and settle on him a thousand a year, if the match
takes place. The lady is the Hon.\ Miss Morton, only daughter of
the late Lord Morton, with thirty thousand pounds. A very desirable
connection on both sides, and I have not a doubt of its taking place
in time. A thousand a-year is a great deal for a mother to give away,
to make over for ever; but Mrs.\ Ferrars has a noble spirit. To give
you another instance of her liberality:---The other day, as soon as
we came to town, aware that money could not be very plenty with us
just now, she put bank-notes into Fanny's hands to the amount of two
hundred pounds. And extremely acceptable it is, for we must live at
a great expense while we are here.''

He paused for her assent and compassion; and she forced herself to
say,

{}``Your expenses both in town and country must certainly be considerable;
but your income is a large one.''

{}``Not so large, I dare say, as many people suppose. I do not mean
to complain, however; it is undoubtedly a comfortable one, and I hope
will in time be better. The enclosure of Norland Common, now carrying
on, is a most serious drain. And then I have made a little purchase
within this half year; East Kingham Farm, you must remember the place,
where old Gibson used to live. The land was so very desirable for
me in every respect, so immediately adjoining my own property, that
I felt it my duty to buy it. I could not have answered it to my conscience
to let it fall into any other hands. A man must pay for his convenience;
and it \textit{has} cost me a vast deal of money.''

{}``More than you think it really and intrinsically worth.''

{}``Why, I hope not that. I might have sold it again, the next day,
for more than I gave: but, with regard to the purchase-money, I might
have been very unfortunate indeed; for the stocks were at that time
so low, that if I had not happened to have the necessary sum in my
banker's hands, I must have sold out to very great loss.''

Elinor could only smile.

{}``Other great and inevitable expenses too we have had on first
coming to Norland. Our respected father, as you well know, bequeathed
all the Stanhill effects that remained at Norland (and very valuable
they were) to your mother. Far be it from me to repine at his doing
so; he had an undoubted right to dispose of his own property as he
chose, but, in consequence of it, we have been obliged to make large
purchases of linen, china, \&c., to supply the place of what was taken
away. You may guess, after all these expenses, how very far we must
be from being rich, and how acceptable Mrs.\ Ferrars's kindness is.''

{}``Certainly,'' said Elinor; {}``and assisted by her liberality,
I hope you may yet live to be in easy circumstances.''

{}``Another year or two may do much towards it,'' he gravely replied;
{}``but however there is still a great deal to be done. There is
not a stone laid of Fanny's green-house, and nothing but the plan
of the flower-garden marked out.''

{}``Where is the green-house to be?''

{}``Upon the knoll behind the house. The old walnut trees are all
come down to make room for it. It will be a very fine object from
many parts of the park, and the flower-garden will slope down just
before it, and be exceedingly pretty. We have cleared away all the
old thorns that grew in patches over the brow.''

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

Having now said enough to make his poverty clear, and to do away the
necessity of buying a pair of ear-rings for each of his sisters, in
his next visit at Gray's, his thoughts took a cheerfuller turn, and
he began to congratulate Elinor on having such a friend as Mrs.\ Jennings.

{}``She seems a most valuable woman indeed---Her house, her style
of living, all bespeak an exceeding good income; and it is an acquaintance
that has not only been of great use to you hitherto, but in the end
may prove materially advantageous.---Her inviting you to town is certainly
a vast thing in your favour; and indeed, it speaks altogether so great
a regard for you, that in all probability when she dies you will not
be forgotten.---She must have a great deal to leave.''

{}``Nothing at all, I should rather suppose; for she has only her
jointure, which will descend to her children.''

{}``But it is not to be imagined that she lives up to her income.
Few people of common prudence will do \textit{that}; and whatever
she saves, she will be able to dispose of.''

{}``And do you not think it more likely that she should leave it
to her daughters, than to us?''

{}``Her daughters are both exceedingly well married, and therefore
I cannot perceive the necessity of her remembering them farther. Whereas,
in my opinion, by her taking so much notice of you, and treating you
in this kind of way, she has given you a sort of claim on her future
consideration, which a conscientious woman would not disregard. Nothing
can be kinder than her behaviour; and she can hardly do all this,
without being aware of the expectation it raises.''

{}``But she raises none in those most concerned. Indeed, brother,
your anxiety for our welfare and prosperity carries you too far.''

{}``Why, to be sure,'' said he, seeming to recollect himself, {}``people
have little, have very little in their power. But, my dear Elinor,
what is the matter with Marianne?---she looks very unwell, has lost
her colour, and is grown quite thin. Is she ill?''

{}``She is not well, she has had a nervous complaint on her for several
weeks.''

{}``I am sorry for that. At her time of life, any thing of an illness
destroys the bloom for ever! Her's has been a very short one! She
was as handsome a girl last September, as I ever saw; and as likely
to attract the man. There was something in her style of beauty, to
please them particularly. I remember Fanny used to say that she would
marry sooner and better than you did; not but what she is exceedingly
fond of \textit{you}, but so it happened to strike her. She will be
mistaken, however. I question whether Marianne \textit{now}, will
marry a man worth more than five or six hundred a-year, at the utmost,
and I am very much deceived if \textit{you} do not do better. Dorsetshire!
I know very little of Dorsetshire; but, my dear Elinor, I shall be
exceedingly glad to know more of it; and I think I can answer for
your having Fanny and myself among the earliest and best pleased of
your visitors.''

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

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

{}``I shall have a charming account to carry to Fanny,'' said he,
as he walked back with his sister. {}``Lady Middleton is really a
most elegant woman! Such a woman as I am sure Fanny will be glad to
know. And Mrs.\ Jennings too, an exceedingly well-behaved woman,
though not so elegant as her daughter. Your sister need not have any
scruple even of visiting \textit{her}, which, to say the truth, has
been a little the case, and very naturally; for we only knew that
Mrs.\ Jennings was the widow of a man who had got all his money in
a low way; and Fanny and Mrs.\ Ferrars were both strongly prepossessed,
that neither she nor her daughters were such kind of women as Fanny
would like to associate with. But now I can carry her a most satisfactory
account of both.''


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER 34}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER 34}

\markboth{SENSE AND SENSIBILITY}{CHAPTER 34}

Mrs.\ John Dashwood had so much confidence in her husband's judgment,
that she waited the very next day both on Mrs.\ Jennings and her
daughter; and her confidence was rewarded by finding even the former,
even the woman with whom her sisters were staying, by no means unworthy
her notice; and as for Lady Middleton, she found her one of the most
charming women in the world!

Lady Middleton was equally pleased with Mrs.\ Dashwood. There was
a kind of cold hearted selfishness on both sides, which mutually attracted
them; and they sympathised with each other in an insipid propriety
of demeanor, and a general want of understanding.

The same manners, however, which recommended Mrs.\ John Dashwood
to the good opinion of Lady Middleton did not suit the fancy of Mrs.\ Jennings,
and to \textit{her} she appeared nothing more than a little proud-looking
woman of uncordial address, who met her husband's sisters without
any affection, and almost without having anything to say to them;
for of the quarter of an hour bestowed on Berkeley Street, she sat
at least seven minutes and a half in silence.

Elinor wanted very much to know, though she did not chuse to ask,
whether Edward was then in town; but nothing would have induced Fanny
voluntarily to mention his name before her, till able to tell her
that his marriage with Miss Morton was resolved on, or till her husband's
expectations on Colonel Brandon were answered; because she believed
them still so very much attached to each other, that they could not
be too sedulously divided in word and deed on every occasion. The
intelligence however, which \textit{she} would not give, soon flowed
from another quarter. Lucy came very shortly to claim Elinor's compassion
on being unable to see Edward, though he had arrived in town with
Mr.\ and Mrs.\ Dashwood. He dared not come to Bartlett's Buildings
for fear of detection, and though their mutual impatience to meet,
was not to be told, they could do nothing at present but write.

Edward assured them himself of his being in town, within a very short
time, by twice calling in Berkeley Street. Twice was his card found
on the table, when they returned from their morning's engagements.
Elinor was pleased that he had called; and still more pleased that
she had missed him.

The Dashwoods were so prodigiously delighted with the Middletons,
that, though not much in the habit of giving anything, they determined
to give them---a dinner; and soon after their acquaintance began,
invited them to dine in Harley Street, where they had taken a very
good house for three months. Their sisters and Mrs.\ Jennings were
invited likewise, and John Dashwood was careful to secure Colonel
Brandon, who, always glad to be where the Miss Dashwoods were, received
his eager civilities with some surprise, but much more pleasure. They
were to meet Mrs.\ Ferrars; but Elinor could not learn whether her
sons were to be of the party. The expectation of seeing \textit{her},
however, was enough to make her interested in the engagement; for
though she could now meet Edward's mother without that strong anxiety
which had once promised to attend such an introduction, though she
could now see her with perfect indifference as to her opinion of herself,
her desire of being in company with Mrs.\ Ferrars, her curiosity
to know what she was like, was as lively as ever.

The interest with which she thus anticipated the party, was soon afterwards
increased, more powerfully than pleasantly, by her hearing that the
Miss Steeles were also to be at it.

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

Their claims to the notice of Mrs.\ John Dashwood, as the nieces
of the gentleman who for many years had had the care of her brother,
might not have done much, however, towards procuring them seats at
her table; but as Lady Middleton's guests they must be welcome; and
Lucy, who had long wanted to be personally known to the family, to
have a nearer view of their characters and her own difficulties, and
to have an opportunity of endeavouring to please them, had seldom
been happier in her life, than she was on receiving Mrs.\ John Dashwood's
card.

On Elinor its effect was very different. She began immediately to
determine, that Edward who lived with his mother, must be asked as
his mother was, to a party given by his sister; and to see him for
the first time, after all that passed, in the company of Lucy!---she
hardly knew how she could bear it!

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

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

{}``Pity me, dear Miss Dashwood!''\ said Lucy, as they walked up
the stairs together---for the Middletons arrived so directly after
Mrs.\ Jennings, that they all followed the servant at the same time---{}``There
is nobody here but you, that can feel for me.---I declare I can hardly
stand. Good gracious!---In a moment I shall see the person that all
my happiness depends on---that is to be my mother!''---

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

Mrs.\ Ferrars was a little, thin woman, upright, even to formality,
in her figure, and serious, even to sourness, in her aspect. Her complexion
was sallow; and her features small, without beauty, and naturally
without expression; but a lucky contraction of the brow had rescued
her countenance from the disgrace of insipidity, by giving it the
strong characters of pride and ill nature. She was not a woman of
many words; for, unlike people in general, she proportioned them to
the number of her ideas; and of the few syllables that did escape
her, not one fell to the share of Miss Dashwood, whom she eyed with
the spirited determination of disliking her at all events.

Elinor could not \textit{now} be made unhappy by this behaviour.---A
few months ago it would have hurt her exceedingly; but it was not
in Mrs.\ Ferrars' power to distress her by it now;---and the difference
of her manners to the Miss Steeles, a difference which seemed purposely
made to humble her more, only amused her. She could not but smile
to see the graciousness of both mother and daughter towards the very
person---for Lucy was particularly distinguished---whom of all others,
had they known as much as she did, they would have been most anxious
to mortify; while she herself, who had comparatively no power to wound
them, sat pointedly slighted by both. But while she smiled at a graciousness
so misapplied, she could not reflect on the mean-spirited folly from
which it sprung, nor observe the studied attentions with which the
Miss Steeles courted its continuance, without thoroughly despising
them all four.

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

The dinner was a grand one, the servants were numerous, and every
thing bespoke the Mistress's inclination for show, and the Master's
ability to support it. In spite of the improvements and additions
which were making to the Norland estate, and in spite of its owner
having once been within some thousand pounds of being obliged to sell
out at a loss, nothing gave any symptom of that indigence which he
had tried to infer from it;---no poverty of any kind, except of conversation,
appeared---but there, the deficiency was considerable. John Dashwood
had not much to say for himself that was worth hearing, and his wife
had still less. But there was no peculiar disgrace in this; for it
was very much the case with the chief of their visitors, who almost
all laboured under one or other of these disqualifications for being
agreeable---Want of sense, either natural or improved---want of elegance---want
of spirits---or want of temper.

When the ladies withdrew to the drawing-room after dinner, this poverty
was particularly evident, for the gentlemen \textit{had} supplied
the discourse with some variety---the variety of politics, inclosing
land, and breaking horses---but then it was all over; and one subject
only engaged the ladies till coffee came in, which was the comparative
heights of Harry Dashwood, and Lady Middleton's second son William,
who were nearly of the same age.

Had both the children been there, the affair might have been determined
too easily by measuring them at once; but as Harry only was present,
it was all conjectural assertion on both sides; and every body had
a right to be equally positive in their opinion, and to repeat it
over and over again as often as they liked.

The parties stood thus:

The two mothers, though each really convinced that her own son was
the tallest, politely decided in favour of the other.

The two grandmothers, with not less partiality, but more sincerity,
were equally earnest in support of their own descendant.

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

Elinor, having once delivered her opinion on William's side, by which
she offended Mrs.\ Ferrars and Fanny still more, did not see the
necessity of enforcing it by any farther assertion; and Marianne,
when called on for her's, offended them all, by declaring that she
had no opinion to give, as she had never thought about it.

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

{}``These are done by my eldest sister,'' said he; {}``and you,
as a man of taste, will, I dare say, be pleased with them. I do not
know whether you have ever happened to see any of her performances
before, but she is in general reckoned to draw extremely well.''

The Colonel, though disclaiming all pretensions to connoisseurship,
warmly admired the screens, as he would have done any thing painted
by Miss Dashwood; and on the curiosity of the others being of course
excited, they were handed round for general inspection. Mrs.\ Ferrars,
not aware of their being Elinor's work, particularly requested to
look at them; and after they had received gratifying testimony of
Lady Middletons's approbation, Fanny presented them to her mother,
considerately informing her, at the same time, that they were done
by Miss Dashwood.

{}``Hum''---said Mrs.\ Ferrars---{}``very pret\-ty,''---and
without regarding them at all, returned them to her daughter.

Perhaps Fanny thought for a moment that her mother had been quite
rude enough,---for, colouring a little, she immediately said,

{}``They are very pretty, ma'am---an't they?'' But then again, the
dread of having been too civil, too encouraging herself, probably
came over her, for she presently added,

{}``Do you not think they are something in Miss Morton's style of
painting, Ma'am?---She \textit{does} paint most delightfully!---How
beautifully her last landscape is done!''

{}``Beautifully indeed! But \textit{she} does every thing well.''

Marianne could not bear this.---She was already greatly displeased
with Mrs.\ Ferrars; and such ill-timed praise of another, at Elinor's
expense, though she had not any notion of what was principally meant
by it, provoked her immediately to say with warmth,

{}``This is admiration of a very particular kind!---what is Miss
Morton to us?---who knows, or who cares, for her?---it is Elinor of
whom \textit{we} think and speak.''

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

Mrs.\ Ferrars looked exceedingly angry, and drawing herself up more
stiffly than ever, pronounced in retort this bitter philippic, {}``Miss
Morton is Lord Morton's daughter.''

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

Marianne's feelings did not stop here. The cold insolence of Mrs.\ Ferrars's
general behaviour to her sister, seemed, to her, to foretell such
difficulties and distresses to Elinor, as her own wounded heart taught
her to think of with horror; and urged by a strong impulse of affectionate
sensibility, she moved after a moment, to her sister's chair, and
putting one arm round her neck, and one cheek close to hers, said
in a low, but eager, voice,

{}``Dear, dear Elinor, don't mind them. Don't let them make \textit{you}
unhappy.''

She could say no more; her spirits were quite overcome, and hiding
her face on Elinor's shoulder, she burst into tears. Every body's
attention was called, and almost every body was concerned.---Colonel
Brandon rose up and went to them without knowing what he did.---Mrs.\ Jennings,
with a very intelligent {}``Ah!\ poor dear,'' immediately gave
her her salts; and Sir John felt so desperately enraged against the
author of this nervous distress, that he instantly changed his seat
to one close by Lucy Steele, and gave her, in a whisper, a brief account
of the whole shocking affair.

In a few minutes, however, Marianne was recovered enough to put an
end to the bustle, and sit down among the rest; though her spirits
retained the impression of what had passed, the whole evening.

{}``Poor Marianne!''\ said her brother to Colonel Brandon, in a
low voice, as soon as he could secure his attention,---{}``She has
not such good health as her sister,---she is very nervous,---she has
not Elinor's constitution;---and one must allow that there is something
very trying to a young woman who \textit{has} \textit{been} a beauty
in the loss of her personal attractions. You would not think it perhaps,
but Marianne \textit{was} remarkably handsome a few months ago; quite
as handsome as Elinor.---Now you see it is all gone.''


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER 35}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER 35}

\markboth{SENSE AND SENSIBILITY}{CHAPTER 35}

Elinor's curiosity to see Mrs.\ Ferrars was satisfied.---She had
found in her every thing that could tend to make a farther connection
between the families undesirable.---She had seen enough of her pride,
her meanness, and her determined prejudice against herself, to comprehend
all the difficulties that must have perplexed the engagement, and
retarded the marriage, of Edward and herself, had he been otherwise
free;---and she had seen almost enough to be thankful for her \textit{own}
sake, that one greater obstacle preserved her from suffering under
any other of Mrs.\ Ferrars's creation, preserved her from all dependence
upon her caprice, or any solicitude for her good opinion. Or at least,
if she did not bring herself quite to rejoice in Edward's being fettered
to Lucy, she determined, that had Lucy been more amiable, she \textit{ought}
to have rejoiced.

She wondered that Lucy's spirits could be so very much elevated by
the civility of Mrs.\ Ferrars;---that her interest and her vanity
should so very much blind her as to make the attention which seemed
only paid her because she was \textit{not} \textit{Elinor}, appear
a compliment to herself---or to allow her to derive encouragement
from a preference only given her, because her real situation was unknown.
But that it was so, had not only been declared by Lucy's eyes at the
time, but was declared over again the next morning more openly, for
at her particular desire, Lady Middleton set her down in Berkeley
Street on the chance of seeing Elinor alone, to tell her how happy
she was.

The chance proved a lucky one, for a message from Mrs.\ Palmer soon
after she arrived, carried Mrs.\ Jennings away.

{}``My dear friend,'' cried Lucy, as soon as they were by themselves,
{}``I come to talk to you of my happiness. Could anything be so flattering
as Mrs.\ Ferrars's way of treating me yesterday? So exceeding affable
as she was!---You know how I dreaded the thoughts of seeing her;---but
the very moment I was introduced, there was such an affability in
her behaviour as really should seem to say, she had quite took a fancy
to me. Now was not it so?---You saw it all; and was not you quite
struck with it?''

{}``She was certainly very civil to you.''

{}``Civil!---Did you see nothing but only civility?---I saw a vast
deal more. Such kindness as fell to the share of nobody but me!---No
pride, no \emph{hauteur}, and your sister just the same---all sweetness
and affability!''

Elinor wished to talk of something else, but Lucy still pressed her
to own that she had reason for her happiness; and Elinor was obliged
to go on.---

{}``Undoubtedly, if they had known your engagement,'' said she,
{}``nothing could be more flattering than their treatment of you;---but
as that was not the case''---

{}``I guessed you would say so''---replied Lucy quickly---{}``but
there was no reason in the world why Mrs.\ Ferrars should seem to
like me, if she did not, and her liking me is every thing. You shan't
talk me out of my satisfaction. I am sure it will all end well, and
there will be no difficulties at all, to what I used to think. Mrs.\ Ferrars
is a charming woman, and so is your sister. They are both delightful
women, indeed!---I wonder I should never hear you say how agreeable
Mrs.\ Dashwood was!''

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

{}``Are you ill, Miss Dashwood?---you seem low---you don't speak;---sure
you an't well.''

{}``I never was in better health.''

{}``I am glad of it with all my heart; but really you did not look
it. I should be sorry to have \textit{you} ill; you, that have been
the greatest comfort to me in the world!---Heaven knows what I should
have done without your friendship.''---

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

{}``Indeed I am perfectly convinced of your regard for me, and next
to Edward's love, it is the greatest comfort I have.---Poor Edward!---But
now there is one good thing, we shall be able to meet, and meet pretty
often, for Lady Middleton's delighted with Mrs.\ Dashwood, so we
shall be a good deal in Harley Street, I dare say, and Edward spends
half his time with his sister---besides, Lady Middleton and Mrs.\ Ferrars
will visit now;---and Mrs.\ Ferrars and your sister were both so
good to say more than once, they should always be glad to see me.---They
are such charming women!---I am sure if ever you tell your sister
what I think of her, you cannot speak too high.''

But Elinor would not give her any encouragement to hope that she \textit{should}
tell her sister. Lucy continued.

{}``I am sure I should have seen it in a moment, if Mrs.\ Ferrars
had took a dislike to me. If she had only made me a formal courtesy,
for instance, without saying a word, and never after had took any
notice of me, and never looked at me in a pleasant way---you know
what I mean---if I had been treated in that forbidding sort of way,
I should have gave it all up in despair. I could not have stood it.
For where she \textit{does} dislike, I know it is most violent.''

Elinor was prevented from making any reply to this civil triumph,
by the door's being thrown open, the servant's announcing Mr.\ Ferrars,
and Edward's immediately walking in.

It was a very awkward moment; and the countenance of each shewed that
it was so. They all looked exceedingly foolish; and Edward seemed
to have as great an inclination to walk out of the room again, as
to advance farther into it. The very circumstance, in its unpleasantest
form, which they would each have been most anxious to avoid, had fallen
on them.---They were not only all three together, but were together
without the relief of any other person. The ladies recovered themselves
first. It was not Lucy's business to put herself forward, and the
appearance of secrecy must still be kept up. She could therefore only
\textit{look} her tenderness, and after slightly addressing him, said
no more.

But Elinor had more to do; and so anxious was she, for his sake and
her own, to do it well, that she forced herself, after a moment's
recollection, to welcome him, with a look and manner that were almost
easy, and almost open; and another struggle, another effort still
improved them. She would not allow the presence of Lucy, nor the consciousness
of some injustice towards herself, to deter her from saying that she
was happy to see him, and that she had very much regretted being from
home, when he called before in Berkeley Street. She would not be frightened
from paying him those attentions which, as a friend and almost a relation,
were his due, by the observant eyes of Lucy, though she soon perceived
them to be narrowly watching her.

Her manners gave some re-assurance to Edward, and he had courage enough
to sit down; but his embarrassment still exceeded that of the ladies
in a proportion, which the case rendered reasonable, though his sex
might make it rare; for his heart had not the indifference of Lucy's,
nor could his conscience have quite the ease of Elinor's.

Lucy, with a demure and settled air, seemed determined to make no
contribution to the comfort of the others, and would not say a word;
and almost every thing that \textit{was} said, proceeded from Elinor,
who was obliged to volunteer all the information about her mother's
health, their coming to town, \&c., which Edward ought to have inquired
about, but never did.

Her exertions did not stop here; for she soon afterwards felt herself
so heroically disposed as to determine, under pretence of fetching
Marianne, to leave the others by themselves; and she really did it,
and \textit{that} in the handsomest manner, for she loitered away
several minutes on the landing-place, with the most high-minded fortitude,
before she went to her sister. When that was once done, however, it
was time for the raptures of Edward to cease; for Marianne's joy hurried
her into the drawing-room immediately. Her pleasure in seeing him
was like every other of her feelings, strong in itself, and strongly
spoken. She met him with a hand that would be taken, and a voice that
expressed the affection of a sister.

{}``Dear Edward!''\ she cried, {}``this is a moment of great happiness!---This
would almost make amends for every thing?''

Edward tried to return her kindness as it deserved, but before such
witnesses he dared not say half what he really felt. Again they all
sat down, and for a moment or two all were silent; while Marianne
was looking with the most speaking tenderness, sometimes at Edward
and sometimes at Elinor, regretting only that their delight in each
other should be checked by Lucy's unwelcome presence. Edward was the
first to speak, and it was to notice Marianne's altered looks, and
express his fear of her not finding London agree with her.

{}``Oh, don't think of me!''\ she replied with spirited earnestness,
though her eyes were filled with tears as she spoke, {}``don't think
of \textit{my} health. Elinor is well, you see. That must be enough
for us both.''

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

{}``Do you like London?''\ said Edward, willing to say any thing
that might introduce another subject.

{}``Not at all. I expected much pleasure in it, but I have found
none. The sight of you, Edward, is the only comfort it has afforded;
and thank Heaven!\ you are what you always were!''

She paused---no one spoke.

{}``I think, Elinor,'' she presently added, {}``we must employ
Edward to take care of us in our return to Barton. In a week or two,
I suppose, we shall be going; and, I trust, Edward will not be very
unwilling to accept the charge.''

Poor Edward muttered something, but what it was, nobody knew, not
even himself. But Marianne, who saw his agitation, and could easily
trace it to whatever cause best pleased herself, was perfectly satisfied,
and soon talked of something else.

{}``We spent such a day, Edward, in Harley Street yesterday! So dull,
so wretchedly dull!---But I have much to say to you on that head,
which cannot be said now.''

And with this admirable discretion did she defer the assurance of
her finding their mutual relatives more disagreeable than ever, and
of her being particularly disgusted with his mother, till they were
more in private.

{}``But why were you not there, Edward?---Why did you not come?''

{}``I was engaged elsewhere.''

{}``Engaged! But what was that, when such friends were to be met?''

{}``Perhaps, Miss Marianne,'' cried Lucy, eager to take some revenge
on her, {}``you think young men never stand upon engagements, if
they have no mind to keep them, little as well as great.''

Elinor was very angry, but Marianne seemed entirely insensible of
the sting; for she calmly replied,

{}``Not so, indeed; for, seriously speaking, I am very sure that
conscience only kept Edward from Harley Street. And I really believe
he \textit{has} the most delicate conscience in the world; the most
scrupulous in performing every engagement, however minute, and however
it may make against his interest or pleasure. He is the most fearful
of giving pain, of wounding expectation, and the most incapable of
being selfish, of any body I ever saw. Edward, it is so, and I will
say it. What!\ are you never to hear yourself praised!---Then you
must be no friend of mine; for those who will accept of my love and
esteem, must submit to my open commendation.''

The nature of her commendation, in the present case, however, happened
to be particularly ill-suited to the feelings of two thirds of her
auditors, and was so very unexhilarating to Edward, that he very soon
got up to go away.

{}``Going so soon!''\ said Marianne; {}``my dear Edward, this
must not be.''

And drawing him a little aside, she whispered her persuasion that
Lucy could not stay much longer. But even this encouragement failed,
for he would go; and Lucy, who would have outstaid him, had his visit
lasted two hours, soon afterwards went away.

{}``What can bring her here so often?''\ said Marianne, on her
leaving them. {}``Could not she see that we wanted her gone!---how
teazing to Edward!''

{}``Why so?---we were all his friends, and Lucy has been the longest
known to him of any. It is but natural that he should like to see
her as well as ourselves.''

Marianne looked at her steadily, and said, {}``You know, Elinor,
that this is a kind of talking which I cannot bear. If you only hope
to have your assertion contradicted, as I must suppose to be the case,
you ought to recollect that I am the last person in the world to do
it. I cannot descend to be tricked out of assurances, that are not
really wanted.''

She then left the room; and Elinor dared not follow her to say more,
for bound as she was by her promise of secrecy to Lucy, she could
give no information that would convince Marianne; and painful as the
consequences of her still continuing in an error might be, she was
obliged to submit to it. All that she could hope, was that Edward
would not often expose her or himself to the distress of hearing Marianne's
mistaken warmth, nor to the repetition of any other part of the pain
that had attended their recent meeting---and this she had every reason
to expect.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER 36}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER 36}

\markboth{SENSE AND SENSIBILITY}{CHAPTER 36}

Within a few days after this meeting, the newspapers announced to
the world, that the lady of Thomas Palmer, Esq.\ was safely delivered
of a son and heir; a very interesting and satisfactory paragraph,
at least to all those intimate connections who knew it before.

This event, highly important to Mrs.\ Jennings's happiness, produced
a temporary alteration in the disposal of her time, and influenced,
in a like degree, the engagements of her young friends; for as she
wished to be as much as possible with Charlotte, she went thither
every morning as soon as she was dressed, and did not return till
late in the evening; and the Miss Dashwoods, at the particular request
of the Middletons, spent the whole of every day, in every day in Conduit
Street. For their own comfort they would much rather have remained,
at least all the morning, in Mrs.\ Jennings's house; but it was not
a thing to be urged against the wishes of everybody. Their hours were
therefore made over to Lady Middleton and the two Miss Steeles, by
whom their company, in fact was as little valued, as it was professedly
sought.

They had too much sense to be desirable companions to the former;
and by the latter they were considered with a jealous eye, as intruding
on \textit{their} ground, and sharing the kindness which they wanted
to monopolize. Though nothing could be more polite than Lady Middleton's
behaviour to Elinor and Marianne, she did not really like them at
all. Because they neither flattered herself nor her children, she
could not believe them good-natured; and because they were fond of
reading, she fancied them satirical: perhaps without exactly knowing
what it was to be satirical; but \textit{that} did not signify. It
was censure in common use, and easily given.

Their presence was a restraint both on her and on Lucy. It checked
the idleness of one, and the business of the other. Lady Middleton
was ashamed of doing nothing before them, and the flattery which Lucy
was proud to think of and administer at other times, she feared they
would despise her for offering. Miss Steele was the least discomposed
of the three, by their presence; and it was in their power to reconcile
her to it entirely. Would either of them only have given her a full
and minute account of the whole affair between Marianne and Mr.\ Willoughby,
she would have thought herself amply rewarded for the sacrifice of
the best place by the fire after dinner, which their arrival occasioned.
But this conciliation was not granted; for though she often threw
out expressions of pity for her sister to Elinor, and more than once
dropt a reflection on the inconstancy of \emph{beaux} before Marianne,
no effect was produced, but a look of indifference from the former,
or of disgust in the latter. An effort even yet lighter might have
made her their friend. Would they only have laughed at her about the
Doctor! But so little were they, anymore than the others, inclined
to oblige her, that if Sir John dined from home, she might spend a
whole day without hearing any other raillery on the subject, than
what she was kind enough to bestow on herself.

All these jealousies and discontents, however, were so totally unsuspected
by Mrs.\ Jennings, that she thought it a delightful thing for the
girls to be together; and generally congratulated her young friends
every night, on having escaped the company of a stupid old woman so
long. She joined them sometimes at Sir John's, sometimes at her own
house; but wherever it was, she always came in excellent spirits,
full of delight and importance, attributing Charlotte's well doing
to her own care, and ready to give so exact, so minute a detail of
her situation, as only Miss Steele had curiosity enough to desire.
One thing \textit{did} disturb her; and of that she made her daily
complaint. Mr.\ Palmer maintained the common, but unfatherly opinion
among his sex, of all infants being alike; and though she could plainly
perceive, at different times, the most striking resemblance between
this baby and every one of his relations on both sides, there was
no convincing his father of it; no persuading him to believe that
it was not exactly like every other baby of the same age; nor could
he even be brought to acknowledge the simple proposition of its being
the finest child in the world.

I come now to the relation of a misfortune, which about this time
befell Mrs.\ John Dashwood. It so happened that while her two sisters
with Mrs.\ Jennings were first calling on her in Harley Street, another
of her acquaintance had dropt in---a circumstance in itself not apparently
likely to produce evil to her. But while the imaginations of other
people will carry them away to form wrong judgments of our conduct,
and to decide on it by slight appearances, one's happiness must in
some measure be always at the mercy of chance. In the present instance,
this last-arrived lady allowed her fancy to so far outrun truth and
probability, that on merely hearing the name of the Miss Dashwoods,
and understanding them to be Mr.\ Dashwood's sisters, she immediately
concluded them to be staying in Harley Street; and this misconstruction
produced within a day or two afterwards, cards of invitation for them
as well as for their brother and sister, to a small musical party
at her house. The consequence of which was, that Mrs.\ John Dashwood
was obliged to submit not only to the exceedingly great inconvenience
of sending her carriage for the Miss Dashwoods, but, what was still
worse, must be subject to all the unpleasantness of appearing to treat
them with attention: and who could tell that they might not expect
to go out with her a second time? The power of disappointing them,
it was true, must always be her's. But that was not enough; for when
people are determined on a mode of conduct which they know to be wrong,
they feel injured by the expectation of any thing better from them.

Marianne had now been brought by degrees, so much into the habit of
going out every day, that it was become a matter of indifference to
her, whether she went or not: and she prepared quietly and mechanically
for every evening's engagement, though without expecting the smallest
amusement from any, and very often without knowing, till the last
moment, where it was to take her.

To her dress and appearance she was grown so perfectly indifferent,
as not to bestow half the consideration on it, during the whole of
her toilet, which it received from Miss Steele in the first five minutes
of their being together, when it was finished. Nothing escaped \textit{her}
minute observation and general curiosity; she saw every thing, and
asked every thing; was never easy till she knew the price of every
part of Marianne's dress; could have guessed the number of her gowns
altogether with better judgment than Marianne herself, and was not
without hopes of finding out before they parted, how much her washing
cost per week, and how much she had every year to spend upon herself.
The impertinence of these kind of scrutinies, moreover, was generally
concluded with a compliment, which though meant as its \emph{douceur},
was considered by Marianne as the greatest impertinence of all; for
after undergoing an examination into the value and make of her gown,
the colour of her shoes, and the arrangement of her hair, she was
almost sure of being told that upon {}``her word she looked vastly
smart, and she dared to say she would make a great many conquests.''

With such encouragement as this, was she dismissed on the present
occasion, to her brother's carriage; which they were ready to enter
five minutes after it stopped at the door, a punctuality not very
agreeable to their sister-in-law, who had preceded them to the house
of her acquaintance, and was there hoping for some delay on their
part that might inconvenience either herself or her coachman.

The events of this evening were not very remarkable. The party, like
other musical parties, comprehended a great many people who had real
taste for the performance, and a great many more who had none at all;
and the performers themselves were, as usual, in their own estimation,
and that of their immediate friends, the first private performers
in England.

As Elinor was neither musical, nor affecting to be so, she made no
scruple of turning her eyes from the grand pianoforte, whenever it
suited her, and unrestrained even by the presence of a harp, and violoncello,
would fix them at pleasure on any other object in the room. In one
of these excursive glances she perceived among a group of young men,
the very he, who had given them a lecture on toothpick-cases at Gray's.
She perceived him soon afterwards looking at herself, and speaking
familiarly to her brother; and had just determined to find out his
name from the latter, when they both came towards her, and Mr.\ Dashwood
introduced him to her as Mr.\ Robert Ferrars.

He addressed her with easy civility, and twisted his head into a bow
which assured her as plainly as words could have done, that he was
exactly the coxcomb she had heard him described to be by Lucy. Happy
had it been for her, if her regard for Edward had depended less on
his own merit, than on the merit of his nearest relations! For then
his brother's bow must have given the finishing stroke to what the
ill-humour of his mother and sister would have begun. But while she
wondered at the difference of the two young men, she did not find
that the emptiness of conceit of the one, put her out of all charity
with the modesty and worth of the other. Why they \textit{were} different,
Robert exclaimed to her himself in the course of a quarter of an hour's
conversation; for, talking of his brother, and lamenting the extreme
\textit{gaucherie} which he really believed kept him from mixing in
proper society, he candidly and generously attributed it much less
to any natural deficiency, than to the misfortune of a private education;
while he himself, though probably without any particular, any material
superiority by nature, merely from the advantage of a public school,
was as well fitted to mix in the world as any other man.

{}``Upon my soul,'' he added, {}``I believe it is nothing more;
and so I often tell my mother, when she is grieving about it. `My
dear Madam,' I always say to her, `you must make yourself easy. The
evil is now irremediable, and it has been entirely your own doing.
Why would you be persuaded by my uncle, Sir Robert, against your own
judgment, to place Edward under private tuition, at the most critical
time of his life? If you had only sent him to Westminster as well
as myself, instead of sending him to Mr.\ Pratt's, all this would
have been prevented.' This is the way in which I always consider the
matter, and my mother is perfectly convinced of her error.''

Elinor would not oppose his opinion, because, whatever might be her
general estimation of the advantage of a public school, she could
not think of Edward's abode in Mr.\ Pratt's family, with any satisfaction.

{}``You reside in Devonshire, I think,''---was his next observation,
{}``in a cottage near Dawlish.''

Elinor set him right as to its situation; and it seemed rather surprising
to him that anybody could live in Devonshire, without living near
Dawlish. He bestowed his hearty approbation however on their species
of house.

{}``For my own part,'' said he, {}``I am excessively fond of a
cottage; there is always so much comfort, so much elegance about them.
And I protest, if I had any money to spare, I should buy a little
land and build one myself, within a short distance of London, where
I might drive myself down at any time, and collect a few friends about
me, and be happy. I advise every body who is going to build, to build
a cottage. My friend Lord Courtland came to me the other day on purpose
to ask my advice, and laid before me three different plans of Bonomi's.
I was to decide on the best of them. `My dear Courtland,' said I,
immediately throwing them all into the fire, `do not adopt either
of them, but by all means build a cottage.' And that I fancy, will
be the end of it.

{}``Some people imagine that there can be no accommodations, no space
in a cottage; but this is all a mistake. I was last month at my friend
Elliott's, near Dartford. Lady Elliott wished to give a dance. `But
how can it be done?'\ said she; `my dear Ferrars, do tell me how
it is to be managed. There is not a room in this cottage that will
hold ten couple, and where can the supper be?' I immediately saw that
there could be no difficulty in it, so I said, `My dear Lady Elliott,
do not be uneasy. The dining parlour will admit eighteen couple with
ease; card-tables may be placed in the drawing-room; the library may
be open for tea and other refreshments; and let the supper be set
out in the saloon.' Lady Elliott was delighted with the thought. We
measured the dining-room, and found it would hold exactly eighteen
couple, and the affair was arranged precisely after my plan. So that,
in fact, you see, if people do but know how to set about it, every
comfort may be as well enjoyed in a cottage as in the most spacious
dwelling.''

Elinor agreed to it all, for she did not think he deserved the compliment
of rational opposition.

As John Dashwood had no more pleasure in music than his eldest sister,
his mind was equally at liberty to fix on any thing else; and a thought
struck him during the evening, which he communicated to his wife,
for her approbation, when they got home. The consideration of Mrs.\ Dennison's
mistake, in supposing his sisters their guests, had suggested the
propriety of their being really invited to become such, while Mrs.\ Jenning's
engagements kept her from home. The expense would be nothing, the
inconvenience not more; and it was altogether an attention which the
delicacy of his conscience pointed out to be requisite to its complete
enfranchisement from his promise to his father. Fanny was startled
at the proposal.

{}``I do not see how it can be done,'' said she, {}``without affronting
Lady Middleton, for they spend every day with her; otherwise I should
be exceedingly glad to do it. You know I am always ready to pay them
any attention in my power, as my taking them out this evening shews.
But they are Lady Middleton's visitors. How can I ask them away from
her?''

Her husband, but with great humility, did not see the force of her
objection. {}``They had already spent a week in this manner in Conduit
Street, and Lady Middleton could not be displeased at their giving
the same number of days to such near relations.''

Fanny paused a moment, and then, with fresh vigor, said,

{}``My love I would ask them with all my heart, if it was in my power.
But I had just settled within myself to ask the Miss Steeles to spend
a few days with us. They are very well behaved, good kind of girls;
and I think the attention is due to them, as their uncle did so very
well by Edward. We can ask your sisters some other year, you know;
but the Miss Steeles may not be in town any more. I am sure you will
like them; indeed, you \textit{do} like them, you know, very much
already, and so does my mother; and they are such favourites with
Harry!''

Mr.\ Dashwood was convinced. He saw the necessity of inviting the
Miss Steeles immediately, and his conscience was pacified by the resolution
of inviting his sisters another year; at the same time, however, slyly
suspecting that another year would make the invitation needless, by
bringing Elinor to town as Colonel Brandon's wife, and Marianne as
\textit{their} visitor.

Fanny, rejoicing in her escape, and proud of the ready wit that had
procured it, wrote the next morning to Lucy, to request her company
and her sister's, for some days, in Harley Street, as soon as Lady
Middleton could spare them. This was enough to make Lucy really and
reasonably happy. Mrs.\ Dashwood seemed actually working for her,
herself; cherishing all her hopes, and promoting all her views! Such
an opportunity of being with Edward and his family was, above all
things, the most material to her interest, and such an invitation
the most gratifying to her feelings! It was an advantage that could
not be too gratefully acknowledged, nor too speedily made use of;
and the visit to Lady Middleton, which had not before had any precise
limits, was instantly discovered to have been always meant to end
in two days' time.

When the note was shown to Elinor, as it was within ten minutes after
its arrival, it gave her, for the first time, some share in the expectations
of Lucy; for such a mark of uncommon kindness, vouchsafed on so short
an acquaintance, seemed to declare that the good-will towards her
arose from something more than merely malice against herself; and
might be brought, by time and address, to do every thing that Lucy
wished. Her flattery had already subdued the pride of Lady Middleton,
and made an entry into the close heart of Mrs.\ John Dashwood; and
these were effects that laid open the probability of greater.

The Miss Steeles removed to Harley Street, and all that reached Elinor
of their influence there, strengthened her expectation of the event.
Sir John, who called on them more than once, brought home such accounts
of the favour they were in, as must be universally striking. Mrs.\ Dashwood
had never been so much pleased with any young women in her life, as
she was with them; had given each of them a needle book made by some
emigrant; called Lucy by her Christian name; and did not know whether
she should ever be able to part with them.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER 37}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER 37}

\markboth{SENSE AND SENSIBILITY}{CHAPTER 37}

Mrs.\ Palmer was so well at the end of a fortnight, that her mother
felt it no longer necessary to give up the whole of her time to her;
and, contenting herself with visiting her once or twice a day, returned
from that period to her own home, and her own habits, in which she
found the Miss Dashwoods very ready to resume their former share.

About the third or fourth morning after their being thus resettled
in Berkeley Street, Mrs.\ Jennings, on returning from her ordinary
visit to Mrs.\ Palmer, entered the drawing-room, where Elinor was
sitting by herself, with an air of such hurrying importance as prepared
her to hear something wonderful; and giving her time only to form
that idea, began directly to justify it, by saying,

{}``Lord!\ my dear Miss Dashwood!\ have you heard the news?''

{}``No, ma'am. What is it?''

{}``Something so strange! But you shall hear it all.---When I got
to Mr.\ Palmer's, I found Charlotte quite in a fuss about the child.
She was sure it was very ill---it cried, and fretted, and was all
over pimples. So I looked at it directly, and, `Lord!\ my dear,'
says I, `it is nothing in the world, but the red gum---' and nurse
said just the same. But Charlotte, she would not be satisfied, so
Mr.\ Donavan was sent for; and luckily he happened to just come in
from Harley Street, so he stepped over directly, and as soon as ever
he saw the child, he said just as we did, that it was nothing in the
world but the red gum, and then Charlotte was easy. And so, just as
he was going away again, it came into my head, I am sure I do not
know how I happened to think of it, but it came into my head to ask
him if there was any news. So upon that, he smirked, and simpered,
and looked grave, and seemed to know something or other, and at last
he said in a whisper, `For fear any unpleasant report should reach
the young ladies under your care as to their sister's indisposition,
I think it advisable to say, that I believe there is no great reason
for alarm; I hope Mrs.\ Dashwood will do very well.'''

{}``What!\ is Fanny ill?''

{}``That is exactly what I said, my dear. `Lord!'\ says I, `is Mrs.\ Dashwood
ill?' So then it all came out; and the long and the short of the matter,
by all I can learn, seems to be this. Mr.\ Edward Ferrars, the very
young man I used to joke with you about (but however, as it turns
out, I am monstrous glad there was never any thing in it), Mr.\ Edward
Ferrars, it seems, has been engaged above this twelvemonth to my cousin
Lucy!---There's for you, my dear!---And not a creature knowing a syllable
of the matter, except Nancy!---Could you have believed such a thing
possible?---There is no great wonder in their liking one another;
but that matters should be brought so forward between them, and nobody
suspect it!---\textit{That} is strange!---I never happened to see
them together, or I am sure I should have found it out directly. Well,
and so this was kept a great secret, for fear of Mrs.\ Ferrars, and
neither she nor your brother or sister suspected a word of the matter;---till
this very morning, poor Nancy, who, you know, is a well-meaning creature,
but no conjurer, popt it all out. `Lord!'\ thinks she to herself,
`they are all so fond of Lucy, to be sure they will make no difficulty
about it;' and so, away she went to your sister, who was sitting all
alone at her carpet-work, little suspecting what was to come---for
she had just been saying to your brother, only five minutes before,
that she thought to make a match between Edward and some Lord's daughter
or other, I forget who. So you may think what a blow it was to all
her vanity and pride. She fell into violent hysterics immediately,
with such screams as reached your brother's ears, as he was sitting
in his own dressing-room down stairs, thinking about writing a letter
to his steward in the country. So up he flew directly, and a terrible
scene took place, for Lucy was come to them by that time, little dreaming
what was going on. Poor soul! I pity \textit{her}. And I must say,
I think she was used very hardly; for your sister scolded like any
fury, and soon drove her into a fainting fit. Nancy, she fell upon
her knees, and cried bitterly; and your brother, he walked about the
room, and said he did not know what to do. Mrs.\ Dashwood declared
they should not stay a minute longer in the house, and your brother
was forced to go down upon \textit{his} knees too, to persuade her
to let them stay till they had packed up their clothes. \textit{Then}
she fell into hysterics again, and he was so frightened that he would
send for Mr.\ Donavan, and Mr.\ Donavan found the house in all this
uproar. The carriage was at the door ready to take my poor cousins
away, and they were just stepping in as he came off; poor Lucy in
such a condition, he says, she could hardly walk; and Nancy, she was
almost as bad. I declare, I have no patience with your sister; and
I hope, with all my heart, it will be a match in spite of her. Lord!\ what
a taking poor Mr.\ Edward will be in when he hears of it! To have
his love used so scornfully!\ for they say he is monstrous fond of
her, as well he may. I should not wonder, if he was to be in the greatest
passion!---and Mr.\ Donavan thinks just the same. He and I had a
great deal of talk about it; and the best of all is, that he is gone
back again to Harley Street, that he may be within call when Mrs.\ Ferrars
is told of it, for she was sent for as soon as ever my cousins left
the house, for your sister was sure \textit{she} would be in hysterics
too; and so she may, for what I care. I have no pity for either of
them. I have no notion of people's making such a to-do about money
and greatness. There is no reason on earth why Mr.\ Edward and Lucy
should not marry; for I am sure Mrs.\ Ferrars may afford to do very
well by her son, and though Lucy has next to nothing herself, she
knows better than any body how to make the most of every thing; I
dare say, if Mrs.\ Ferrars would only allow him five hundred a-year,
she would make as good an appearance with it as any body else would
with eight. Lord!\ how snug they might live in such another cottage
as yours---or a little bigger---with two maids, and two men; and I
believe I could help them to a housemaid, for my Betty has a sister
out of place, that would fit them exactly.''

Here Mrs.\ Jennings ceased, and as Elinor had had time enough to
collect her thoughts, she was able to give such an answer, and make
such observations, as the subject might naturally be supposed to produce.
Happy to find that she was not suspected of any extraordinary interest
in it; that Mrs.\ Jennings (as she had of late often hoped might
be the case) had ceased to imagine her at all attached to Edward;
and happy above all the rest, in the absence of Marianne, she felt
very well able to speak of the affair without embarrassment, and to
give her judgment, as she believed, with impartiality on the conduct
of every one concerned in it.

She could hardly determine what her own expectation of its event really
was; though she earnestly tried to drive away the notion of its being
possible to end otherwise at last, than in the marriage of Edward
and Lucy. What Mrs.\ Ferrars would say and do, though there could
not be a doubt of its nature, she was anxious to hear; and still more
anxious to know how Edward would conduct himself. For \textit{him}
she felt much compassion;---for Lucy very little---and it cost her
some pains to procure that little;---for the rest of the party none
at all.

As Mrs.\ Jennings could talk on no other subject, Elinor soon saw
the necessity of preparing Marianne for its discussion. No time was
to be lost in undeceiving her, in making her acquainted with the real
truth, and in endeavouring to bring her to hear it talked of by others,
without betraying that she felt any uneasiness for her sister, or
any resentment against Edward.

Elinor's office was a painful one.---She was going to remove what
she really believed to be her sister's chief consolation,---to give
such particulars of Edward as she feared would ruin him for ever in
her good opinion,---and to make Marianne, by a resemblance in their
situations, which to \textit{her} fancy would seem strong, feel all
her own disappointment over again. But unwelcome as such a task must
be, it was necessary to be done, and Elinor therefore hastened to
perform it.

She was very far from wishing to dwell on her own feelings, or to
represent herself as suffering much, any otherwise than as the self-command
she had practised since her first knowledge of Edward's engagement,
might suggest a hint of what was practicable to Marianne. Her narration
was clear and simple; and though it could not be given without emotion,
it was not accompanied by violent agitation, nor impetuous grief.---\textit{That}
belonged rather to the hearer, for Marianne listened with horror,
and cried excessively. Elinor was to be the comforter of others in
her own distresses, no less than in theirs; and all the comfort that
could be given by assurances of her own composure of mind, and a very
earnest vindication of Edward from every charge but of imprudence,
was readily offered.

But Marianne for some time would give credit to neither. Edward seemed
a second Willoughby; and acknowledging as Elinor did, that she \textit{had}
loved him most sincerely, could she feel less than herself! As for
Lucy Steele, she considered her so totally unamiable, so absolutely
incapable of attaching a sensible man, that she could not be persuaded
at first to believe, and afterwards to pardon, any former affection
of Edward for her. She would not even admit it to have been natural;
and Elinor left her to be convinced that it was so, by that which
only could convince her, a better knowledge of mankind.

Her first communication had reached no farther than to state the fact
of the engagement, and the length of time it had existed.---Marianne's
feelings had then broken in, and put an end to all regularity of detail;
and for some time all that could be done was to soothe her distress,
lessen her alarms, and combat her resentment. The first question on
her side, which led to farther particulars, was,

{}``How long has this been known to you, Elinor?\ has he written
to you?''

{}``I have known it these four months. When Lucy first came to Barton
Park last November, she told me in confidence of her engagement.''

At these words, Marianne's eyes expressed the astonishment which her
lips could not utter. After a pause of wonder, she exclaimed---

{}``Four months!---Have you known of this four months?''

Elinor confirmed it.

{}``What!---while attending me in all my misery, has this been on
your heart?---And I have reproached you for being happy!''---

{}``It was not fit that you should then know how much I was the reverse!''

{}``Four months!''---cried Marianne again.---{}``So calm!---so
cheerful!---how have you been supported?''---

{}``By feeling that I was doing my duty.---My promise to Lucy, obliged
me to be secret. I owed it to her, therefore, to avoid giving any
hint of the truth; and I owed it to my family and friends, not to
create in them a solicitude about me, which it could not be in my
power to satisfy.''

Marianne seemed much struck.

{}``I have very often wished to undeceive yourself and my mother,''
added Elinor; {}``and once or twice I have attempted it;---but without
betraying my trust, I never could have convinced you.''

{}``Four months!---and yet you loved him!''---

{}``Yes. But I did not love only him;---and while the comfort of
others was dear to me, I was glad to spare them from knowing how much
I felt. Now, I can think and speak of it with little emotion. I would
not have you suffer on my account; for I assure you I no longer suffer
materially myself. I have many things to support me. I am not conscious
of having provoked the disappointment by any imprudence of my own,
I have borne it as much as possible without spreading it farther.
I acquit Edward of essential misconduct. I wish him very happy; and
I am so sure of his always doing his duty, that though now he may
harbour some regret, in the end he must become so. Lucy does not want
sense, and that is the foundation on which every thing good may be
built.---And after all, Marianne, after all that is bewitching in
the idea of a single and constant attachment, and all that can be
said of one's happiness depending entirely on any particular person,
it is not meant---it is not fit---it is not possible that it should
be so.---Edward will marry Lucy; he will marry a woman superior in
person and understanding to half her sex; and time and habit will
teach him to forget that he ever thought another superior to \textit{her}.''---

{}``If such is your way of thinking,'' said Marianne, {}``if the
loss of what is most valued is so easily to be made up by something
else, your resolution, your self-command, are, perhaps, a little less
to be wondered at.---They are brought more within my comprehension.''

{}``I understand you.---You do not suppose that I have ever felt
much.---For four months, Marianne, I have had all this hanging on
my mind, without being at liberty to speak of it to a single creature;
knowing that it would make you and my mother most unhappy whenever
it were explained to you, yet unable to prepare you for it in the
least.---It was told me,---it was in a manner forced on me by the
very person herself, whose prior engagement ruined all my prospects;
and told me, as I thought, with triumph.---This person's suspicions,
therefore, I have had to oppose, by endeavouring to appear indifferent
where I have been most deeply interested;---and it has not been only
once;---I have had her hopes and exultation to listen to again and
again.---I have known myself to be divided from Edward for ever, without
hearing one circumstance that could make me less desire the connection.---Nothing
has proved him unworthy; nor has anything declared him indifferent
to me.---I have had to contend against the unkindness of his sister,
and the insolence of his mother; and have suffered the punishment
of an attachment, without enjoying its advantages.---And all this
has been going on at a time, when, as you know too well, it has not
been my only unhappiness.---If you can think me capable of ever feeling---surely
you may suppose that I have suffered \textit{now}. The composure of
mind with which I have brought myself at present to consider the matter,
the consolation that I have been willing to admit, have been the effect
of constant and painful exertion;---they did not spring up of themselves;---they
did not occur to relieve my spirits at first.---No, Marianne.---\textit{Then},
if I had not been bound to silence, perhaps nothing could have kept
me entirely---not even what I owed to my dearest friends---from openly
shewing that I was \textit{very} unhappy.''---

Marianne was quite subdued.---

{}``Oh! Elinor,'' she cried, {}``you have made me hate myself for
ever.---How barbarous have I been to you!---you, who have been my
only comfort, who have borne with me in all my misery, who have seemed
to be only suffering for me!---Is this my gratitude?---Is this the
only return I can make you?---Because your merit cries out upon myself,
I have been trying to do it away.''

The tenderest caresses followed this confession. In such a frame of
mind as she was now in, Elinor had no difficulty in obtaining from
her whatever promise she required; and at her request, Marianne engaged
never to speak of the affair to any one with the least appearance
of bitterness;---to meet Lucy without betraying the smallest increase
of dislike to her;---and even to see Edward himself, if chance should
bring them together, without any diminution of her usual cordiality.---These
were great concessions;---but where Marianne felt that she had injured,
no reparation could be too much for her to make.

She performed her promise of being discreet, to admiration.---She
attended to all that Mrs.\ Jennings had to say upon the subject,
with an unchanging complexion, dissented from her in nothing, and
was heard three times to say, {}``Yes, ma'am.''---She listened to
her praise of Lucy with only moving from one chair to another, and
when Mrs.\ Jennings talked of Edward's affection, it cost her only
a spasm in her throat.---Such advances towards heroism in her sister,
made Elinor feel equal to any thing herself.

The next morning brought a farther trial of it, in a visit from their
brother, who came with a most serious aspect to talk over the dreadful
affair, and bring them news of his wife.

{}``You have heard, I suppose,'' said he with great solemnity, as
soon as he was seated, {}``of the very shocking discovery that took
place under our roof yesterday.''

They all looked their assent; it seemed too awful a moment for speech.

{}``Your sister,'' he continued, {}``has suffered dreadfully. Mrs.\ Ferrars
too---in short it has been a scene of such complicated distress---but
I will hope that the storm may be weathered without our being any
of us quite overcome. Poor Fanny!\ she was in hysterics all yesterday.
But I would not alarm you too much. Donavan says there is nothing
materially to be apprehended; her constitution is a good one, and
her resolution equal to any thing. She has borne it all, with the
fortitude of an angel! She says she never shall think well of anybody
again; and one cannot wonder at it, after being so deceived!---meeting
with such ingratitude, where so much kindness had been shewn, so much
confidence had been placed! It was quite out of the benevolence of
her heart, that she had asked these young women to her house; merely
because she thought they deserved some attention, were harmless, well-behaved
girls, and would be pleasant companions; for otherwise we both wished
very much to have invited you and Marianne to be with us, while your
kind friend there, was attending her daughter. And now to be so rewarded!
`I wish, with all my heart,' says poor Fanny in her affectionate way,
`that we had asked your sisters instead of them.'''

Here he stopped to be thanked; which being done, he went on.

{}``What poor Mrs.\ Ferrars suffered, when first Fanny broke it
to her, is not to be described. While she with the truest affection
had been planning a most eligible connection for him, was it to be
supposed that he could be all the time secretly engaged to another
person!---such a suspicion could never have entered her head! If she
suspected \textit{any} prepossession elsewhere, it could not be in
\textit{that} quarter. `\textit{There}, to be sure,' said she, `I
might have thought myself safe.' She was quite in an agony. We consulted
together, however, as to what should be done, and at last she determined
to send for Edward. He came. But I am sorry to relate what ensued.
All that Mrs.\ Ferrars could say to make him put an end to the engagement,
assisted too as you may well suppose by my arguments, and Fanny's
entreaties, was of no avail. Duty, affection, every thing was disregarded.
I never thought Edward so stubborn, so unfeeling before. His mother
explained to him her liberal designs, in case of his marrying Miss
Morton; told him she would settle on him the Norfolk estate, which,
clear of land-tax, brings in a good thousand a-year; offered even,
when matters grew desperate, to make it twelve hundred; and in opposition
to this, if he still persisted in this low connection, represented
to him the certain penury that must attend the match. His own two
thousand pounds she protested should be his all; she would never see
him again; and so far would she be from affording him the smallest
assistance, that if he were to enter into any profession with a view
of better support, she would do all in her power to prevent him advancing
in it.''

Here Marianne, in an ecstasy of indignation, clapped her hands together,
and cried, {}``Gracious God!\ can this be possible!''

{}``Well may you wonder, Marianne,'' replied her brother, {}``at
the obstinacy which could resist such arguments as these. Your exclamation
is very natural.''

Marianne was going to retort, but she remembered her promises, and
forbore.

{}``All this, however,'' he continued, {}``was urged in vain. Edward
said very little; but what he did say, was in the most determined
manner. Nothing should prevail on him to give up his engagement. He
would stand to it, cost him what it might.''

{}``Then,'' cried Mrs.\ Jennings with blunt sincerity, no longer
able to be silent, {}``he has acted like an honest man! I beg your
pardon, Mr.\ Dashwood, but if he had done otherwise, I should have
thought him a rascal. I have some little concern in the business,
as well as yourself, for Lucy Steele is my cousin, and I believe there
is not a better kind of girl in the world, nor one who more deserves
a good husband.''

John Dashwood was greatly astonished; but his nature was calm, not
open to provocation, and he never wished to offend anybody, especially
anybody of good fortune. He therefore replied, without any resentment,

{}``I would by no means speak disrespectfully of any relation of
yours, madam. Miss Lucy Steele is, I dare say, a very deserving young
woman, but in the present case you know, the connection must be impossible.
And to have entered into a secret engagement with a young man under
her uncle's care, the son of a woman especially of such very large
fortune as Mrs.\ Ferrars, is perhaps, altogether a little extraordinary.
In short, I do not mean to reflect upon the behaviour of any person
whom you have a regard for, Mrs.\ Jennings. We all wish her extremely
happy; and Mrs.\ Ferrars's conduct throughout the whole, has been
such as every conscientious, good mother, in like circumstances, would
adopt. It has been dignified and liberal. Edward has drawn his own
lot, and I fear it will be a bad one.''

Marianne sighed out her similar apprehension; and Elinor's heart wrung
for the feelings of Edward, while braving his mother's threats, for
a woman who could not reward him.

{}``Well, sir,'' said Mrs.\ Jennings, {}``and how did it end?''

{}``I am sorry to say, ma'am, in a most unhappy rupture:---Edward
is dismissed for ever from his mother's notice. He left her house
yesterday, but where he is gone, or whether he is still in town, I
do not know; for \textit{we} of course can make no inquiry.''

{}``Poor young man!---and what is to become of him?''

{}``What, indeed, ma'am! It is a melancholy consideration. Born to
the prospect of such affluence! I cannot conceive a situation more
deplorable. The interest of two thousand pounds---how can a man live
on it?---and when to that is added the recollection, that he might,
but for his own folly, within three months have been in the receipt
of two thousand, five hundred a-year (for Miss Morton has thirty thousand
pounds,) I cannot picture to myself a more wretched condition. We
must all feel for him; and the more so, because it is totally out
of our power to assist him.''

{}``Poor young man!''\ cried Mrs.\ Jennings, {}``I am sure he
should be very welcome to bed and board at my house; and so I would
tell him if I could see him. It is not fit that he should be living
about at his own charge now, at lodgings and taverns.''

Elinor's heart thanked her for such kindness towards Edward, though
she could not forbear smiling at the form of it.

{}``If he would only have done as well by himself,'' said John Dashwood,
{}``as all his friends were disposed to do by him, he might now have
been in his proper situation, and would have wanted for nothing. But
as it is, it must be out of anybody's power to assist him. And there
is one thing more preparing against him, which must be worse than
all---his mother has determined, with a very natural kind of spirit,
to settle \textit{that} estate upon Robert immediately, which might
have been Edward's, on proper conditions. I left her this morning
with her lawyer, talking over the business.''

{}``Well!''\ said Mrs.\ Jennings, {}``that is \textit{her} revenge.
Everybody has a way of their own. But I don't think mine would be,
to make one son independent, because another had plagued me.''

Marianne got up and walked about the room.

{}``Can anything be more galling to the spirit of a man,'' continued
John, {}``than to see his younger brother in possession of an estate
which might have been his own? Poor Edward! I feel for him sincerely.''

A few minutes more spent in the same kind of effusion, concluded his
visit; and with repeated assurances to his sisters that he really
believed there was no material danger in Fanny's indisposition, and
that they need not therefore be very uneasy about it, he went away;
leaving the three ladies unanimous in their sentiments on the present
occasion, as far at least as it regarded Mrs.\ Ferrars's conduct,
the Dashwoods', and Edward's.

Marianne's indignation burst forth as soon as he quitted the room;
and as her vehemence made reserve impossible in Elinor, and unnecessary
in Mrs.\ Jennings, they all joined in a very spirited critique upon
the party.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER 38}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER 38}

\markboth{SENSE AND SENSIBILITY}{CHAPTER 38}

Mrs.\ Jennings was very warm in her praise of Edward's conduct, but
only Elinor and Marianne understood its true merit. \textit{They}
only knew how little he had had to tempt him to be disobedient, and
how small was the consolation, beyond the consciousness of doing right,
that could remain to him in the loss of friends and fortune. Elinor
gloried in his integrity; and Marianne forgave all his offences in
compassion for his punishment. But though confidence between them
was, by this public discovery, restored to its proper state, it was
not a subject on which either of them were fond of dwelling when alone.
Elinor avoided it upon principle, as tending to fix still more upon
her thoughts, by the too warm, too positive assurances of Marianne,
that belief of Edward's continued affection for herself which she
rather wished to do away; and Marianne's courage soon failed her,
in trying to converse upon a topic which always left her more dissatisfied
with herself than ever, by the comparison it necessarily produced
between Elinor's conduct and her own.

She felt all the force of that comparison; but not as her sister had
hoped, to urge her to exertion now; she felt it with all the pain
of continual self-reproach, regretted most bitterly that she had never
exerted herself before; but it brought only the torture of penitence,
without the hope of amendment. Her mind was so much weakened that
she still fancied present exertion impossible, and therefore it only
dispirited her more.

Nothing new was heard by them, for a day or two afterwards, of affairs
in Harley Street, or Bartlett's Buildings. But though so much of the
matter was known to them already, that Mrs.\ Jennings might have
had enough to do in spreading that knowledge farther, without seeking
after more, she had resolved from the first to pay a visit of comfort
and inquiry to her cousins as soon as she could; and nothing but the
hindrance of more visitors than usual, had prevented her going to
them within that time.

The third day succeeding their knowledge of the particulars, was so
fine, so beautiful a Sunday as to draw many to Kensington Gardens,
though it was only the second week in March. Mrs.\ Jennings and Elinor
were of the number; but Marianne, who knew that the Willoughbys were
again in town, and had a constant dread of meeting them, chose rather
to stay at home, than venture into so public a place.

An intimate acquaintance of Mrs.\ Jennings joined them soon after
they entered the Gardens, and Elinor was not sorry that by her continuing
with them, and engaging all Mrs.\ Jennings's conversation, she was
herself left to quiet reflection. She saw nothing of the Willoughbys,
nothing of Edward, and for some time nothing of anybody who could
by any chance whether grave or gay, be interesting to her. But at
last she found herself with some surprise, accosted by Miss Steele,
who, though looking rather shy, expressed great satisfaction in meeting
them, and on receiving encouragement from the particular kindness
of Mrs.\ Jennings, left her own party for a short time, to join their's.
Mrs.\ Jennings immediately whispered to Elinor,

{}``Get it all out of her, my dear. She will tell you any thing if
you ask. You see I cannot leave Mrs.\ Clarke.''

It was lucky, however, for Mrs.\ Jennings's curiosity and Elinor's
too, that she would tell any thing \textit{without} being asked; for
nothing would otherwise have been learnt.

{}``I am so glad to meet you;'' said Miss Steele, taking her familiarly
by the arm---{}``for I wanted to see you of all things in the world.''
And then lowering her voice, {}``I suppose Mrs.\ Jennings has heard
all about it. Is she angry?''

{}``Not at all, I believe, with you.''

{}``That is a good thing. And Lady Middleton, is \textit{she} angry?''

{}``I cannot suppose it possible that she should.''

{}``I am monstrous glad of it. Good gracious! I have had such a time
of it! I never saw Lucy in such a rage in my life. She vowed at first
she would never trim me up a new bonnet, nor do any thing else for
me again, so long as she lived; but now she is quite come to, and
we are as good friends as ever. Look, she made me this bow to my hat,
and put in the feather last night. There now, \textit{you} are going
to laugh at me too. But why should not I wear pink ribbons? I do not
care if it \textit{is} the Doctor's favourite colour. I am sure, for
my part, I should never have known he \textit{did} like it better
than any other colour, if he had not happened to say so. My cousins
have been so plaguing me! I declare sometimes I do not know which
way to look before them.''

She had wandered away to a subject on which Elinor had nothing to
say, and therefore soon judged it expedient to find her way back again
to the first.

{}``Well, but Miss Dashwood,'' speaking triumphantly, {}``people
may say what they chuse about Mr.\ Ferrars's declaring he would not
have Lucy, for it is no such thing I can tell you; and it is quite
a shame for such ill-natured reports to be spread abroad. Whatever
Lucy might think about it herself, you know, it was no business of
other people to set it down for certain.''

{}``I never heard any thing of the kind hinted at before, I assure
you,'' said Elinor.

{}``Oh, did not you? But it \textit{was} said, I know, very well,
and by more than one; for Miss Godby told Miss Sparks, that nobody
in their senses could expect Mr.\ Ferrars to give up a woman like
Miss Morton, with thirty thousand pounds to her fortune, for Lucy
Steele that had nothing at all; and I had it from Miss Sparks myself.
And besides that, my cousin Richard said himself, that when it came
to the point he was afraid Mr.\ Ferrars would be off; and when Edward
did not come near us for three days, I could not tell what to think
myself; and I believe in my heart Lucy gave it up all for lost; for
we came away from your brother's Wednesday, and we saw nothing of
him not all Thursday, Friday, and Saturday, and did not know what
was become of him. Once Lucy thought to write to him, but then her
spirits rose against that. However this morning he came just as we
came home from church; and then it all came out, how he had been sent
for Wednesday to Harley Street, and been talked to by his mother and
all of them, and how he had declared before them all that he loved
nobody but Lucy, and nobody but Lucy would he have. And how he had
been so worried by what passed, that as soon as he had went away from
his mother's house, he had got upon his horse, and rid into the country,
some where or other; and how he had stayed about at an inn all Thursday
and Friday, on purpose to get the better of it. And after thinking
it all over and over again, he said, it seemed to him as if, now he
had no fortune, and no nothing at all, it would be quite unkind to
keep her on to the engagement, because it must be for her loss, for
he had nothing but two thousand pounds, and no hope of any thing else;
and if he was to go into orders, as he had some thoughts, he could
get nothing but a curacy, and how was they to live upon that?---He
could not bear to think of her doing no better, and so he begged,
if she had the least mind for it, to put an end to the matter directly,
and leave him shift for himself. I heard him say all this as plain
as could possibly be. And it was entirely for \textit{her} sake, and
upon \textit{her} account, that he said a word about being off, and
not upon his own. I will take my oath he never dropt a syllable of
being tired of her, or of wishing to marry Miss Morton, or any thing
like it. But, to be sure, Lucy would not give ear to such kind of
talking; so she told him directly (with a great deal about sweet and
love, you know, and all that---Oh, la!\ one can't repeat such kind
of things you know)---she told him directly, she had not the least
mind in the world to be off, for she could live with him upon a trifle,
and how little so ever he might have, she should be very glad to have
it all, you know, or something of the kind. So then he was monstrous
happy, and talked on some time about what they should do, and they
agreed he should take orders directly, and they must wait to be married
till he got a living. And just then I could not hear any more, for
my cousin called from below to tell me Mrs.\ Richardson was come
in her coach, and would take one of us to Kensington Gardens; so I
was forced to go into the room and interrupt them, to ask Lucy if
she would like to go, but she did not care to leave Edward; so I just
run up stairs and put on a pair of silk stockings and came off with
the Richardsons.''

{}``I do not understand what you mean by interrupting them,'' said
Elinor; {}``you were all in the same room together, were not you?''

{}``No, indeed, not us. La! Miss Dashwood, do you think people make
love when any body else is by? Oh, for shame!---To be sure you must
know better than that.'' (Laughing affectedly.)---{}``No, no; they
were shut up in the drawing-room together, and all I heard was only
by listening at the door.''

{}``How!''\ cried Elinor; {}``have you been repeating to me what
you only learnt yourself by listening at the door? I am sorry I did
not know it before; for I certainly would not have suffered you to
give me particulars of a conversation which you ought not to have
known yourself. How could you behave so unfairly by your sister?''

{}``Oh, la!\ there is nothing in \textit{that}. I only stood at
the door, and heard what I could. And I am sure Lucy would have done
just the same by me; for a year or two back, when Martha Sharpe and
I had so many secrets together, she never made any bones of hiding
in a closet, or behind a chimney-board, on purpose to hear what we
said.''

Elinor tried to talk of something else; but Miss Steele could not
be kept beyond a couple of minutes, from what was uppermost in her
mind.

{}``Edward talks of going to Oxford soon,'' said she; {}``but now
he is lodging at No.\ \mbox{------}, Pall Mall. What an ill-natured
woman his mother is, an't she? And your brother and sister were not
very kind! However, I shan't say anything against them to \textit{you};
and to be sure they did send us home in their own chariot, which was
more than I looked for. And for my part, I was all in a fright for
fear your sister should ask us for the huswifes she had gave us a
day or two before; but, however, nothing was said about them, and
I took care to keep mine out of sight. Edward have got some business
at Oxford, he says; so he must go there for a time; and after \textit{that},
as soon as he can light upon a Bishop, he will be ordained. I wonder
what curacy he will get!---Good gracious!''\ (giggling as she spoke)
{}``I'd lay my life I know what my cousins will say, when they hear
of it. They will tell me I should write to the Doctor, to get Edward
the curacy of his new living. I know they will; but I am sure I would
not do such a thing for all the world.---`La!'\ I shall say directly,
`I wonder how you could think of such a thing? I write to the Doctor,
indeed!'''

{}``Well,'' said Elinor, {}``it is a comfort to be prepared against
the worst. You have got your answer ready.''

Miss Steele was going to reply on the same subject, but the approach
of her own party made another more necessary.

{}``Oh, la!\ here come the Richardsons. I had a vast deal more to
say to you, but I must not stay away from them not any longer. I assure
you they are very genteel people. He makes a monstrous deal of money,
and they keep their own coach. I have not time to speak to Mrs.\ Jennings
about it myself, but pray tell her I am quite happy to hear she is
not in anger against us, and Lady Middleton the same; and if anything
should happen to take you and your sister away, and Mrs.\ Jennings
should want company, I am sure we should be very glad to come and
stay with her for as long a time as she likes. I suppose Lady Middleton
won't ask us any more this bout. Good-by; I am sorry Miss Marianne
was not here. Remember me kindly to her. La!\ if you have not got
your spotted muslin on!---I wonder you was not afraid of its being
torn.''

Such was her parting concern; for after this, she had time only to
pay her farewell compliments to Mrs.\ Jennings, before her company
was claimed by Mrs.\ Richardson; and Elinor was left in possession
of knowledge which might feed her powers of reflection some time,
though she had learnt very little more than what had been already
foreseen and foreplanned in her own mind. Edward's marriage with Lucy
was as firmly determined on, and the time of its taking place remained
as absolutely uncertain, as she had concluded it would be;---every
thing depended, exactly after her expectation, on his getting that
preferment, of which, at present, there seemed not the smallest chance.

As soon as they returned to the carriage, Mrs.\ Jennings was eager
for information; but as Elinor wished to spread as little as possible
intelligence that had in the first place been so unfairly obtained,
she confined herself to the brief repetition of such simple particulars,
as she felt assured that Lucy, for the sake of her own consequence,
would choose to have known. The continuance of their engagement, and
the means that were able to be taken for promoting its end, was all
her communication; and this produced from Mrs.\ Jennings the following
natural remark.

{}``Wait for his having a living!---ay, we all know how \textit{that}
will end:---they will wait a twelvemonth, and finding no good comes
of it, will set down upon a curacy of fifty pounds a-year, with the
interest of his two thousand pounds, and what little matter Mr.\ Steele
and Mr.\ Pratt can give her.---Then they will have a child every
year!\ and Lord help 'em!\ how poor they will be!---I must see what
I can give them towards furnishing their house. Two maids and two
men, indeed!---as I talked of t'other day.---No, no, they must get
a stout girl of all works.---Betty's sister would never do for them
\textit{now}.''

The next morning brought Elinor a letter by the two-penny post from
Lucy herself. It was as follows:

\begin{quotation}
\noun{\hspace{\stretch{1}}{}``Bartlett's Building,}

\noun{\hspace{\stretch{1}}{}``March.}

\noindent {}``I hope my dear Miss Dashwood will excuse the liberty
I take of writing to her; but I know your friendship for me will make
you pleased to hear such a good account of myself and my dear Edward,
after all the troubles we have went through lately, therefore will
make no more apologies, but proceed to say that, thank God!\ though
we have suffered dreadfully, we are both quite well now, and as happy
as we must always be in one another's love. We have had great trials,
and great persecutions, but however, at the same time, gratefully
acknowledge many friends, yourself not the least among them, whose
great kindness I shall always thankfully remember, as will Edward
too, who I have told of it. I am sure you will be glad to hear, as
likewise dear Mrs.\ Jennings, I spent two happy hours with him yesterday
afternoon, he would not hear of our parting, though earnestly did
I, as I thought my duty required, urge him to it for prudence sake,
and would have parted for ever on the spot, would he consent to it;
but he said it should never be, he did not regard his mother's anger,
while he could have my affections; our prospects are not very bright,
to be sure, but we must wait, and hope for the best; he will be ordained
shortly; and should it ever be in your power to recommend him to any
body that has a living to bestow, am very sure you will not forget
us, and dear Mrs.\ Jennings too, trust she will speak a good word
for us to Sir John, or Mr.\ Palmer, or any friend that may be able
to assist us.---Poor Anne was much to blame for what she did, but
she did it for the best, so I say nothing; hope Mrs.\ Jennings won't
think it too much trouble to give us a call, should she come this
way any morning, 'twould be a great kindness, and my cousins would
be proud to know her.---My paper reminds me to conclude; and begging
to be most gratefully and respectfully remembered to her, and to Sir
John, and Lady Middleton, and the dear children, when you chance to
see them, and love to Miss Marianne,

{}``I am, \&c.'' 
\end{quotation}
As soon as Elinor had finished it, she performed what she concluded
to be its writer's real design, by placing it in the hands of Mrs.\ Jennings,
who read it aloud with many comments of satisfaction and praise.

{}``Very well indeed!---how prettily she writes!---aye, that was
quite proper to let him be off if he would. That was just like Lucy.---Poor
soul! I wish I \textit{could} get him a living, with all my heart.---She
calls me dear Mrs.\ Jennings, you see. She is a good-hearted girl
as ever lived.---Very well upon my word. That sentence is very prettily
turned. Yes, yes, I will go and see her, sure enough. How attentive
she is, to think of every body!---Thank you, my dear, for shewing
it me. It is as pretty a letter as ever I saw, and does Lucy's head
and heart great credit.''


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER 39}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER 39}

\markboth{SENSE AND SENSIBILITY}{CHAPTER 39}

The Miss Dashwoods had now been rather more than two months in town,
and Marianne's impatience to be gone increased every day. She sighed
for the air, the liberty, the quiet of the country; and fancied that
if any place could give her ease, Barton must do it. Elinor was hardly
less anxious than herself for their removal, and only so much less
bent on its being effected immediately, as that she was conscious
of the difficulties of so long a journey, which Marianne could not
be brought to acknowledge. She began, however, seriously to turn her
thoughts towards its accomplishment, and had already mentioned their
wishes to their kind hostess, who resisted them with all the eloquence
of her good-will, when a plan was suggested, which, though detaining
them from home yet a few weeks longer, appeared to Elinor altogether
much more eligible than any other. The Palmers were to remove to Cleveland
about the end of March, for the Easter holidays; and Mrs.\ Jennings,
with both her friends, received a very warm invitation from Charlotte
to go with them. This would not, in itself, have been sufficient for
the delicacy of Miss Dashwood;---but it was inforced with so much
real politeness by Mr.\ Palmer himself, as, joined to the very great
amendment of his manners towards them since her sister had been known
to be unhappy, induced her to accept it with pleasure.

When she told Marianne what she had done, however, her first reply
was not very auspicious.

{}``Cleveland!''---she cried, with great agitation. {}``No, I cannot
go to Cleveland.''---

{}``You forget,'' said Elinor gently, {}``that its situation is
not \ldots{}\ that it is not in the neighbourhood of\ldots{}.''

{}``But it is in Somersetshire.---I cannot go into Somersetshire.---There,
where I looked forward to going\ldots{}. No, Elinor, you cannot expect
me to go there.''

Elinor would not argue upon the propriety of overcoming such feelings;---she
only endeavoured to counteract them by working on others;---represented
it, therefore, as a measure which would fix the time of her returning
to that dear mother, whom she so much wished to see, in a more eligible,
more comfortable manner, than any other plan could do, and perhaps
without any greater delay. From Cleveland, which was within a few
miles of Bristol, the distance to Barton was not beyond one day, though
a long day's journey; and their mother's servant might easily come
there to attend them down; and as there could be no occasion of their
staying above a week at Cleveland, they might now be at home in little
more than three weeks' time. As Marianne's affection for her mother
was sincere, it must triumph with little difficulty, over the imaginary
evils she had started.

Mrs.\ Jennings was so far from being weary of her guests, that she
pressed them very earnestly to return with her again from Cleveland.
Elinor was grateful for the attention, but it could not alter her
design; and their mother's concurrence being readily gained, every
thing relative to their return was arranged as far as it could be;---and
Marianne found some relief in drawing up a statement of the hours
that were yet to divide her from Barton.

{}``Ah! Colonel, I do not know what you and I shall do without the
Miss Dashwoods;''---was Mrs.\ Jennings's address to him when he
first called on her, after their leaving her was settled---{}``for
they are quite resolved upon going home from the Palmers;---and how
forlorn we shall be, when I come back!---Lord!\ we shall sit and
gape at one another as dull as two cats.''

Perhaps Mrs.\ Jennings was in hopes, by this vigorous sketch of their
future ennui, to provoke him to make that offer, which might give
himself an escape from it;---and if so, she had soon afterwards good
reason to think her object gained; for, on Elinor's moving to the
window to take more expeditiously the dimensions of a print, which
she was going to copy for her friend, he followed her to it with a
look of particular meaning, and conversed with her there for several
minutes. The effect of his discourse on the lady too, could not escape
her observation, for though she was too honorable to listen, and had
even changed her seat, on purpose that she might \textit{not} hear,
to one close by the piano forte on which Marianne was playing, she
could not keep herself from seeing that Elinor changed colour, attended
with agitation, and was too intent on what he said to pursue her employment.---Still
farther in confirmation of her hopes, in the interval of Marianne's
turning from one lesson to another, some words of the Colonel's inevitably
reached her ear, in which he seemed to be apologising for the badness
of his house. This set the matter beyond a doubt. She wondered, indeed,
at his thinking it necessary to do so; but supposed it to be the proper
etiquette. What Elinor said in reply she could not distinguish, but
judged from the motion of her lips, that she did not think \textit{that}
any material objection;---and Mrs.\ Jennings commended her in her
heart for being so honest. They then talked on for a few minutes longer
without her catching a syllable, when another lucky stop in Marianne's
performance brought her these words in the Colonel's calm voice,---

{}``I am afraid it cannot take place very soon.''

Astonished and shocked at so unlover-like a speech, she was almost
ready to cry out, {}``Lord!\ what should hinder it?''---but checking
her desire, confined herself to this silent ejaculation.

{}``This is very strange!---sure he need not wait to be older.''

This delay on the Colonel's side, however, did not seem to offend
or mortify his fair companion in the least, for on their breaking
up the conference soon afterwards, and moving different ways, Mrs.\ Jennings
very plainly heard Elinor say, and with a voice which shewed her to
feel what she said,

{}``I shall always think myself very much obliged to you.''

Mrs.\ Jennings was delighted with her gratitude, and only wondered
that after hearing such a sentence, the Colonel should be able to
take leave of them, as he immediately did, with the utmost \emph{sang-froid},
and go away without making her any reply!---She had not thought her
old friend could have made so indifferent a suitor.

What had really passed between them was to this effect.

{}``I have heard,'' said he, with great compassion, {}``of the
injustice your friend Mr.\ Ferrars has suffered from his family;
for if I understand the matter right, he has been entirely cast off
by them for persevering in his engagement with a very deserving young
woman.---Have I been rightly informed?---Is it so?---''

Elinor told him that it was.

{}``The cruelty, the impolitic cruelty,''---he replied, with great
feeling,---{}``of dividing, or attempting to divide, two young people
long attached to each other, is terrible.---Mrs.\ Ferrars does not
know what she may be doing---what she may drive her son to. I have
seen Mr.\ Ferrars two or three times in Harley Street, and am much
pleased with him. He is not a young man with whom one can be intimately
acquainted in a short time, but I have seen enough of him to wish
him well for his own sake, and as a friend of yours, I wish it still
more. I understand that he intends to take orders. Will you be so
good as to tell him that the living of Delaford, now just vacant,
as I am informed by this day's post, is his, if he think it worth
his acceptance---but \textit{that}, perhaps, so unfortunately circumstanced
as he is now, it may be nonsense to appear to doubt; I only wish it
were more valuable.---It is a rectory, but a small one; the late incumbent,
I believe, did not make more than \pounds{}200 per annum, and though
it is certainly capable of improvement, I fear, not to such an amount
as to afford him a very comfortable income. Such as it is, however,
my pleasure in presenting him to it, will be very great. Pray assure
him of it.''

Elinor's astonishment at this commission could hardly have been greater,
had the Colonel been really making her an offer of his hand. The preferment,
which only two days before she had considered as hopeless for Edward,
was already provided to enable him to marry;---and \textit{she}, of
all people in the world, was fixed on to bestow it!---Her emotion
was such as Mrs.\ Jennings had attributed to a very different cause;---but
whatever minor feelings less pure, less pleasing, might have a share
in that emotion, her esteem for the general benevolence, and her gratitude
for the particular friendship, which together prompted Colonel Brandon
to this act, were strongly felt, and warmly expressed. She thanked
him for it with all her heart, spoke of Edward's principles and disposition
with that praise which she knew them to deserve; and promised to undertake
the commission with pleasure, if it were really his wish to put off
so agreeable an office to another. But at the same time, she could
not help thinking that no one could so well perform it as himself.
It was an office in short, from which, unwilling to give Edward the
pain of receiving an obligation from \textit{her}, she would have
been very glad to be spared herself;---but Colonel Brandon, on motives
of equal delicacy, declining it likewise, still seemed so desirous
of its being given through her means, that she would not on any account
make farther opposition. Edward, she believed, was still in town,
and fortunately she had heard his address from Miss Steele. She could
undertake therefore to inform him of it, in the course of the day.
After this had been settled, Colonel Brandon began to talk of his
own advantage in securing so respectable and agreeable a neighbour,
and \textit{then} it was that he mentioned with regret, that the house
was small and indifferent;---an evil which Elinor, as Mrs.\ Jennings
had supposed her to do, made very light of, at least as far as regarded
its size.

{}``The smallness of the house,'' said she, {}``I cannot imagine
any inconvenience to them, for it will be in proportion to their family
and income.''

By which the Colonel was surprised to find that \textit{she} was considering
Mr.\ Ferrars's marriage as the certain consequence of the presentation;
for he did not suppose it possible that Delaford living could supply
such an income, as anybody in his style of life would venture to settle
on---and he said so.

{}``This little rectory \textit{can} do no more than make Mr.\ Ferrars
comfortable as a bachelor; it cannot enable him to marry. I am sorry
to say that my patronage ends with this; and my interest is hardly
more extensive. If, however, by an unforeseen chance it should be
in my power to serve him farther, I must think very differently of
him from what I now do, if I am not as ready to be useful to him then
as I sincerely wish I could be at present. What I am now doing indeed,
seems nothing at all, since it can advance him so little towards what
must be his principal, his only object of happiness. His marriage
must still be a distant good;---at least, I am afraid it cannot take
place very soon.---''

Such was the sentence which, when misunderstood, so justly offended
the delicate feelings of Mrs.\ Jennings; but after this narration
of what really passed between Colonel Brandon and Elinor, while they
stood at the window, the gratitude expressed by the latter on their
parting, may perhaps appear in general, not less reasonably excited,
nor less properly worded than if it had arisen from an offer of marriage.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER 40}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER 40}

\markboth{SENSE AND SENSIBILITY}{CHAPTER 40}

{}``Well, Miss Dashwood,'' said Mrs.\ Jennings, sagaciously smiling,
as soon as the gentleman had withdrawn, {}``I do not ask you what
the Colonel has been saying to you; for though, upon my honour, I
\textit{tried} to keep out of hearing, I could not help catching enough
to understand his business. And I assure you I never was better pleased
in my life, and I wish you joy of it with all my heart.''

{}``Thank you, ma'am,'' said Elinor. {}``It is a matter of great
joy to me; and I feel the goodness of Colonel Brandon most sensibly.
There are not many men who would act as he has done. Few people who
have so compassionate a heart! I never was more astonished in my life.''

{}``Lord!\ my dear, you are very modest. I an't the least astonished
at it in the world, for I have often thought of late, there was nothing
more likely to happen.''

{}``You judged from your knowledge of the Colonel's general benevolence;
but at least you could not foresee that the opportunity would so very
soon occur.''

{}``Opportunity!''\ repeated Mrs.\ Jennings---{}``Oh!\ as to
that, when a man has once made up his mind to such a thing, somehow
or other he will soon find an opportunity. Well, my dear, I wish you
joy of it again and again; and if ever there was a happy couple in
the world, I think I shall soon know where to look for them.''

{}``You mean to go to Delaford after them I suppose,'' said Elinor,
with a faint smile.

{}``Aye, my dear, that I do, indeed. And as to the house being a
bad one, I do not know what the Colonel would be at, for it is as
good a one as ever I saw.''

{}``He spoke of its being out of repair.''

{}``Well, and whose fault is that?\ why don't he repair it?---who
should do it but himself?''

They were interrupted by the servant's coming in to announce the carriage
being at the door; and Mrs.\ Jennings immediately preparing to go,
said,---

{}``Well, my dear, I must be gone before I have had half my talk
out. But, however, we may have it all over in the evening; for we
shall be quite alone. I do not ask you to go with me, for I dare say
your mind is too full of the matter to care for company; and besides,
you must long to tell your sister all about it.''

Marianne had left the room before the conversation began.

{}``Certainly, ma'am, I shall tell Marianne of it; but I shall not
mention it at present to any body else.''

{}``Oh!\ very well,'' said Mrs.\ Jennings rather disappointed.
{}``Then you would not have me tell it to Lucy, for I think of going
as far as Holborn to-day.''

{}``No, ma'am, not even Lucy if you please. One day's delay will
not be very material; and till I have written to Mr.\ Ferrars, I
think it ought not to be mentioned to any body else. I shall do \textit{that}
directly. It is of importance that no time should be lost with him,
for he will of course have much to do relative to his ordination.''

This speech at first puzzled Mrs.\ Jennings exceedingly. Why Mr.\ Ferrars
was to have been written to about it in such a hurry, she could not
immediately comprehend. A few moments' reflection, however, produced
a very happy idea, and she exclaimed;---

{}``Oh, ho!---I understand you. Mr.\ Ferrars is to be the man. Well,
so much the better for him. Ay, to be sure, he must be ordained in
readiness; and I am very glad to find things are so forward between
you. But, my dear, is not this rather out of character? Should not
the Colonel write himself?---sure, he is the proper person.''

Elinor did not quite understand the beginning of Mrs.\ Jennings's
speech, neither did she think it worth inquiring into; and therefore
only replied to its conclusion.

{}``Colonel Brandon is so delicate a man, that he rather wished any
one to announce his intentions to Mr.\ Ferrars than himself.''

{}``And so \textit{you} are forced to do it. Well \textit{that} is
an odd kind of delicacy! However, I will not disturb you'' (seeing
her preparing to write.) {}``You know your own concerns best. So
goodby, my dear. I have not heard of any thing to please me so well
since Charlotte was brought to bed.''

And away she went; but returning again in a moment,

{}``I have just been thinking of Betty's sister, my dear. I should
be very glad to get her so good a mistress. But whether she would
do for a lady's maid, I am sure I can't tell. She is an excellent
housemaid, and works very well at her needle. However, you will think
of all that at your leisure.''

{}``Certainly, ma'am,'' replied Elinor, not hearing much of what
she said, and more anxious to be alone, than to be mistress of the
subject.

How she should begin---how she should express herself in her note
to Edward, was now all her concern. The particular circumstances between
them made a difficulty of that which to any other person would have
been the easiest thing in the world; but she equally feared to say
too much or too little, and sat deliberating over her paper, with
the pen in her band, till broken in on by the entrance of Edward himself.

He had met Mrs.\ Jennings at the door in her way to the carriage,
as he came to leave his farewell card; and she, after apologising
for not returning herself, had obliged him to enter, by saying that
Miss Dashwood was above, and wanted to speak with him on very particular
business.

Elinor had just been congratulating herself, in the midst of her perplexity,
that however difficult it might be to express herself properly by
letter, it was at least preferable to giving the information by word
of mouth, when her visitor entered, to force her upon this greatest
exertion of all. Her astonishment and confusion were very great on
his so sudden appearance. She had not seen him before since his engagement
became public, and therefore not since his knowing her to be acquainted
with it; which, with the consciousness of what she had been thinking
of, and what she had to tell him, made her feel particularly uncomfortable
for some minutes. He too was much distressed; and they sat down together
in a most promising state of embarrassment.---Whether he had asked
her pardon for his intrusion on first coming into the room, he could
not recollect; but determining to be on the safe side, he made his
apology in form as soon as he could say any thing, after taking a
chair.

{}``Mrs.\ Jennings told me,'' said he, {}``that you wished to
speak with me, at least I understood her so---or I certainly should
not have intruded on you in such a manner; though at the same time,
I should have been extremely sorry to leave London without seeing
you and your sister; especially as it will most likely be some time---it
is not probable that I should soon have the pleasure of meeting you
again. I go to Oxford tomorrow.''

{}``You would not have gone, however,'' said Elinor, recovering
herself, and determined to get over what she so much dreaded as soon
as possible, {}``without receiving our good wishes, even if we had
not been able to give them in person. Mrs.\ Jennings was quite right
in what she said. I have something of consequence to inform you of,
which I was on the point of communicating by paper. I am charged with
a most agreeable office'' (breathing rather faster than usual as
she spoke.) {}``Colonel Brandon, who was here only ten minutes ago,
has desired me to say, that understanding you mean to take orders,
he has great pleasure in offering you the living of Delaford now just
vacant, and only wishes it were more valuable. Allow me to congratulate
you on having so respectable and well-judging a friend, and to join
in his wish that the living---it is about two hundred a-year---were
much more considerable, and such as might better enable you to---as
might be more than a temporary accommodation to yourself---such, in
short, as might establish all your views of happiness.''

What Edward felt, as he could not say it himself, it cannot be expected
that any one else should say for him. He \textit{looked} all the astonishment
which such unexpected, such unthought-of information could not fail
of exciting; but he said only these two words,

{}``Colonel Brandon!''

{}``Yes,'' continued Elinor, gathering more resolution, as some
of the worst was over, {}``Colonel Brandon means it as a testimony
of his concern for what has lately passed---for the cruel situation
in which the unjustifiable conduct of your family has placed you---a
concern which I am sure Marianne, myself, and all your friends, must
share; and likewise as a proof of his high esteem for your general
character, and his particular approbation of your behaviour on the
present occasion.''

{}``Colonel Brandon give \textit{me} a living!---Can it be possible?''

{}``The unkindness of your own relations has made you astonished
to find friendship any where.''

{}``No,'' replied he, with sudden consciousness, {}``not to find
it in \textit{you}; for I cannot be ignorant that to you, to your
goodness, I owe it all.---I feel it---I would express it if I could---but,
as you well know, I am no orator.''

{}``You are very much mistaken. I do assure you that you owe it entirely,
at least almost entirely, to your own merit, and Colonel Brandon's
discernment of it. I have had no hand in it. I did not even know,
till I understood his design, that the living was vacant; nor had
it ever occurred to me that he might have had such a living in his
gift. As a friend of mine, of my family, he may, perhaps---indeed
I know he \textit{has}, still greater pleasure in bestowing it; but,
upon my word, you owe nothing to my solicitation.''

Truth obliged her to acknowledge some small share in the action, but
she was at the same time so unwilling to appear as the benefactress
of Edward, that she acknowledged it with hesitation; which probably
contributed to fix that suspicion in his mind which had recently entered
it. For a short time he sat deep in thought, after Elinor had ceased
to speak;---at last, and as if it were rather an effort, he said,

{}``Colonel Brandon seems a man of great worth and respectability.
I have always heard him spoken of as such, and your brother I know
esteems him highly. He is undoubtedly a sensible man, and in his manners
perfectly the gentleman.''

{}``Indeed,'' replied Elinor, {}``I believe that you will find
him, on farther acquaintance, all that you have heard him to be, and
as you will be such very near neighbours (for I understand the parsonage
is almost close to the mansion-house,) it is particularly important
that he \textit{should} be all this.''

Edward made no answer; but when she had turned away her head, gave
her a look so serious, so earnest, so uncheerful, as seemed to say,
that he might hereafter wish the distance between the parsonage and
the mansion-house much greater.

{}``Colonel Brandon, I think, lodges in St.\ James Street,'' said
he, soon afterwards, rising from his chair.

Elinor told him the number of the house.

{}``I must hurry away then, to give him those thanks which you will
not allow me to give \textit{you}; to assure him that he has made
me a very---an exceedingly happy man.''

Elinor did not offer to detain him; and they parted, with a very earnest
assurance on \textit{her} side of her unceasing good wishes for his
happiness in every change of situation that might befall him; on \textit{his},
with rather an attempt to return the same good will, than the power
of expressing it.

{}``When I see him again,'' said Elinor to herself, as the door
shut him out, {}``I shall see him the husband of Lucy.''

And with this pleasing anticipation, she sat down to reconsider the
past, recall the words and endeavour to comprehend all the feelings
of Edward; and, of course, to reflect on her own with discontent.

When Mrs.\ Jennings came home, though she returned from seeing people
whom she had never seen before, and of whom therefore she must have
a great deal to say, her mind was so much more occupied by the important
secret in her possession, than by anything else, that she reverted
to it again as soon as Elinor appeared.

{}``Well, my dear,'' she cried, {}``I sent you up to the young
man. Did not I do right?---And I suppose you had no great difficulty---You
did not find him very unwilling to accept your proposal?''

{}``No, ma'am; \textit{that} was not very likely.''

{}``Well, and how soon will he be ready?---For it seems all to depend
upon that.''

{}``Really,'' said Elinor, {}``I know so little of these kind of
forms, that I can hardly even conjecture as to the time, or the preparation
necessary; but I suppose two or three months will complete his ordination.''

{}``Two or three months!''\ cried Mrs.\ Jennings; {}``Lord!\ my
dear, how calmly you talk of it; and can the Colonel wait two or three
months! Lord bless me!---I am sure it would put \textit{me} quite
out of patience!---And though one would be very glad to do a kindness
by poor Mr.\ Ferrars, I do think it is not worth while to wait two
or three months for him. Sure somebody else might be found that would
do as well; somebody that is in orders already.''

{}``My dear ma'am,'' said Elinor, {}``what can you be thinking
of?---Why, Colonel Brandon's only object is to be of use to Mr.\ Ferrars.''

{}``Lord bless you, my dear!---Sure you do not mean to persuade me
that the Colonel only marries you for the sake of giving ten guineas
to Mr.\ Ferrars!''

The deception could not continue after this; and an explanation immediately
took place, by which both gained considerable amusement for the moment,
without any material loss of happiness to either, for Mrs.\ Jennings
only exchanged one form of delight for another, and still without
forfeiting her expectation of the first.

{}``Aye, aye, the parsonage is but a small one,'' said she, after
the first ebullition of surprise and satisfaction was over, {}``and
very likely \textit{may} be out of repair; but to hear a man apologising,
as I thought, for a house that to my knowledge has five sitting rooms
on the ground-floor, and I think the housekeeper told me could make
up fifteen beds!---and to you too, that had been used to live in Barton
cottage!---It seems quite ridiculous. But, my dear, we must touch
up the Colonel to do some thing to the parsonage, and make it comfortable
for them, before Lucy goes to it.''

{}``But Colonel Brandon does not seem to have any idea of the living's
being enough to allow them to marry.''

{}``The Colonel is a ninny, my dear; because he has two thousand
a-year himself, he thinks that nobody else can marry on less. Take
my word for it, that, if I am alive, I shall be paying a visit at
Delaford Parsonage before Michaelmas; and I am sure I sha'nt go if
Lucy an't there.''

Elinor was quite of her opinion, as to the probability of their not
waiting for any thing more.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER 41}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER 41}

\markboth{SENSE AND SENSIBILITY}{CHAPTER 41}

Edward, having carried his thanks to Colonel Brandon, proceeded with
his happiness to Lucy; and such was the excess of it by the time he
reached Bartlett's Buildings, that she was able to assure Mrs.\ Jennings,
who called on her again the next day with her congratulations, that
she had never seen him in such spirits before in her life.

Her own happiness, and her own spirits, were at least very certain;
and she joined Mrs.\ Jennings most heartily in her expectation of
their being all comfortably together in Delaford Parsonage before
Michaelmas. So far was she, at the same time, from any backwardness
to give Elinor that credit which Edward \textit{would} give her, that
she spoke of her friendship for them both with the most grateful warmth,
was ready to own all their obligation to her, and openly declared
that no exertion for their good on Miss Dashwood's part, either present
or future, would ever surprise her, for she believed her capable of
doing any thing in the world for those she really valued. As for Colonel
Brandon, she was not only ready to worship him as a saint, but was
moreover truly anxious that he should be treated as one in all worldly
concerns; anxious that his tithes should be raised to the utmost;
and scarcely resolved to avail herself, at Delaford, as far as she
possibly could, of his servants, his carriage, his cows, and his poultry.

It was now above a week since John Dashwood had called in Berkeley
Street, and as since that time no notice had been taken by them of
his wife's indisposition, beyond one verbal enquiry, Elinor began
to feel it necessary to pay her a visit.---This was an obligation,
however, which not only opposed her own inclination, but which had
not the assistance of any encouragement from her companions. Marianne,
not contented with absolutely refusing to go herself, was very urgent
to prevent her sister's going at all; and Mrs.\ Jennings, though
her carriage was always at Elinor's service, so very much disliked
Mrs.\ John Dashwood, that not even her curiosity to see how she looked
after the late discovery, nor her strong desire to affront her by
taking Edward's part, could overcome her unwillingness to be in her
company again. The consequence was, that Elinor set out by herself
to pay a visit, for which no one could really have less inclination,
and to run the risk of a \emph{t\^{e}te-\`{a}-t\^{e}te} with a
woman, whom neither of the others had so much reason to dislike.

Mrs.\ Dashwood was denied; but before the carriage could turn from
the house, her husband accidentally came out. He expressed great pleasure
in meeting Elinor, told her that he had been just going to call in
Berkeley Street, and, assuring her that Fanny would be very glad to
see her, invited her to come in.

They walked up stairs in to the drawing-room.---Nobody was there.

{}``Fanny is in her own room, I suppose,'' said he:---{}``I will
go to her presently, for I am sure she will not have the least objection
in the world to seeing \textit{you}.---Very far from it, indeed. \textit{Now}
especially there cannot be---but however, you and Marianne were always
great favourites.---Why would not Marianne come?''---

Elinor made what excuse she could for her.

{}``I am not sorry to see you alone,'' he replied, {}``for I have
a good deal to say to you. This living of Colonel Brandon's---can
it be true?---has he really given it to Edward?---I heard it yesterday
by chance, and was coming to you on purpose to enquire farther about
it.''

{}``It is perfectly true.---Colonel Brandon has given the living
of Delaford to Edward.''

{}``Really!---Well, this is very astonishing!---no relationship!---no
connection between them!---and now that livings fetch such a price!---what
was the value of this?''

{}``About two hundred a year.''

{}``Very well---and for the next presentation to a living of that
value---supposing the late incumbent to have been old and sickly,
and likely to vacate it soon---he might have got I dare say---fourteen
hundred pounds. And how came he not to have settled that matter before
this person's death?---\textit{Now} indeed it would be too late to
sell it, but a man of Colonel Brandon's sense!---I wonder he should
be so improvident in a point of such common, such natural, concern!---Well,
I am convinced that there is a vast deal of inconsistency in almost
every human character. I suppose, however---on recollection---that
the case may probably be \textit{this}. Edward is only to hold the
living till the person to whom the Colonel has really sold the presentation,
is old enough to take it.---Aye, aye, that is the fact, depend upon
it.''

Elinor contradicted it, however, very positively; and by relating
that she had herself been employed in conveying the offer from Colonel
Brandon to Edward, and, therefore, must understand the terms on which
it was given, obliged him to submit to her authority.

{}``It is truly astonishing!''---he cried, after hearing what she
said---{}``what could be the Colonel's motive?''

{}``A very simple one---to be of use to Mr.\ Ferrars.''

{}``Well, well; whatever Colonel Brandon may be, Edward is a very
lucky man.---You will not mention the matter to Fanny, however, for
though I have broke it to her, and she bears it vastly well,---she
will not like to hear it much talked of.''

Elinor had some difficulty here to refrain from observing, that she
thought Fanny might have borne with composure, an acquisition of wealth
to her brother, by which neither she nor her child could be possibly
impoverished.

{}``Mrs.\ Ferrars,'' added he, lowering his voice to the tone becoming
so important a subject, {}``knows nothing about it at present, and
I believe it will be best to keep it entirely concealed from her as
long as may be.---When the marriage takes place, I fear she must hear
of it all.''

{}``But why should such precaution be used?---Though it is not to
be supposed that Mrs.\ Ferrars can have the smallest satisfaction
in knowing that her son has money enough to live upon,---for \textit{that}
must be quite out of the question; yet why, upon her late behaviour,
is she supposed to feel at all?---She has done with her son, she cast
him off for ever, and has made all those over whom she had any influence,
cast him off likewise. Surely, after doing so, she cannot be imagined
liable to any impression of sorrow or of joy on his account---she
cannot be interested in any thing that befalls him.---She would not
be so weak as to throw away the comfort of a child, and yet retain
the anxiety of a parent!''

{}``Ah! Elinor,'' said John, {}``your reasoning is very good, but
it is founded on ignorance of human nature. When Edward's unhappy
match takes place, depend upon it his mother will feel as much as
if she had never discarded him; and, therefore every circumstance
that may accelerate that dreadful event, must be concealed from her
as much as possible. Mrs.\ Ferrars can never forget that Edward is
her son.''

{}``You surprise me; I should think it must nearly have escaped her
memory by \textit{this} time.''

{}``You wrong her exceedingly. Mrs.\ Ferrars is one of the most
affectionate mothers in the world.''

Elinor was silent.

{}``We think \textit{now},''---said Mr.\ Dashwood, after a short
pause, {}``of \textit{Robert's} marrying Miss Morton.''

Elinor, smiling at the grave and decisive importance of her brother's
tone, calmly replied,

{}``The lady, I suppose, has no choice in the affair.''

{}``Choice!---how do you mean?''

{}``I only mean that I suppose, from your manner of speaking, it
must be the same to Miss Morton whether she marry Edward or Robert.''

{}``Certainly, there can be no difference; for Robert will now to
all intents and purposes be considered as the eldest son;---and as
to any thing else, they are both very agreeable young men: I do not
know that one is superior to the other.''

Elinor said no more, and John was also for a short time silent.---His
reflections ended thus.

{}``Of \textit{one} thing, my dear sister,'' kindly taking her hand,
and speaking in an awful whisper,---{}``I may assure you;---and I
\textit{will} do it, because I know it must gratify you. I have good
reason to think---indeed I have it from the best authority, or I should
not repeat it, for otherwise it would be very wrong to say any thing
about it---but I have it from the very best authority---not that I
ever precisely heard Mrs.\ Ferrars say it herself---but her daughter
\textit{did}, and I have it from her---That in short, whatever objections
there might be against a certain---a certain connection---you understand
me---it would have been far preferable to her, it would not have given
her half the vexation that \textit{this} does. I was exceedingly pleased
to hear that Mrs.\ Ferrars considered it in that light---a very gratifying
circumstance you know to us all. `It would have been beyond comparison,'
she said, `the least evil of the two, and she would be glad to compound
\textit{now} for nothing worse.' But however, all that is quite out
of the question---not to be thought of or mentioned---as to any attachment
you know---it never could be---all that is gone by. But I thought
I would just tell you of this, because I knew how much it must please
you. Not that you have any reason to regret, my dear Elinor. There
is no doubt of your doing exceedingly well---quite as well, or better,
perhaps, all things considered. Has Colonel Brandon been with you
lately?''

Elinor had heard enough, if not to gratify her vanity, and raise her
self-importance, to agitate her nerves and fill her mind;---and she
was therefore glad to be spared from the necessity of saying much
in reply herself, and from the danger of hearing any thing more from
her brother, by the entrance of Mr.\ Robert Ferrars. After a few
moments' chat, John Dashwood, recollecting that Fanny was yet uninformed
of her sister's being there, quitted the room in quest of her; and
Elinor was left to improve her acquaintance with Robert, who, by the
gay unconcern, the happy self-complacency of his manner while enjoying
so unfair a division of his mother's love and liberality, to the prejudice
of his banished brother, earned only by his own dissipated course
of life, and that brother's integrity, was confirming her most unfavourable
opinion of his head and heart.

They had scarcely been two minutes by themselves, before he began
to speak of Edward; for he, too, had heard of the living, and was
very inquisitive on the subject. Elinor repeated the particulars of
it, as she had given them to John; and their effect on Robert, though
very different, was not less striking than it had been on \textit{him}.
He laughed most immoderately. The idea of Edward's being a clergyman,
and living in a small parsonage-house, diverted him beyond measure;---and
when to that was added the fanciful imagery of Edward reading prayers
in a white surplice, and publishing the banns of marriage between
John Smith and Mary Brown, he could conceive nothing more ridiculous.

Elinor, while she waited in silence and immovable gravity, the conclusion
of such folly, could not restrain her eyes from being fixed on him
with a look that spoke all the contempt it excited. It was a look,
however, very well bestowed, for it relieved her own feelings, and
gave no intelligence to him. He was recalled from wit to wisdom, not
by any reproof of her's, but by his own sensibility.

{}``We may treat it as a joke,'' said he, at last, recovering from
the affected laugh which had considerably lengthened out the genuine
gaiety of the moment---{}``but, upon my soul, it is a most serious
business. Poor Edward!\ he is ruined for ever. I am extremely sorry
for it---for I know him to be a very good-hearted creature; as well-meaning
a fellow perhaps, as any in the world. You must not judge of him,
Miss Dashwood, from \textit{your} slight acquaintance.---Poor Edward!---His
manners are certainly not the happiest in nature.---But we are not
all born, you know, with the same powers,---the same address.---Poor
fellow!---to see him in a circle of strangers!---to be sure it was
pitiable enough!---but upon my soul, I believe he has as good a heart
as any in the kingdom; and I declare and protest to you I never was
so shocked in my life, as when it all burst forth. I could not believe
it.---My mother was the first person who told me of it; and I, feeling
myself called on to act with resolution, immediately said to her,
`My dear madam, I do not know what you may intend to do on the occasion,
but as for myself, I must say, that if Edward does marry this young
woman, I never will see him again.' That was what I said immediately.---I
was most uncommonly shocked, indeed!---Poor Edward!---he has done
for himself completely---shut himself out for ever from all decent
society!---but, as I directly said to my mother, I am not in the least
surprised at it; from his style of education, it was always to be
expected. My poor mother was half frantic.''

{}``Have you ever seen the lady?''

{}``Yes; once, while she was staying in this house, I happened to
drop in for ten minutes; and I saw quite enough of her. The merest
awkward country girl, without style, or elegance, and almost without
beauty.---I remember her perfectly. Just the kind of girl I should
suppose likely to captivate poor Edward. I offered immediately, as
soon as my mother related the affair to me, to talk to him myself,
and dissuade him from the match; but it was too late \textit{then},
I found, to do any thing, for unluckily, I was not in the way at first,
and knew nothing of it till after the breach had taken place, when
it was not for me, you know, to interfere. But had I been informed
of it a few hours earlier---I think it is most probable---that something
might have been hit on. I certainly should have represented it to
Edward in a very strong light. `My dear fellow,' I should have said,
`consider what you are doing. You are making a most disgraceful connection,
and such a one as your family are unanimous in disapproving.' I cannot
help thinking, in short, that means might have been found. But now
it is all too late. He must be starved, you know;---that is certain;
absolutely starved.''

He had just settled this point with great composure, when the entrance
of Mrs.\ John Dashwood put an end to the subject. But though \textit{she}
never spoke of it out of her own family, Elinor could see its influence
on her mind, in the something like confusion of countenance with which
she entered, and an attempt at cordiality in her behaviour to herself.
She even proceeded so far as to be concerned to find that Elinor and
her sister were so soon to leave town, as she had hoped to see more
of them;---an exertion in which her husband, who attended her into
the room, and hung enamoured over her accents, seemed to distinguish
every thing that was most affectionate and graceful.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER 42}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER 42}

\markboth{SENSE AND SENSIBILITY}{CHAPTER 42}

One other short call in Harley Street, in which Elinor received her
brother's congratulations on their travelling so far towards Barton
without any expense, and on Colonel Brandon's being to follow them
to Cleveland in a day or two, completed the intercourse of the brother
and sisters in town;---and a faint invitation from Fanny, to come
to Norland whenever it should happen to be in their way, which of
all things was the most unlikely to occur, with a more warm, though
less public, assurance, from John to Elinor, of the promptitude with
which he should come to see her at Delaford, was all that foretold
any meeting in the country.

It amused her to observe that all her friends seemed determined to
send her to Delaford;---a place, in which, of all others, she would
now least chuse to visit, or wish to reside; for not only was it considered
as her future home by her brother and Mrs.\ Jennings, but even Lucy,
when they parted, gave her a pressing invitation to visit her there.

Very early in April, and tolerably early in the day, the two parties
from Hanover Square and Berkeley Street set out from their respective
homes, to meet, by appointment, on the road. For the convenience of
Charlotte and her child, they were to be more than two days on their
journey, and Mr.\ Palmer, travelling more expeditiously with Colonel
Brandon, was to join them at Cleveland soon after their arrival.

Marianne, few as had been her hours of comfort in London, and eager
as she had long been to quit it, could not, when it came to the point,
bid \emph{adieu} to the house in which she had for the last time enjoyed
those hopes, and that confidence, in Willoughby, which were now extinguished
for ever, without great pain. Nor could she leave the place in which
Willoughby remained, busy in new engagements, and new schemes, in
which \textit{she} could have no share, without shedding many tears.

Elinor's satisfaction, at the moment of removal, was more positive.
She had no such object for her lingering thoughts to fix on, she left
no creature behind, from whom it would give her a moment's regret
to be divided for ever, she was pleased to be free herself from the
persecution of Lucy's friendship, she was grateful for bringing her
sister away unseen by Willoughby since his marriage, and she looked
forward with hope to what a few months of tranquility at Barton might
do towards restoring Marianne's peace of mind, and confirming her
own.

Their journey was safely performed. The second day brought them into
the cherished, or the prohibited, county of Somerset, for as such
was it dwelt on by turns in Marianne's imagination; and in the forenoon
of the third they drove up to Cleveland.

Cleveland was a spacious, modern-built house, situated on a sloping
lawn. It had no park, but the pleasure-grounds were tolerably extensive;
and like every other place of the same degree of importance, it had
its open shrubbery, and closer wood walk, a road of smooth gravel
winding round a plantation, led to the front, the lawn was dotted
over with timber, the house itself was under the guardianship of the
fir, the mountain-ash, and the acacia, and a thick screen of them
altogether, interspersed with tall Lombardy poplars, shut out the
offices.

Marianne entered the house with a heart swelling with emotion from
the consciousness of being only eighty miles from Barton, and not
thirty from Combe Magna; and before she had been five minutes within
its walls, while the others were busily helping Charlotte to show
her child to the housekeeper, she quitted it again, stealing away
through the winding shrubberies, now just beginning to be in beauty,
to gain a distant eminence; where, from its Grecian temple, her eye,
wandering over a wide tract of country to the south-east, could fondly
rest on the farthest ridge of hills in the horizon, and fancy that
from their summits Combe Magna might be seen.

In such moments of precious, invaluable misery, she rejoiced in tears
of agony to be at Cleveland; and as she returned by a different circuit
to the house, feeling all the happy privilege of country liberty,
of wandering from place to place in free and luxurious solitude, she
resolved to spend almost every hour of every day while she remained
with the Palmers, in the indulgence of such solitary rambles.

She returned just in time to join the others as they quitted the house,
on an excursion through its more immediate premises; and the rest
of the morning was easily whiled away, in lounging round the kitchen
garden, examining the bloom upon its walls, and listening to the gardener's
lamentations upon blights, in dawdling through the green-house, where
the loss of her favourite plants, unwarily exposed, and nipped by
the lingering frost, raised the laughter of Charlotte,---and in visiting
her poultry-yard, where, in the disappointed hopes of her dairy-maid,
by hens forsaking their nests, or being stolen by a fox, or in the
rapid decrease of a promising young brood, she found fresh sources
of merriment.

The morning was fine and dry, and Marianne, in her plan of employment
abroad, had not calculated for any change of weather during their
stay at Cleveland. With great surprise therefore, did she find herself
prevented by a settled rain from going out again after dinner. She
had depended on a twilight walk to the Grecian temple, and perhaps
all over the grounds, and an evening merely cold or damp would not
have deterred her from it; but a heavy and settled rain even \textit{she}
could not fancy dry or pleasant weather for walking.

Their party was small, and the hours passed quietly away. Mrs.\ Palmer
had her child, and Mrs.\ Jennings her carpet-work; they talked of
the friends they had left behind, arranged Lady Middleton's engagements,
and wondered whether Mr.\ Palmer and Colonel Brandon would get farther
than Reading that night. Elinor, however little concerned in it, joined
in their discourse; and Marianne, who had the knack of finding her
way in every house to the library, however it might be avoided by
the family in general, soon procured herself a book.

Nothing was wanting on Mrs.\ Palmer's side that constant and friendly
good humour could do, to make them feel themselves welcome. The openness
and heartiness of her manner more than atoned for that want of recollection
and elegance which made her often deficient in the forms of politeness;
her kindness, recommended by so pretty a face, was engaging; her folly,
though evident was not disgusting, because it was not conceited; and
Elinor could have forgiven every thing but her laugh.

The two gentlemen arrived the next day to a very late dinner, affording
a pleasant enlargement of the party, and a very welcome variety to
their conversation, which a long morning of the same continued rain
had reduced very low.

Elinor had seen so little of Mr.\ Palmer, and in that little had
seen so much variety in his address to her sister and herself, that
she knew not what to expect to find him in his own family. She found
him, however, perfectly the gentleman in his behaviour to all his
visitors, and only occasionally rude to his wife and her mother; she
found him very capable of being a pleasant companion, and only prevented
from being so always, by too great an aptitude to fancy himself as
much superior to people in general, as he must feel himself to be
to Mrs.\ Jennings and Charlotte. For the rest of his character and
habits, they were marked, as far as Elinor could perceive, with no
traits at all unusual in his sex and time of life. He was nice in
his eating, uncertain in his hours; fond of his child, though affecting
to slight it; and idled away the mornings at billiards, which ought
to have been devoted to business. She liked him, however, upon the
whole, much better than she had expected, and in her heart was not
sorry that she could like him no more;---not sorry to be driven by
the observation of his Epicurism, his selfishness, and his conceit,
to rest with complacency on the remembrance of Edward's generous temper,
simple taste, and diffident feelings.

Of Edward, or at least of some of his concerns, she now received intelligence
from Colonel Brandon, who had been into Dorsetshire lately; and who,
treating her at once as the disinterested friend of Mr.\ Ferrars,
and the kind of confidant of himself, talked to her a great deal of
the parsonage at Delaford, described its deficiencies, and told her
what he meant to do himself towards removing them.---His behaviour
to her in this, as well as in every other particular, his open pleasure
in meeting her after an absence of only ten days, his readiness to
converse with her, and his deference for her opinion, might very well
justify Mrs.\ Jennings's persuasion of his attachment, and would
have been enough, perhaps, had not Elinor still, as from the first,
believed Marianne his real favourite, to make her suspect it herself.
But as it was, such a notion had scarcely ever entered her head, except
by Mrs.\ Jennings's suggestion; and she could not help believing
herself the nicest observer of the two;---she watched his eyes, while
Mrs.\ Jennings thought only of his behaviour;---and while his looks
of anxious solicitude on Marianne's feeling, in her head and throat,
the beginning of a heavy cold, because unexpressed by words, entirely
escaped the latter lady's observation;---\textit{she} could discover
in them the quick feelings, and needless alarm of a lover.

Two delighful twilight walks on the third and fourth evenings of her
being there, not merely on the dry gravel of the shrubbery, but all
over the grounds, and especially in the most distant parts of them,
where there was something more of wildness than in the rest, where
the trees were the oldest, and the grass was the longest and wettest,
had---assisted by the still greater imprudence of sitting in her wet
shoes and stockings---given Marianne a cold so violent as, though
for a day or two trifled with or denied, would force itself by increasing
ailments on the concern of every body, and the notice of herself.
Prescriptions poured in from all quarters, and as usual, were all
declined. Though heavy and feverish, with a pain in her limbs, and
a cough, and a sore throat, a good night's rest was to cure her entirely;
and it was with difficulty that Elinor prevailed on her, when she
went to bed, to try one or two of the simplest of the remedies.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER 43}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER 43}

\markboth{SENSE AND SENSIBILITY}{CHAPTER 43}

Marianne got up the next morning at her usual time; to every inquiry
replied that she was better, and tried to prove herself so, by engaging
in her accustomary employments. But a day spent in sitting shivering
over the fire with a book in her hand, which she was unable to read,
or in lying, weary and languid, on a sofa, did not speak much in favour
of her amendment; and when, at last, she went early to bed, more and
more indisposed, Colonel Brandon was only astonished at her sister's
composure, who, though attending and nursing her the whole day, against
Marianne inclination, and forcing proper medicines on her at night,
trusted, like Marianne, to the certainty and efficacy of sleep, and
felt no real alarm.

A very restless and feverish night, however, disappointed the expectation
of both; and when Marianne, after persisting in rising, confessed
herself unable to sit up, and returned voluntarily to her bed, Elinor
was very ready to adopt Mrs.\ Jennings's advice, of sending for the
Palmers' apothecary.

He came, examined his patient, and though encouraging Miss Dashwood
to expect that a very few days would restore her sister to health,
yet, by pronouncing her disorder to have a putrid tendency, and allowing
the word {}``infection'' to pass his lips, gave instant alarm to
Mrs.\ Palmer, on her baby's account. Mrs.\ Jennings, who had been
inclined from the first to think Marianne's complaint more serious
than Elinor, now looked very grave on Mr.\ Harris's report, and confirming
Charlotte's fears and caution, urged the necessity of her immediate
removal with her infant; and Mr.\ Palmer, though treating their apprehensions
as idle, found the anxiety and importunity of his wife too great to
be withstood. Her departure, therefore, was fixed on; and within an
hour after Mr.\ Harris's arrival, she set off, with her little boy
and his nurse, for the house of a near relation of Mr.\ Palmer's,
who lived a few miles on the other side of Bath; whither her husband
promised, at her earnest entreaty, to join her in a day or two; and
whither she was almost equally urgent with her mother to accompany
her. Mrs.\ Jennings, however, with a kindness of heart which made
Elinor really love her, declared her resolution of not stirring from
Cleveland as long as Marianne remained ill, and of endeavouring, by
her own attentive care, to supply to her the place of the mother she
had taken her from; and Elinor found her on every occasion a most
willing and active helpmate, desirous to share in all her fatigues,
and often by her better experience in nursing, of material use.

Poor Marianne, languid and low from the nature of her malady, and
feeling herself universally ill, could no longer hope that tomorrow
would find her recovered; and the idea of what tomorrow would have
produced, but for this unlucky illness, made every ailment severe;
for on that day they were to have begun their journey home; and, attended
the whole way by a servant of Mrs.\ Jennings, were to have taken
their mother by surprise on the following forenoon. The little she
said was all in lamentation of this inevitable delay; though Elinor
tried to raise her spirits, and make her believe, as she \textit{then}
really believed herself, that it would be a very short one.

The next day produced little or no alteration in the state of the
patient; she certainly was not better, and, except that there was
no amendment, did not appear worse. Their party was now farther reduced;
for Mr.\ Palmer, though very unwilling to go as well from real humanity
and good-nature, as from a dislike of appearing to be frightened away
by his wife, was persuaded at last by Colonel Brandon to perform his
promise of following her; and while he was preparing to go, Colonel
Brandon himself, with a much greater exertion, began to talk of going
likewise.---Here, however, the kindness of Mrs.\ Jennings interposed
most acceptably; for to send the Colonel away while his love was in
so much uneasiness on her sister's account, would be to deprive them
both, she thought, of every comfort; and therefore telling him at
once that his stay at Cleveland was necessary to herself, that she
should want him to play at piquet of an evening, while Miss Dashwood
was above with her sister, \&c., she urged him so strongly to remain,
that he, who was gratifying the first wish of his own heart by a compliance,
could not long even affect to demur; especially as Mrs.\ Jennings's
entreaty was warmly seconded by Mr.\ Palmer, who seemed to feel a
relief to himself, in leaving behind him a person so well able to
assist or advise Miss Dashwood in any emergence.

Marianne was, of course, kept in ignorance of all these arrangements.
She knew not that she had been the means of sending the owners of
Cleveland away, in about seven days from the time of their arrival.
It gave her no surprise that she saw nothing of Mrs.\ Palmer; and
as it gave her likewise no concern, she never mentioned her name.

Two days passed away from the time of Mr.\ Palmer's departure, and
her situation continued, with little variation, the same. Mr.\ Harris,
who attended her every day, still talked boldly of a speedy recovery,
and Miss Dashwood was equally sanguine; but the expectation of the
others was by no means so cheerful. Mrs.\ Jennings had determined
very early in the seizure that Marianne would never get over it, and
Colonel Brandon, who was chiefly of use in listening to Mrs.\ Jennings's
forebodings, was not in a state of mind to resist their influence.
He tried to reason himself out of fears, which the different judgment
of the apothecary seemed to render absurd; but the many hours of each
day in which he was left entirely alone, were but too favourable for
the admission of every melancholy idea, and he could not expel from
his mind the persuasion that he should see Marianne no more.

On the morning of the third day however, the gloomy anticipations
of both were almost done away; for when Mr.\ Harris arrived, he declared
his patient materially better. Her pulse was much stronger, and every
symptom more favourable than on the preceding visit. Elinor, confirmed
in every pleasant hope, was all cheerfulness; rejoicing that in her
letters to her mother, she had pursued her own judgment rather than
her friend's, in making very light of the indisposition which delayed
them at Cleveland; and almost fixing on the time when Marianne would
be able to travel.

But the day did not close so auspiciously as it began.---Towards the
evening Marianne became ill again, growing more heavy, restless, and
uncomfortable than before. Her sister, however, still sanguine, was
willing to attribute the change to nothing more than the fatigue of
having sat up to have her bed made; and carefully administering the
cordials prescribed, saw her, with satisfaction, sink at last into
a slumber, from which she expected the most beneficial effects. Her
sleep, though not so quiet as Elinor wished to see it, lasted a considerable
time; and anxious to observe the result of it herself, she resolved
to sit with her during the whole of it. Mrs.\ Jennings, knowing nothing
of any change in the patient, went unusually early to bed; her maid,
who was one of the principal nurses, was recreating herself in the
housekeeper's room, and Elinor remained alone with Marianne.

The repose of the latter became more and more disturbed; and her sister,
who watched, with unremitting attention her continual change of posture,
and heard the frequent but inarticulate sounds of complaint which
passed her lips, was almost wishing to rouse her from so painful a
slumber, when Marianne, suddenly awakened by some accidental noise
in the house, started hastily up, and, with feverish wildness, cried
out,---

{}``Is mama coming?---''

{}``Not yet,'' cried the other, concealing her terror, and assisting
Marianne to lie down again, {}``but she will be here, I hope, before
it is long. It is a great way, you know, from hence to Barton.''

{}``But she must not go round by London,'' cried Marianne, in the
same hurried manner. {}``I shall never see her, if she goes by London.''

Elinor perceived with alarm that she was not quite herself, and, while
attempting to soothe her, eagerly felt her pulse. It was lower and
quicker than ever!\ and Marianne, still talking wildly of mama, her
alarm increased so rapidly, as to determine her on sending instantly
for Mr.\ Harris, and despatching a messenger to Barton for her mother.
To consult with Colonel Brandon on the best means of effecting the
latter, was a thought which immediately followed the resolution of
its performance; and as soon she had rung up the maid to take her
place by her sister, she hastened down to the drawing-room, where
she knew he was generally to be found at a much later hour than the
present.

It was no time for hesitation. Her fears and her difficulties were
immediately before him. Her fears, he had no courage, no confidence
to attempt the removal of:---he listened to them in silent despondence;---but
her difficulties were instantly obviated, for with a readiness that
seemed to speak the occasion, and the service pre-arranged in his
mind, he offered himself as the messenger who should fetch Mrs.\ Dashwood.
Elinor made no resistance that was not easily overcome. She thanked
him with brief, though fervent gratitude, and while he went to hurry
off his servant with a message to Mr.\ Harris, and an order for post-horses
directly, she wrote a few lines to her mother.

The comfort of such a friend at that moment as Colonel Brandon---or
such a companion for her mother,---how gratefully was it felt!---a
companion whose judgment would guide, whose attendance must relieve,
and whose friendship might soothe her!---as far as the shock of such
a summons \textit{could} be lessened to her, his presence, his manners,
his assistance, would lessen it.

\textit{He}, meanwhile, whatever he might feel, acted with all the
firmness of a collected mind, made every necessary arrangement with
the utmost despatch, and calculated with exactness the time in which
she might look for his return. Not a moment was lost in delay of any
kind. The horses arrived, even before they were expected, and Colonel
Brandon only pressing her hand with a look of solemnity, and a few
words spoken too low to reach her ear, hurried into the carriage.
It was then about twelve o'clock, and she returned to her sister's
apartment to wait for the arrival of the apothecary, and to watch
by her the rest of the night. It was a night of almost equal suffering
to both. Hour after hour passed away in sleepless pain and delirium
on Marianne's side, and in the most cruel anxiety on Elinor's, before
Mr.\ Harris appeared. Her apprehensions once raised, paid by their
excess for all her former security; and the servant who sat up with
her, for she would not allow Mrs.\ Jennings to be called, only tortured
her more, by hints of what her mistress had always thought.

Marianne's ideas were still, at intervals, fixed incoherently on her
mother, and whenever she mentioned her name, it gave a pang to the
heart of poor Elinor, who, reproaching herself for having trifled
with so many days of illness, and wretched for some immediate relief,
fancied that all relief might soon be in vain, that every thing had
been delayed too long, and pictured to herself her suffering mother
arriving too late to see this darling child, or to see her rational.

She was on the point of sending again for Mr.\ Harris, or if \textit{he}
could not come, for some other advice, when the former---but not till
after five o'clock---arrived. His opinion, however, made some little
amends for his delay, for though acknowledging a very unexpected and
unpleasant alteration in his patient, he would not allow the danger
to be material, and talked of the relief which a fresh mode of treatment
must procure, with a confidence which, in a lesser degree, was communicated
to Elinor. He promised to call again in the course of three or four
hours, and left both the patient and her anxious attendant more composed
than he had found them.

With strong concern, and with many reproaches for not being called
to their aid, did Mrs.\ Jennings hear in the morning of what had
passed. Her former apprehensions, now with greater reason restored,
left her no doubt of the event; and though trying to speak comfort
to Elinor, her conviction of her sister's danger would not allow her
to offer the comfort of hope. Her heart was really grieved. The rapid
decay, the early death of a girl so young, so lovely as Marianne,
must have struck a less interested person with concern. On Mrs.\ Jennings's
compassion she had other claims. She had been for three months her
companion, was still under her care, and she was known to have been
greatly injured, and long unhappy. The distress of her sister too,
particularly a favourite, was before her;---and as for their mother,
when Mrs.\ Jennings considered that Marianne might probably be to
\textit{her} what Charlotte was to herself, her sympathy in \textit{her}
sufferings was very sincere.

Mr.\ Harris was punctual in his second visit;---but he came to be
disappointed in his hopes of what the last would produce. His medicines
had failed;---the fever was unabated; and Marianne only more quiet---not
more herself---remained in a heavy stupor. Elinor, catching all, and
more than all, his fears in a moment, proposed to call in further
advice. But he judged it unnecessary: he had still something more
to try, some more fresh application, of whose success he was as confident
as the last, and his visit concluded with encouraging assurances which
reached the ear, but could not enter the heart of Miss Dashwood. She
was calm, except when she thought of her mother; but she was almost
hopeless; and in this state she continued till noon, scarcely stirring
from her sister's bed, her thoughts wandering from one image of grief,
one suffering friend to another, and her spirits oppressed to the
utmost by the conversation of Mrs.\ Jennings, who scrupled not to
attribute the severity and danger of this attack to the many weeks
of previous indisposition which Marianne's disappointment had brought
on. Elinor felt all the reasonableness of the idea, and it gave fresh
misery to her reflections.

About noon, however, she began---but with a caution---a dread of disappointment
which for some time kept her silent, even to her friend---to fancy,
to hope she could perceive a slight amendment in her sister's pulse;---she
waited, watched, and examined it again and again;---and at last, with
an agitation more difficult to bury under exterior calmness, than
all her foregoing distress, ventured to communicate her hopes. Mrs.\ Jennings,
though forced, on examination, to acknowledge a temporary revival,
tried to keep her young friend from indulging a thought of its continuance;---and
Elinor, conning over every injunction of distrust, told herself likewise
not to hope. But it was too late. Hope had already entered; and feeling
all its anxious flutter, she bent over her sister to watch---she hardly
knew for what. Half an hour passed away, and the favourable symptom
yet blessed her. Others even arose to confirm it. Her breath, her
skin, her lips, all flattered Elinor with signs of amendment; and
Marianne fixed her eyes on her with a rational, though languid, gaze.
Anxiety and hope now oppressed her in equal degrees, and left her
no moment of tranquillity till the arrival of Mr.\ Harris at four
o'clock;---when his assurances, his felicitations on a recovery in
her sister even surpassing his expectation, gave her confidence, comfort,
and tears of joy.

Marianne was in every respect materially better, and he declared her
entirely out of danger. Mrs.\ Jennings, perhaps satisfied with the
partial justification of her forebodings which had been found in their
late alarm, allowed herself to trust in his judgment, and admitted,
with unfeigned joy, and soon with unequivocal cheerfulness, the probability
of an entire recovery.

Elinor could not be cheerful. Her joy was of a different kind, and
led to any thing rather than to gaiety. Marianne restored to life,
health, friends, and to her doting mother, was an idea to fill her
heart with sensations of exquisite comfort, and expand it in fervent
gratitude;---but it lead to no outward demonstrations of joy, no words,
no smiles. All within Elinor's breast was satisfaction, silent and
strong.

She continued by the side of her sister, with little intermission
the whole afternoon, calming every fear, satisfying every inquiry
of her enfeebled spirits, supplying every succour, and watching almost
every look and every breath. The possibility of a relapse would of
course, in some moments, occur to remind her of what anxiety was---but
when she saw, on her frequent and minute examination, that every symptom
of recovery continued, and saw Marianne at six o'clock sink into a
quiet, steady, and to all appearance comfortable, sleep, she silenced
every doubt.

The time was now drawing on, when Colonel Brandon might be expected
back. At ten o'clock, she trusted, or at least not much later her
mother would be relieved from the dreadful suspense in which she must
now be travelling towards them. The Colonel, too!---perhaps scarcely
less an object of pity!---Oh!---how slow was the progress of time
which yet kept them in ignorance!

At seven o'clock, leaving Marianne still sweetly asleep, she joined
Mrs.\ Jennings in the drawing-room to tea. Of breakfast she had been
kept by her fears, and of dinner by their sudden reverse, from eating
much;---and the present refreshment, therefore, with such feelings
of content as she brought to it, was particularly welcome. Mrs.\ Jennings
would have persuaded her, at its conclusion, to take some rest before
her mother's arrival, and allow \textit{her} to take her place by
Marianne; but Elinor had no sense of fatigue, no capability of sleep
at that moment about her, and she was not to be kept away from her
sister an unnecessary instant. Mrs.\ Jennings therefore attending
her up stairs into the sick chamber, to satisfy herself that all continued
right, left her there again to her charge and her thoughts, and retired
to her own room to write letters and sleep.

The night was cold and stormy. The wind roared round the house, and
the rain beat against the windows; but Elinor, all happiness within,
regarded it not. Marianne slept through every blast; and the travellers---they
had a rich reward in store, for every present inconvenience.

The clock struck eight. Had it been ten, Elinor would have been convinced
that at that moment she heard a carriage driving up to the house;
and so strong was the persuasion that she \textit{did}, in spite of
the \textit{almost} impossibility of their being already come, that
she moved into the adjoining dressing-closet and opened a window shutter,
to be satisfied of the truth. She instantly saw that her ears had
not deceived her. The flaring lamps of a carriage were immediately
in view. By their uncertain light she thought she could discern it
to be drawn by four horses; and this, while it told the excess of
her poor mother's alarm, gave some explanation to such unexpected
rapidity.

Never in her life had Elinor found it so difficult to be calm, as
at that moment. The knowledge of what her mother must be feeling as
the carriage stopt at the door---of her doubt---her dread---perhaps
her despair!---and of what \textit{she} had to tell!---with such knowledge
it was impossible to be calm. All that remained to be done was to
be speedy; and, therefore staying only till she could leave Mrs.\ Jennings's
maid with her sister, she hurried down stairs.

The bustle in the vestibule, as she passed along an inner lobby, assured
her that they were already in the house. She rushed to the drawing-room,---she
entered it,---and saw only Willoughby.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER 44}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER 44}

\markboth{SENSE AND SENSIBILITY}{CHAPTER 44}

Elinor, starting back with a look of horror at the sight of him, obeyed
the first impulse of her heart in turning instantly to quit the room,
and her hand was already on the lock, when its action was suspended
by his hastily advancing, and saying, in a voice rather of command
than supplication,

{}``Miss Dashwood, for half an hour---for ten minutes---I entreat
you to stay.''

{}``No, sir,'' she replied with firmness, {}``I shall \textit{not}
stay. Your business cannot be with \textit{me}. The servants, I suppose,
forgot to tell you that Mr.\ Palmer was not in the house.''

{}``Had they told me,'' he cried with vehemence, {}``that Mr.\ Palmer
and all his relations were at the devil, it would not have turned
me from the door. My business is with you, and only you.''

{}``With me!''---in the utmost amazement---{}``well, sir,---be
quick---and if you can---less violent.''

{}``Sit down, and I will be both.''

She hesitated; she knew not what to do. The possibility of Colonel
Brandon's arriving and finding her there, came across her. But she
had promised to hear him, and her curiosity no less than her honor
was engaged. After a moment's recollection, therefore, concluding
that prudence required dispatch, and that her acquiescence would best
promote it, she walked silently towards the table, and sat down. He
took the opposite chair, and for half a minute not a word was said
by either.

{}``Pray be quick, sir,''---said Elinor, im\-pa\-t\-i\-ent\-ly;---{}``I
have no time to spare.''

He was sitting in an attitude of deep meditation, and seemed not to
hear her.

{}``Your sister,'' said he, with abruptness, a moment afterwards---{}``is
out of danger. I heard it from the servant. God be praised!---But
is it true?\ is it really true?''

Elinor would not speak. He repeated the inquiry with yet greater eagerness.

{}``For God's sake tell me, is she out of danger, or is she not?''

{}``We hope she is.''

He rose up, and walked across the room.

{}``Had I known as much half an hour ago---But since I \textit{am}
here,''---speaking with a forced vivacity as he returned to his seat---{}``what
does it signify?---For once, Miss Dashwood---it will be the last time,
perhaps---let us be cheerful together.---I am in a fine mood for gaiety.---Tell
me honestly''---a deeper glow overspreading his cheeks---{}``do
you think me most a knave or a fool?''

Elinor looked at him with greater astonishment than ever. She began
to think that be must be in liquor;---the strangeness of such a visit,
and of such manners, seemed no otherwise intelligible; and with this
impression she immediately rose, saying,

{}``Mr.\ Willoughby, I advise you at present to return to Combe---I
am not at leisure to remain with you longer.---Whatever your business
may be with me, will it be better recollected and explained to-morrow.''

{}``I understand you,'' he replied, with an expressive smile, and
a voice perfectly calm; {}``yes, I am very drunk.---A pint of porter
with my cold beef at Marlborough was enough to over-set me.''

{}``At Marlborough!''---cried Elinor, more and more at a loss to
understand what he would be at.

{}``Yes,---I left London this morning at eight o'clock, and the only
ten minutes I have spent out of my chaise since that time procured
me a nuncheon at Marlborough.''

The steadiness of his manner, and the intelligence of his eye as he
spoke, convincing Elinor, that whatever other unpardonable folly might
bring him to Cleveland, he was not brought there by intoxication,
she said, after a moment's recollection,

{}``Mr.\ Willoughby, you \textit{ought} to feel, and I certainly
\textit{do}---that after what has passed---your coming here in this
manner, and forcing yourself upon my notice, requires a very particular
excuse.---What is it, that you mean by it?''---

{}``I mean,''---said he, with serious energy---{}``if I can, to
make you hate me one degree less than you do \textit{now}. I mean
to offer some kind of explanation, some kind of apology, for the past;
to open my whole heart to you, and by convincing you, that though
I have been always a blockhead, I have not been always a rascal, to
obtain something like forgiveness from Ma---from your sister.''

{}``Is this the real reason of your coming?''

{}``Upon my soul it is,''---was his answer, with a warmth which
brought all the former Willoughby to her remembrance, and in spite
of herself made her think him sincere.

{}``If that is all, you may be satisfied already,---for Marianne
\textit{does}---she has \textit{long} forgiven you.''

{}``Has she?''---he cried, in the same eager tone.---{}``Then she
has forgiven me before she ought to have done it. But she shall forgive
me again, and on more reasonable grounds.---\textit{Now} will you
listen to me?''

Elinor bowed her assent.

{}``I do not know,'' said he, after a pause of expectation on her
side, and thoughtfulness on his own,---{}``how \textit{you} may have
accounted for my behaviour to your sister, or what diabolical motive
you may have imputed to me.---Perhaps you will hardly think the better
of me,---it is worth the trial however, and you shall hear every thing.
When I first became intimate in your family, I had no other intention,
no other view in the acquaintance than to pass my time pleasantly
while I was obliged to remain in Devonshire, more pleasantly than
I had ever done before. Your sister's lovely person and interesting
manners could not but please me; and her behaviour to me almost from
the first, was of a kind---It is astonishing, when I reflect on what
it was, and what \textit{she} was, that my heart should have been
so insensible! But at first I must confess, my vanity only was elevated
by it. Careless of her happiness, thinking only of my own amusement,
giving way to feelings which I had always been too much in the habit
of indulging, I endeavoured, by every means in my power, to make myself
pleasing to her, without any design of returning her affection.''

Miss Dashwood, at this point, turning her eyes on him with the most
angry contempt, stopped him, by saying,

{}``It is hardly worth while, Mr.\ Willoughby, for you to relate,
or for me to listen any longer. Such a beginning as this cannot be
followed by any thing.---Do not let me be pained by hearing any thing
more on the subject.''

{}``I insist on you hearing the whole of it,'' he replied, {}``My
fortune was never large, and I had always been expensive, always in
the habit of associating with people of better income than myself.
Every year since my coming of age, or even before, I believe, had
added to my debts; and though the death of my old cousin, Mrs.\ Smith,
was to set me free; yet that event being uncertain, and possibly far
distant, it had been for some time my intention to re-establish my
circumstances by marrying a woman of fortune. To attach myself to
your sister, therefore, was not a thing to be thought of;---and with
a meanness, selfishness, cruelty---which no indignant, no contemptuous
look, even of yours, Miss Dashwood, can ever reprobate too much---I
was acting in this manner, trying to engage her regard, without a
thought of returning it.---But one thing may be said for me: even
in that horrid state of selfish vanity, I did not know the extent
of the injury I meditated, because I did not \textit{then} know what
it was to love. But have I ever known it?---Well may it be doubted;
for, had I really loved, could I have sacrificed my feelings to vanity,
to avarice?---or, what is more, could I have sacrificed hers?---But
I have done it. To avoid a comparative poverty, which her affection
and her society would have deprived of all its horrors, I have, by
raising myself to affluence, lost every thing that could make it a
blessing.''

{}``You did then,'' said Elinor, a little softened, {}``believe
yourself at one time attached to her?''

{}``To have resisted such attractions, to have withstood such tenderness!---Is
there a man on earth who could have done it?---Yes, I found myself,
by insensible degrees, sincerely fond of her; and the happiest hours
of my life were what I spent with her when I felt my intentions were
strictly honourable, and my feelings blameless. Even \textit{then},
however, when fully determined on paying my addresses to her, I allowed
myself most improperly to put off, from day to day, the moment of
doing it, from an unwillingness to enter into an engagement while
my circumstances were so greatly embarrassed. I will not reason here---nor
will I stop for \textit{you} to expatiate on the absurdity, and the
worse than absurdity, of scrupling to engage my faith where my honour
was already bound. The event has proved, that I was a cunning fool,
providing with great circumspection for a possible opportunity of
making myself contemptible and wretched for ever. At last, however,
my resolution was taken, and I had determined, as soon as I could
engage her alone, to justify the attentions I had so invariably paid
her, and openly assure her of an affection which I had already taken
such pains to display. But in the interim---in the interim of the
very few hours that were to pass, before I could have an opportunity
of speaking with her in private---a circumstance occurred---an unlucky
circumstance, to ruin all my resolution, and with it all my comfort.
A discovery took place,''---here he hesitated and looked down.---{}``Mrs.\ Smith
had somehow or other been informed, I imagine by some distant relation,
whose interest it was to deprive me of her favour, of an affair, a
connection---but I need not explain myself farther,'' he added, looking
at her with an heightened colour and an enquiring eye---{}``your
particular intimacy---you have probably heard the whole story long
ago.''

{}``I have,'' returned Elinor, colouring likewise, and hardening
her heart anew against any compassion for him, {}``I have heard it
all. And how you will explain away any part of your guilt in that
dreadful business, I confess is beyond my comprehension.''

{}``Remember,'' cried Willoughby, {}``from whom you received the
account. Could it be an impartial one? I acknowledge that her situation
and her character ought to have been respected by me. I do not mean
to justify myself, but at the same time cannot leave you to suppose
that I have nothing to urge---that because she was injured she was
irreproachable, and because I was a libertine, \textit{she} must be
a saint. If the violence of her passions, the weakness of her understanding---I
do not mean, however, to defend myself. Her affection for me deserved
better treatment, and I often, with great self-reproach, recall the
tenderness which, for a very short time, had the power of creating
any return. I wish---I heartily wish it had never been. But I have
injured more than herself; and I have injured one, whose affection
for me---(may I say it?) was scarcely less warm than hers; and whose
mind---Oh!\ how infinitely superior!''---

{}``Your indifference, however, towards that unfortunate girl---I
must say it, unpleasant to me as the discussion of such a subject
may well be---your indifference is no apology for your cruel neglect
of her. Do not think yourself excused by any weakness, any natural
defect of understanding on her side, in the wanton cruelty so evident
on yours. You must have known, that while you were enjoying yourself
in Devonshire pursuing fresh schemes, always gay, always happy, she
was reduced to the extremest indigence.''

{}``But, upon my soul, I did \textit{not} know it,'' he warmly replied;
{}``I did not recollect that I had omitted to give her my direction;
and common sense might have told her how to find it out.''

{}``Well, sir, and what said Mrs.\ Smith?''

{}``She taxed me with the offence at once, and my confusion may be
guessed. The purity of her life, the formality of her notions, her
ignorance of the world---every thing was against me. The matter itself
I could not deny, and vain was every endeavour to soften it. She was
previously disposed, I believe, to doubt the morality of my conduct
in general, and was moreover discontented with the very little attention,
the very little portion of my time that I had bestowed on her, in
my present visit. In short, it ended in a total breach. By one measure
I might have saved myself. In the height of her morality, good woman!\ she
offered to forgive the past, if I would marry Eliza. That could not
be---and I was formally dismissed from her favour and her house. The
night following this affair---I was to go the next morning---was spent
by me in deliberating on what my future conduct should be. The struggle
was great---but it ended too soon. My affection for Marianne, my thorough
conviction of her attachment to me---it was all insufficient to outweigh
that dread of poverty, or get the better of those false ideas of the
necessity of riches, which I was naturally inclined to feel, and expensive
society had increased. I had reason to believe myself secure of my
present wife, if I chose to address her, and I persuaded myself to
think that nothing else in common prudence remained for me to do.
A heavy scene however awaited me, before I could leave Devonshire;---I
was engaged to dine with you on that very day; some apology was therefore
necessary for my breaking this engagement. But whether I should write
this apology, or deliver it in person, was a point of long debate.
To see Marianne, I felt, would be dreadful, and I even doubted whether
I could see her again, and keep to my resolution. In that point, however,
I undervalued my own magnanimity, as the event declared; for I went,
I saw her, and saw her miserable, and left her miserable---and left
her hoping never to see her again.''

{}``Why did you call, Mr.\ Willoughby?''\ said Elinor, reproachfully;
{}``a note would have answered every purpose.---Why was it necessary
to call?''

{}``It was necessary to my own pride. I could not bear to leave the
country in a manner that might lead you, or the rest of the neighbourhood,
to suspect any part of what had really passed between Mrs.\ Smith
and myself---and I resolved therefore on calling at the cottage, in
my way to Honiton. The sight of your dear sister, however, was really
dreadful; and, to heighten the matter, I found her alone. You were
all gone I do not know where. I had left her only the evening before,
so fully, so firmly resolved within my self on doing right! A few
hours were to have engaged her to me for ever; and I remember how
happy, how gay were my spirits, as I walked from the cottage to Allenham,
satisfied with myself, delighted with every body! But in this, our
last interview of friendship, I approached her with a sense of guilt
that almost took from me the power of dissembling. Her sorrow, her
disappointment, her deep regret, when I told her that I was obliged
to leave Devonshire so immediately---I never shall forget it---united
too with such reliance, such confidence in me!---Oh, God!---what a
hard-hearted rascal I was!''

They were both silent for a few moments. Elinor first spoke.

{}``Did you tell her that you should soon return?''

{}``I do not know what I told her,'' he replied, impatiently; {}``less
than was due to the past, beyond a doubt, and in all likelihood much
more than was justified by the future. I cannot think of it.---It
won't do.---Then came your dear mother to torture me farther, with
all her kindness and confidence. Thank Heaven!\ it \textit{did} torture
me. I was miserable. Miss Dashwood, you cannot have an idea of the
comfort it gives me to look back on my own misery. I owe such a grudge
to myself for the stupid, rascally folly of my own heart, that all
my past sufferings under it are only triumph and exultation to me
now. Well, I went, left all that I loved, and went to those to whom,
at best, I was only indifferent. My journey to town---travelling with
my own horses, and therefore so tediously---no creature to speak to---my
own reflections so cheerful---when I looked forward every thing so
inviting!---when I looked back at Barton, the picture so soothing!---oh,
it was a blessed journey!''

He stopped.

{}``Well, sir,'' said Elinor, who, though pitying him, grew impatient
for his departure, {}``and this is all?''

{}``Ah!---no,---have you forgot what passed in town?---That infamous
letter---Did she shew it you?''

{}``Yes, I saw every note that passed.''

{}``When the first of hers reached me (as it immediately did, for
I was in town the whole time,) what I felt is---in the common phrase,
not to be expressed; in a more simple one---perhaps too simple to
raise any emotion---my feelings were very, very painful.---Every line,
every word was---in the hackneyed metaphor which their dear writer,
were she here, would forbid---a dagger to my heart. To know that Marianne
was in town was---in the same language---a thunderbolt.---Thunderbolts
and daggers!---what a reproof would she have given me!---her taste,
her opinions---I believe they are better known to me than my own,---and
I am sure they are dearer.''

Elinor's heart, which had undergone many changes in the course of
this extraordinary conversation, was now softened again;---yet she
felt it her duty to check such ideas in her companion as the last.

{}``This is not right, Mr.\ Willoughby.---Remember that you are
married. Relate only what in your conscience you think necessary for
me to hear.''

{}``Marianne's note, by assuring me that I was still as dear to her
as in former days, that in spite of the many, many weeks we had been
separated, she was as constant in her own feelings, and as full of
faith in the constancy of mine as ever, awakened all my remorse. I
say awakened, because time and London, business and dissipation, had
in some measure quieted it, and I had been growing a fine hardened
villain, fancying myself indifferent to her, and chusing to fancy
that she too must have become indifferent to me; talking to myself
of our past attachment as a mere idle, trifling business, shrugging
up my shoulders in proof of its being so, and silencing every reproach,
overcoming every scruple, by secretly saying now and then, `I shall
be heartily glad to hear she is well married.'---But this note made
me know myself better. I felt that she was infinitely dearer to me
than any other woman in the world, and that I was using her infamously.
But every thing was then just settled between Miss Grey and me. To
retreat was impossible. All that I had to do, was to avoid you both.
I sent no answer to Marianne, intending by that to preserve myself
from her farther notice; and for some time I was even determined not
to call in Berkeley Street;---but at last, judging it wiser to affect
the air of a cool, common acquaintance than anything else, I watched
you all safely out of the house one morning, and left my name.''

{}``Watched us out of the house!''

{}``Even so. You would be surprised to hear how often I watched you,
how often I was on the point of falling in with you. I have entered
many a shop to avoid your sight, as the carriage drove by. Lodging
as I did in Bond Street, there was hardly a day in which I did not
catch a glimpse of one or other of you; and nothing but the most constant
watchfulness on my side, a most invariably prevailing desire to keep
out of your sight, could have separated us so long. I avoided the
Middletons as much as possible, as well as everybody else who was
likely to prove an acquaintance in common. Not aware of their being
in town, however, I blundered on Sir John, I believe, the first day
of his coming, and the day after I had called at Mrs.\ Jennings's.
He asked me to a party, a dance at his house in the evening.---Had
he \textit{not} told me as an inducement that you and your sister
were to be there, I should have felt it too certain a thing, to trust
myself near him. The next morning brought another short note from
Marianne---still affectionate, open, artless, confiding---everything
that could make \textit{my} conduct most hateful. I could not answer
it. I tried---but could not frame a sentence. But I thought of her,
I believe, every moment of the day. If you \textit{can} pity me, Miss
Dashwood, pity my situation as it was \textit{then}. With my head
and heart full of your sister, I was forced to play the happy lover
to another woman!---Those three or four weeks were worse than all.
Well, at last, as I need not tell you, you were forced on me; and
what a sweet figure I cut!---what an evening of agony it was!---Marianne,
beautiful as an angel on one side, calling me Willoughby in such a
tone!---Oh, God!---holding out her hand to me, asking me for an explanation,
with those bewitching eyes fixed in such speaking solicitude on my
face!---and Sophia, jealous as the devil on the other hand, looking
all that was---Well, it does not signify; it is over now.---Such an
evening!---I ran away from you all as soon as I could; but not before
I had seen Marianne's sweet face as white as death.---\textit{That}
was the last, last look I ever had of her;---the last manner in which
she appeared to me. It was a horrid sight!---yet when I thought of
her to-day as really dying, it was a kind of comfort to me to imagine
that I knew exactly how she would appear to those, who saw her last
in this world. She was before me, constantly before me, as I travelled,
in the same look and hue.''

A short pause of mutual thoughtfulness succeeded. Willoughby first
rousing himself, broke it thus:

{}``Well, let me make haste and be gone. Your sister is certainly
better, certainly out of danger?''

{}``We are assured of it.''

{}``Your poor mother, too!---doting on Marianne.''

{}``But the letter, Mr.\ Willoughby, your own letter; have you any
thing to say about that?''

{}``Yes, yes, \textit{that} in particular. Your sister wrote to me
again, you know, the very next morning. You saw what she said. I was
breakfasting at the Ellisons,---and her letter, with some others,
was brought to me there from my lodgings. It happened to catch Sophia's
eye before it caught mine---and its size, the elegance of the paper,
the hand-writing altogether, immediately gave her a suspicion. Some
vague report had reached her before of my attachment to some young
lady in Devonshire, and what had passed within her observation the
preceding evening had marked who the young lady was, and made her
more jealous than ever. Affecting that air of playfulness, therefore,
which is delightful in a woman one loves, she opened the letter directly,
and read its contents. She was well paid for her impudence. She read
what made her wretched. Her wretchedness I could have borne, but her
passion---her malice---At all events it must be appeased. And, in
short---what do you think of my wife's style of letter-writing?---delicate---tender---truly
feminine---was it not?''

{}``Your wife!---The letter was in your own hand-writing.''

{}``Yes, but I had only the credit of servilely copying such sentences
as I was ashamed to put my name to. The original was all her own---her
own happy thoughts and gentle diction. But what could I do!---we were
engaged, every thing in preparation, the day almost fixed---But I
am talking like a fool. Preparation!---day!---In honest words, her
money was necessary to me, and in a situation like mine, any thing
was to be done to prevent a rupture. And after all, what did it signify
to my character in the opinion of Marianne and her friends, in what
language my answer was couched?---It must have been only to one end.
My business was to declare myself a scoundrel, and whether I did it
with a bow or a bluster was of little importance.---`I am ruined for
ever in their opinion---' said I to myself---`I am shut out for ever
from their society, they already think me an unprincipled fellow,
this letter will only make them think me a blackguard one.' Such were
my reasonings, as, in a sort of desperate carelessness, I copied my
wife's words, and parted with the last relics of Marianne. Her three
notes---unluckily they were all in my pocketbook, or I should have
denied their existence, and hoarded them for ever---I was forced to
put them up, and could not even kiss them. And the lock of hair---that
too I had always carried about me in the same pocket-book, which was
now searched by Madam with the most ingratiating virulence,---the
dear lock---all, every memento was torn from me.''

{}``You are very wrong, Mr.\ Willoughby, very blamable,'' said
Elinor, while her voice, in spite of herself, betrayed her compassionate
emotion; {}``you ought not to speak in this way, either of Mrs.\ Willoughby
or my sister. You had made your own choice. It was not forced on you.
Your wife has a claim to your politeness, to your respect, at least.
She must be attached to you, or she would not have married you. To
treat her with unkindness, to speak of her slightingly is no atonement
to Marianne---nor can I suppose it a relief to your own conscience.''

{}``Do not talk to me of my wife,'' said he with a heavy sigh.---{}``She
does not deserve your compassion.---She knew I had no regard for her
when we married.---Well, married we were, and came down to Combe Magna
to be happy, and afterwards returned to town to be gay.---And now
do you pity me, Miss Dashwood?---or have I said all this to no purpose?---Am
I---be it only one degree---am I less guilty in your opinion than
I was before?---My intentions were not always wrong. Have I explained
away any part of my guilt?''

{}``Yes, you have certainly removed some\-thing---a little.---You
have proved yourself, on the whole, less faulty than I had believed
you. You have proved your heart less wicked, much less wicked. But
I hardly know---the misery that you have inflicted---I hardly know
what could have made it worse.''

{}``Will you repeat to your sister when she is recovered, what I
have been telling you?---Let me be a little lightened too in her opinion
as well as in yours. You tell me that she has forgiven me already.
Let me be able to fancy that a better knowledge of my heart, and of
my present feelings, will draw from her a more spontaneous, more natural,
more gentle, less dignified, forgiveness. Tell her of my misery and
my penitence---tell her that my heart was never inconstant to her,
and if you will, that at this moment she is dearer to me than ever.''

{}``I will tell her all that is necessary to what may comparatively
be called, your justification. But you have not explained to me the
particular reason of your coming now, nor how you heard of her illness.''

{}``Last night, in Drury Lane lobby, I ran against Sir John Middleton,
and when he saw who I was---for the first time these two months---he
spoke to me.---That he had cut me ever since my marriage, I had seen
without surprise or resentment. Now, however, his good-natured, honest,
stupid soul, full of indignation against me, and concern for your
sister, could not resist the temptation of telling me what he knew
ought to---though probably he did not think it \textit{would}---vex
me horridly. As bluntly as he could speak it, therefore, he told me
that Marianne Dashwood was dying of a putrid fever at Cleveland---a
letter that morning received from Mrs.\ Jennings declared her danger
most imminent---the Palmers are all gone off in a fright, \&c.---I
was too much shocked to be able to pass myself off as insensible even
to the undiscerning Sir John. His heart was softened in seeing mine
suffer; and so much of his ill-will was done away, that when we parted,
he almost shook me by the hand while he reminded me of an old promise
about a pointer puppy. What I felt on hearing that your sister was
dying---and dying too, believing me the greatest villain upon earth,
scorning, hating me in her latest moments---for how could I tell what
horrid projects might not have been imputed? \textit{One} person I
was sure would represent me as capable of any thing---What I felt
was dreadful!---My resolution was soon made, and at eight o'clock
this morning I was in my carriage. Now you know all.''

Elinor made no answer. Her thoughts were silently fixed on the irreparable
injury which too early an independence and its consequent habits of
idleness, dissipation, and luxury, had made in the mind, the character,
the happiness, of a man who, to every advantage of person and talents,
united a disposition naturally open and honest, and a feeling, affectionate
temper. The world had made him extravagant and vain---Extravagance
and vanity had made him cold-hearted and selfish. Vanity, while seeking
its own guilty triumph at the expense of another, had involved him
in a real attachment, which extravagance, or at least its offspring,
necessity, had required to be sacrificed. Each faulty propensity in
leading him to evil, had led him likewise to punishment. The attachment,
from which against honour, against feeling, against every better interest
he had outwardly torn himself, now, when no longer allowable, governed
every thought; and the connection, for the sake of which he had, with
little scruple, left her sister to misery, was likely to prove a source
of unhappiness to himself of a far more incurable nature. From a reverie
of this kind she was recalled at the end of some minutes by Willoughby,
who, rousing himself from a reverie at least equally painful, started
up in preparation for going, and said---

{}``There is no use in staying here; I must be off.''

{}``Are you going back to town?''

{}``No---to Combe Magna. I have business there; from thence to town
in a day or two. Good bye.''

He held out his hand. She could not refuse to give him her's;---he
pressed it with affection.

{}``And you \textit{do} think something better of me than you did?''---said
he, letting it fall, and leaning against the mantel-piece as if forgetting
he was to go.

Elinor assured him that she did;---that she forgave, pitied, wished
him well---was even interested in his happiness---and added some gentle
counsel as to the behaviour most likely to promote it. His answer
was not very encouraging.

{}``As to that,'' said he, {}``I must rub through the world as
well as I can. Domestic happiness is out of the question. If, however,
I am allowed to think that you and yours feel an interest in my fate
and actions, it may be the means---it may put me on my guard---at
least, it may be something to live for. Marianne to be sure is lost
to me for ever. Were I even by any blessed chance at liberty again---''

Elinor stopped him with a reproof.

{}``Well,''---he replied---{}``once more good bye. I shall now
go away and live in dread of one event.''

{}``What do you mean?''

{}``Your sister's marriage.''

{}``You are very wrong. She can never be more lost to you than she
is now.''

{}``But she will be gained by some one else. And if that some one
should be the very he whom, of all others, I could least bear---but
I will not stay to rob myself of all your compassionate goodwill,
by shewing that where I have most injured I can least forgive. Good
bye,---God bless you!''

And with these words, he almost ran out of the room.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER 45}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER 45}

\markboth{SENSE AND SENSIBILITY}{CHAPTER 45}

Elinor, for some time after he left her, for some time even after
the sound of his carriage had died away, remained too much oppressed
by a crowd of ideas, widely differing in themselves, but of which
sadness was the general result, to think even of her sister.

Willoughby, he, whom only half an hour ago she had abhorred as the
most worthless of men, Willoughby, in spite of all his faults, excited
a degree of commiseration for the sufferings produced by them, which
made her think of him as now separated for ever from her family, with
a tenderness, a regret, rather in proportion, as she soon acknowledged
within herself---to his wishes than to his merits. She felt that his
influence over her mind was heightened by circumstances which ought
not in reason to have weight; by that person of uncommon attraction,
that open, affectionate, and lively manner which it was no merit to
possess; and by that still ardent love for Marianne, which it was
not even innocent to indulge. But she felt that it was so, long, long
before she could feel his influence less.

When at last she returned to the unconscious Marianne, she found her
just awaking, refreshed by so long and sweet a sleep to the extent
of her hopes. Elinor's heart was full. The past, the present, the
future, Willoughby's visit, Marianne's safety, and her mother's expected
arrival, threw her altogether into an agitation of spirits which kept
off every indication of fatigue, and made her only fearful of betraying
herself to her sister. Short was the time, however, in which that
fear could affect her, for within half an hour after Willoughby's
leaving the house, she was again called down stairs by the sound of
another carriage.---Eager to save her mother from every unnecessary
moment's horrible suspense, she ran immediately into the hall, and
reached the outward door just in time to receive and support her as
she entered it.

Mrs.\ Dashwood, whose terror as they drew near the house had produced
almost the conviction of Marianne's being no more, had no voice to
inquire after her, no voice even for Elinor; but \textit{she}, waiting
neither for salutation nor inquiry, instantly gave the joyful relief;---and
her mother, catching it with all her usual warmth, was in a moment
as much overcome by her happiness, as she had been before by her fears.
She was supported into the drawing-room between her daughter and her
friend;---and there, shedding tears of joy, though still unable to
speak, embraced Elinor again and again, turning from her at intervals
to press Colonel Brandon's hand, with a look which spoke at once her
gratitude, and her conviction of his sharing with herself in the bliss
of the moment. He shared it, however, in a silence even greater than
her own.

As soon as Mrs.\ Dashwood had recovered herself, to see Marianne
was her first desire; and in two minutes she was with her beloved
child, rendered dearer to her than ever by absence, unhappiness, and
danger. Elinor's delight, as she saw what each felt in the meeting,
was only checked by an apprehension of its robbing Marianne of farther
sleep;---but Mrs.\ Dashwood could be calm, could be even prudent,
when the life of a child was at stake, and Marianne, satisfied in
knowing her mother was near her, and conscious of being too weak for
conversation, submitted readily to the silence and quiet prescribed
by every nurse around her. Mrs.\ Dashwood \textit{would} sit up with
her all night; and Elinor, in compliance with her mother's entreaty,
went to bed. But the rest, which one night entirely sleepless, and
many hours of the most wearing anxiety seemed to make requisite, was
kept off by irritation of spirits. Willoughby, {}``poor Willoughby,''
as she now allowed herself to call him, was constantly in her thoughts;
she would not but have heard his vindication for the world, and now
blamed, now acquitted herself for having judged him so harshly before.
But her promise of relating it to her sister was invariably painful.
She dreaded the performance of it, dreaded what its effect on Marianne
might be; doubted whether after such an explanation she could ever
be happy with another; and for a moment wished Willoughby a widower.
Then, remembering Colonel Brandon, reproved herself, felt that to
\textit{his} sufferings and his constancy far more than to his rival's,
the reward of her sister was due, and wished any thing rather than
Mrs.\ Willoughby's death.

The shock of Colonel Brandon's errand at Barton had been much softened
to Mrs.\ Dashwood by her own previous alarm; for so great was her
uneasiness about Marianne, that she had already determined to set
out for Cleveland on that very day, without waiting for any further
intelligence, and had so far settled her journey before his arrival,
that the Careys were then expected every moment to fetch Margaret
away, as her mother was unwilling to take her where there might be
infection.

Marianne continued to mend every day, and the brilliant cheerfulness
of Mrs.\ Dashwood's looks and spirits proved her to be, as she repeatedly
declared herself, one of the happiest women in the world. Elinor could
not hear the declaration, nor witness its proofs without sometimes
wondering whether her mother ever recollected Edward. But Mrs.\ Dashwood,
trusting to the temperate account of her own disappointment which
Elinor had sent her, was led away by the exuberance of her joy to
think only of what would increase it. Marianne was restored to her
from a danger in which, as she now began to feel, her own mistaken
judgment in encouraging the unfortunate attachment to Willoughby,
had contributed to place her;---and in her recovery she had yet another
source of joy unthought of by Elinor. It was thus imparted to her,
as soon as any opportunity of private conference between them occurred.

{}``At last we are alone. My Elinor, you do not yet know all my happiness.
Colonel Brandon loves Marianne. He has told me so himself.''

Her daughter, feeling by turns both pleased and pained, surprised
and not surprised, was all silent attention.

{}``You are never like me, dear Elinor, or I should wonder at your
composure now. Had I sat down to wish for any possible good to my
family, I should have fixed on Colonel Brandon's marrying one of you
as the object most desirable. And I believe Marianne will be the most
happy with him of the two.''

Elinor was half inclined to ask her reason for thinking so, because
satisfied that none founded on an impartial consideration of their
age, characters, or feelings, could be given;---but her mother must
always be carried away by her imagination on any interesting subject,
and therefore instead of an inquiry, she passed it off with a smile.

{}``He opened his whole heart to me yesterday as we travelled. It
came out quite unawares, quite undesignedly. I, you may well believe,
could talk of nothing but my child;---he could not conceal his distress;
I saw that it equalled my own, and he perhaps, thinking that mere
friendship, as the world now goes, would not justify so warm a sympathy---or
rather, not thinking at all, I suppose---giving way to irresistible
feelings, made me acquainted with his earnest, tender, constant, affection
for Marianne. He has loved her, my Elinor, ever since the first moment
of seeing her.''

Here, however, Elinor perceived,---not the language, not the professions
of Colonel Brandon, but the natural embellishments of her mother's
active fancy, which fashioned every thing delightful to her as it
chose.

{}``His regard for her, infinitely surpassing anything that Willoughby
ever felt or feigned, as much more warm, as more sincere or constant---which
ever we are to call it---has subsisted through all the knowledge of
dear Marianne's unhappy prepossession for that worthless young man!---and
without selfishness---without encouraging a hope!---could he have
seen her happy with another---Such a noble mind!---such openness,
such sincerity!---no one can be deceived in \textit{him}.''

{}``Colonel Brandon's character,'' said Elinor, {}``as an excellent
man, is well established.''

{}``I know it is''---replied her mother seriously, {}``or after
such a warning, I should be the last to encourage such affection,
or even to be pleased by it. But his coming for me as he did, with
such active, such ready friendship, is enough to prove him one of
the worthiest of men.''

{}``His character, however,'' answered Elinor, {}``does not rest
on \textit{one} act of kindness, to which his affection for Marianne,
were humanity out of the case, would have prompted him. To Mrs.\ Jennings,
to the Middletons, he has been long and intimately known; they equally
love and respect him; and even my own knowledge of him, though lately
acquired, is very considerable; and so highly do I value and esteem
him, that if Marianne can be happy with him, I shall be as ready as
yourself to think our connection the greatest blessing to us in the
world. What answer did you give him?---Did you allow him to hope?''

{}``Oh!\ my love, I could not then talk of hope to him or to myself.
Marianne might at that moment be dying. But he did not ask for hope
or encouragement. His was an involuntary confidence, an irrepressible
effusion to a soothing friend---not an application to a parent. Yet
after a time I \textit{did} say, for at first I was quite overcome---that
if she lived, as I trusted she might, my greatest happiness would
lie in promoting their marriage; and since our arrival, since our
delightful security, I have repeated it to him more fully, have given
him every encouragement in my power. Time, a very little time, I tell
him, will do everything;---Marianne's heart is not to be wasted for
ever on such a man as Willoughby.---His own merits must soon secure
it.''

{}``To judge from the Colonel's spirits, however, you have not yet
made him equally sanguine.''

{}``No.---He thinks Marianne's affection too deeply rooted for any
change in it under a great length of time, and even supposing her
heart again free, is too diffident of himself to believe, that with
such a difference of age and disposition he could ever attach her.
There, however, he is quite mistaken. His age is only so much beyond
hers as to be an advantage, as to make his character and principles
fixed;---and his disposition, I am well convinced, is exactly the
very one to make your sister happy. And his person, his manners too,
are all in his favour. My partiality does not blind me; he certainly
is not so handsome as Willoughby---but at the same time, there is
something much more pleasing in his countenance.---There was always
a something,---if you remember,---in Willoughby's eyes at times, which
I did not like.''

Elinor could \textit{not} remember it;---but her mother, without waiting
for her assent, continued,

{}``And his manners, the Colonel's manners are not only more pleasing
to me than Willoughby's ever were, but they are of a kind I well know
to be more solidly attaching to Marianne. Their gentleness, their
genuine attention to other people, and their manly unstudied simplicity
is much more accordant with her real disposition, than the liveliness---often
artificial, and often ill-timed of the other. I am very sure myself,
that had Willoughby turned out as really amiable, as he has proved
himself the contrary, Marianne would yet never have been so happy
with \textit{him}, as she will be with Colonel Brandon.''

She paused.---Her daughter could not quite agree with her, but her
dissent was not heard, and therefore gave no offence.

{}``At Delaford, she will be within an easy distance of me,'' added
Mrs.\ Dashwood, {}``even if I remain at Barton; and in all probability,---for
I hear it is a large village,---indeed there certainly \textit{must}
be some small house or cottage close by, that would suit us quite
as well as our present situation.''

Poor Elinor!---here was a new scheme for getting her to Delaford!---but
her spirit was stubborn.

{}``His fortune too!---for at my time of life you know, everybody
cares about \textit{that};---and though I neither know nor desire
to know, what it really is, I am sure it must be a good one.''

Here they were interrupted by the entrance of a third person, and
Elinor withdrew to think it all over in private, to wish success to
her friend, and yet in wishing it, to feel a pang for Willoughby.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER 46}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER 46}

\markboth{SENSE AND SENSIBILITY}{CHAPTER 46}

Marianne's illness, though weakening in its kind, had not been long
enough to make her recovery slow; and with youth, natural strength,
and her mother's presence in aid, it proceeded so smoothly as to enable
her to remove, within four days after the arrival of the latter, into
Mrs.\ Palmer's dressing-room. When there, at her own particular request,
for she was impatient to pour forth her thanks to him for fetching
her mother, Colonel Brandon was invited to visit her.

His emotion on entering the room, in seeing her altered looks, and
in receiving the pale hand which she immediately held out to him,
was such, as, in Elinor's conjecture, must arise from something more
than his affection for Marianne, or the consciousness of its being
known to others; and she soon discovered in his melancholy eye and
varying complexion as he looked at her sister, the probable recurrence
of many past scenes of misery to his mind, brought back by that resemblance
between Marianne and Eliza already acknowledged, and now strengthened
by the hollow eye, the sickly skin, the posture of reclining weakness,
and the warm acknowledgment of peculiar obligation.

Mrs.\ Dashwood, not less watchful of what passed than her daughter,
but with a mind very differently influenced, and therefore watching
to very different effect, saw nothing in the Colonel's behaviour but
what arose from the most simple and self-evident sensations, while
in the actions and words of Marianne she persuaded herself to think
that something more than gratitude already dawned.

At the end of another day or two, Marianne growing visibly stronger
every twelve hours, Mrs.\ Dashwood, urged equally by her own and
her daughter's wishes, began to talk of removing to Barton. On \textit{her}
measures depended those of her two friends; Mrs.\ Jennings could
not quit Cleveland during the Dashwoods' stay; and Colonel Brandon
was soon brought, by their united request, to consider his own abode
there as equally determinate, if not equally indispensable. At his
and Mrs.\ Jennings's united request in return, Mrs.\ Dashwood was
prevailed on to accept the use of his carriage on her journey back,
for the better accommodation of her sick child; and the Colonel, at
the joint invitation of Mrs.\ Dashwood and Mrs.\ Jennings, whose
active good-nature made her friendly and hospitable for other people
as well as herself, engaged with pleasure to redeem it by a visit
at the cottage, in the course of a few weeks.

The day of separation and departure arrived; and Marianne, after taking
so particular and lengthened a leave of Mrs.\ Jennings, one so earnestly
grateful, so full of respect and kind wishes as seemed due to her
own heart from a secret acknowledgment of past inattention, and bidding
Colonel Brandon farewell with a cordiality of a friend, was carefully
assisted by him into the carriage, of which he seemed anxious that
she should engross at least half. Mrs.\ Dashwood and Elinor then
followed, and the others were left by themselves, to talk of the travellers,
and feel their own dullness, till Mrs.\ Jennings was summoned to
her chaise to take comfort in the gossip of her maid for the loss
of her two young companions; and Colonel Brandon immediately afterwards
took his solitary way to Delaford.

The Dashwoods were two days on the road, and Marianne bore her journey
on both, without essential fatigue. Every thing that the most zealous
affection, the most solicitous care could do to render her comfortable,
was the office of each watchful companion, and each found their reward
in her bodily ease, and her calmness of spirits. To Elinor, the observation
of the latter was particularly grateful. She, who had seen her week
after week so constantly suffering, oppressed by anguish of heart
which she had neither courage to speak of, nor fortitude to conceal,
now saw with a joy, which no other could equally share, an apparent
composure of mind, which, in being the result as she trusted of serious
reflection, must eventually lead her to contentment and cheerfulness.

As they approached Barton, indeed, and entered on scenes of which
every field and every tree brought some peculiar, some painful recollection,
she grew silent and thoughtful, and turning away her face from their
notice, sat earnestly gazing through the window. But here, Elinor
could neither wonder nor blame; and when she saw, as she assisted
Marianne from the carriage, that she had been crying, she saw only
an emotion too natural in itself to raise any thing less tender than
pity, and in its unobtrusiveness entitled to praise. In the whole
of her subsequent manner, she traced the direction of a mind awakened
to reasonable exertion; for no sooner had they entered their common
sitting-room, than Marianne turned her eyes around it with a look
of resolute firmness, as if determined at once to accustom herself
to the sight of every object with which the remembrance of Willoughby
could be connected.---She said little, but every sentence aimed at
cheerfulness, and though a sigh sometimes escaped her, it never passed
away without the atonement of a smile. After dinner she would try
her piano-forte. She went to it; but the music on which her eye first
rested was an opera, procured for her by Willoughby, containing some
of their favourite duets, and bearing on its outward leaf her own
name in his hand-writing.---That would not do.---She shook her head,
put the music aside, and after running over the keys for a minute,
complained of feebleness in her fingers, and closed the instrument
again; declaring however with firmness as she did so, that she should
in future practice much.

The next morning produced no abatement in these happy symptoms. On
the contrary, with a mind and body alike strengthened by rest, she
looked and spoke with more genuine spirit, anticipating the pleasure
of Margaret's return, and talking of the dear family party which would
then be restored, of their mutual pursuits and cheerful society, as
the only happiness worth a wish.

{}``When the weather is settled, and I have recovered my strength,''
said she, {}``we will take long walks together every day. We will
walk to the farm at the edge of the down, and see how the children
go on; we will walk to Sir John's new plantations at Barton Cross,
and the Abbeyland; and we will often go the old ruins of the Priory,
and try to trace its foundations as far as we are told they once reached.
I know we shall be happy. I know the summer will pass happily away.
I mean never to be later in rising than six, and from that time till
dinner I shall divide every moment between music and reading. I have
formed my plan, and am determined to enter on a course of serious
study. Our own library is too well known to me, to be resorted to
for any thing beyond mere amusement. But there are many works well
worth reading at the Park; and there are others of more modern production
which I know I can borrow of Colonel Brandon. By reading only six
hours a-day, I shall gain in the course of a twelve-month a great
deal of instruction which I now feel myself to want.''

Elinor honoured her for a plan which originated so nobly as this;
though smiling to see the same eager fancy which had been leading
her to the extreme of languid indolence and selfish repining, now
at work in introducing excess into a scheme of such rational employment
and virtuous self-control. Her smile however changed to a sigh when
she remembered that promise to Willoughby was yet unfulfilled, and
feared she had that to communicate which might again unsettle the
mind of Marianne, and ruin at least for a time this fair prospect
of busy tranquillity. Willing therefore to delay the evil hour, she
resolved to wait till her sister's health were more secure, before
she appointed it. But the resolution was made only to be broken.

Marianne had been two or three days at home, before the weather was
fine enough for an invalid like herself to venture out. But at last
a soft, genial morning appeared; such as might tempt the daughter's
wishes and the mother's confidence; and Marianne, leaning on Elinor's
arm, was authorised to walk as long as she could without fatigue,
in the lane before the house.

The sisters set out at a pace, slow as the feebleness of Marianne
in an exercise hitherto untried since her illness required;---and
they had advanced only so far beyond the house as to admit a full
view of the hill, the important hill behind, when pausing with her
eyes turned towards it, Marianne calmly said,

{}``There, exactly there,''---pointing with one hand, {}``on that
projecting mound,---there I fell; and there I first saw Willoughby.''

Her voice sunk with the word, but presently reviving she added,

{}``I am thankful to find that I can look with so little pain on
the spot!---shall we ever talk on that subject, Elinor?''---hesitatingly
it was said.---{}``Or will it be wrong?---I can talk of it now, I
hope, as I ought to do.''---

Elinor tenderly invited her to be open.

{}``As for regret,'' said Marianne, {}``I have done with that,
as far as \textit{he} is concerned. I do not mean to talk to you of
what my feelings have been for him, but what they are \textit{now}.---At
present, if I could be satisfied on one point, if I could be allowed
to think that he was not \textit{always} acting a part, not \textit{always}
deceiving me;---but above all, if I could be assured that he never
was so \textit{very} wicked as my fears have sometimes fancied him,
since the story of that unfortunate girl''---

She stopt. Elinor joyfully treasured her words as she answered,

{}``If you could be assured of that, you think you should be easy.''

{}``Yes. My peace of mind is doubly involved in it;---for not only
is it horrible to suspect a person, who has been what \textit{he}
has been to \textit{me}, of such designs,---but what must it make
me appear to myself?---What in a situation like mine, but a most shamefully
unguarded affection could expose me to''---

{}``How then,'' asked her sister, {}``would you account for his
behaviour?''

{}``I would suppose him,---Oh, how gladly would I suppose him, only
fickle, very, very fickle.''

Elinor said no more. She was debating within herself on the eligibility
of beginning her story directly, or postponing it till Marianne were
in stronger health;---and they crept on for a few minutes in silence.

{}``I am not wishing him too much good,'' said Marianne at last
with a sigh, {}``when I wish his secret reflections may be no more
unpleasant than my own. He will suffer enough in them.''

{}``Do you compare your conduct with his?''

{}``No. I compare it with what it ought to have been; I compare it
with yours.''

{}``Our situations have borne little resemblance.''

{}``They have borne more than our conduct.---Do not, my dearest Elinor,
let your kindness defend what I know your judgment must censure. My
illness has made me think---It has given me leisure and calmness for
serious recollection. Long before I was enough recovered to talk,
I was perfectly able to reflect. I considered the past: I saw in my
own behaviour, since the beginning of our acquaintance with him last
autumn, nothing but a series of imprudence towards myself, and want
of kindness to others. I saw that my own feelings had prepared my
sufferings, and that my want of fortitude under them had almost led
me to the grave. My illness, I well knew, had been entirely brought
on by myself by such negligence of my own health, as I had felt even
at the time to be wrong. Had I died,---it would have been self-destruction.
I did not know my danger till the danger was removed; but with such
feelings as these reflections gave me, I wonder at my recovery,---wonder
that the very eagerness of my desire to live, to have time for atonement
to my God, and to you all, did not kill me at once. Had I died,---in
what peculiar misery should I have left you, my nurse, my friend,
my sister!---You, who had seen all the fretful selfishness of my latter
days; who had known all the murmurings of my heart!---How should I
have lived in \textit{your} remembrance!---My mother too! How could
you have consoled her!---I cannot express my own abhorrence of myself.
Whenever I looked towards the past, I saw some duty neglected, or
some failing indulged. Every body seemed injured by me. The kindness,
the unceasing kindness of Mrs.\ Jennings, I had repaid with ungrateful
contempt. To the Middletons, to the Palmers, the Steeles, to every
common acquaintance even, I had been insolent and unjust; with a heart
hardened against their merits, and a temper irritated by their very
attention.---To John, to Fanny,---yes, even to them, little as they
deserve, I had given less than their due. But you,---you above all,
above my mother, had been wronged by me. I, and only I, knew your
heart and its sorrows; yet to what did it influence me?---not to any
compassion that could benefit you or myself.---Your example was before
me; but to what avail?---Was I more considerate of you and your comfort?
Did I imitate your forbearance, or lessen your restraints, by taking
any part in those offices of general complaisance or particular gratitude
which you had hitherto been left to discharge alone?---No;---not less
when I knew you to be unhappy, than when I had believed you at ease,
did I turn away from every exertion of duty or friendship; scarcely
allowing sorrow to exist but with me, regretting only \textit{that}
heart which had deserted and wronged me, and leaving you, for or I
professed an unbounded affection, to be miserable for my sake.''

Here ceased the rapid flow of her self-reproving spirit; and Elinor,
impatient to soothe, though too honest to flatter, gave her instantly
that praise and support which her frankness and her contrition so
well deserved. Marianne pressed her hand and replied,

{}``You are very good.---The future must be my proof. I have laid
down my plan, and if I am capable of adhering to it---my feelings
shall be governed and my temper improved. They shall no longer worry
others, nor torture myself. I shall now live solely for my family.
You, my mother, and Margaret, must henceforth be all the world to
me; you will share my affections entirely between you. From you, from
my home, I shall never again have the smallest incitement to move;
and if I do mix in other society, it will be only to shew that my
spirit is humbled, my heart amended, and that I can practise the civilities,
the lesser duties of life, with gentleness and forbearance. As for
Willoughby---to say that I shall soon or that I shall ever forget
him, would be idle. His remembrance can be overcome by no change of
circumstances or opinions. But it shall be regulated, it shall be
checked by religion, by reason, by constant employment.''

She paused---and added in a low voice, {}``If I could but know \textit{his}
heart, everything would become easy.''

Elinor, who had now been for some time reflecting on the propriety
or impropriety of speedily hazarding her narration, without feeling
at all nearer decision than at first, heard this; and perceiving that
as reflection did nothing, resolution must do all, soon found herself
leading to the fact.

She managed the recital, as she hoped, with address; prepared her
anxious listener with caution; related simply and honestly the chief
points on which Willoughby grounded his apology; did justice to his
repentance, and softened only his protestations of present regard.
Marianne said not a word.---She trembled, her eyes were fixed on the
ground, and her lips became whiter than even sickness had left them.
A thousand inquiries sprung up from her heart, but she dared not urge
one. She caught every syllable with panting eagerness; her hand, unknowingly
to herself, closely pressed her sister's, and tears covered her cheeks.

Elinor, dreading her being tired, led her towards home; and till they
reached the door of the cottage, easily conjecturing what her curiosity
must be though no question was suffered to speak it, talked of nothing
but Willoughby, and their conversation together; and was carefully
minute in every particular of speech and look, where minuteness could
be safely indulged. As soon as they entered the house, Marianne with
a kiss of gratitude and these two words just articulate through her
tears, {}``Tell mama,'' withdrew from her sister and walked slowly
up stairs. Elinor would not attempt to disturb a solitude so reasonable
as what she now sought; and with a mind anxiously pre-arranging its
result, and a resolution of reviving the subject again, should Marianne
fail to do it, she turned into the parlour to fulfill her parting
injunction.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER 47}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER 47}

\markboth{SENSE AND SENSIBILITY}{CHAPTER 47}

Mrs.\ Dashwood did not hear unmoved the vindication of her former
favourite. She rejoiced in his being cleared from some part of his
imputed guilt;---she was sorry for him;---she wished him happy. But
the feelings of the past could not be recalled.---Nothing could restore
him with a faith unbroken---a character unblemished, to Marianne.
Nothing could do away the knowledge of what the latter had suffered
through his means, nor remove the guilt of his conduct towards Eliza.
Nothing could replace him, therefore, in her former esteem, nor injure
the interests of Colonel Brandon.

Had Mrs.\ Dashwood, like her daughter, heard Willoughby's story from
himself---had she witnessed his distress, and been under the influence
of his countenance and his manner, it is probable that her compassion
would have been greater. But it was neither in Elinor's power, nor
in her wish, to rouse such feelings in another, by her retailed explanation,
as had at first been called forth in herself. Reflection had given
calmness to her judgment, and sobered her own opinion of Willoughby's
deserts;---she wished, therefore, to declare only the simple truth,
and lay open such facts as were really due to his character, without
any embellishment of tenderness to lead the fancy astray.

In the evening, when they were all three together, Marianne began
voluntarily to speak of him again;---but that it was not without an
effort, the restless, unquiet thoughtfulness in which she had been
for some time previously sitting---her rising colour, as she spoke,---and
her unsteady voice, plainly shewed.

{}``I wish to assure you both,'' said she, {}``that I see every
thing---as you can desire me to do.''

Mrs.\ Dashwood would have interrupted her instantly with soothing
tenderness, had not Elinor, who really wished to hear her sister's
unbiased opinion, by an eager sign, engaged her silence. Marianne
slowly con\-t\-i\-n\-u\-ed---

{}``It is a great relief to me---what Elinor told me this morning---I
have now heard exactly what I wished to hear.''---For some moments
her voice was lost; but recovering herself, she added, and with greater
calmness than before---{}``I am now perfectly satisfied, I wish for
no change. I never could have been happy with him, after knowing,
as sooner or later I must have known, all this.---I should have had
no confidence, no esteem. Nothing could have done it away to my feelings.''

{}``I know it---I know it,'' cried her mother. {}``Happy with a
man of libertine practices!---With one who so injured the peace of
the dearest of our friends, and the best of men!---No---my Marianne
has not a heart to be made happy with such a man!---Her conscience,
her sensitive conscience, would have felt all that the conscience
of her husband ought to have felt.''

Marianne sighed, and repeated, {}``I wish for no change.''

{}``You consider the matter,'' said Elinor, {}``exactly as a good
mind and a sound understanding must consider it; and I dare say you
perceive, as well as myself, not only in this, but in many other circumstances,
reason enough to be convinced that your marriage must have involved
you in many certain troubles and disappointments, in which you would
have been poorly supported by an affection, on his side, much less
certain. Had you married, you must have been always poor. His expensiveness
is acknowledged even by himself, and his whole conduct declares that
self-denial is a word hardly understood by him. His demands and your
inexperience together, on a small, very small income, must have brought
on distresses which would not be the \textit{less} grievous to you,
from having been entirely unknown and unthought of before. \textit{Your}
sense of honour and honesty would have led you, I know, when aware
of your situation, to attempt all the economy that would appear to
you possible: and, perhaps, as long as your frugality retrenched only
on your own comfort, you might have been suffered to practice it,
but beyond that---and how little could the utmost of your single management
do to stop the ruin which had begun before your marriage?---Beyond
\textit{that}, had you endeavoured, however reasonably, to abridge
\textit{his} enjoyments, is it not to be feared, that instead of prevailing
on feelings so selfish to consent to it, you would have lessened your
own influence on his heart, and made him regret the connection which
had involved him in such difficulties?''

Marianne's lips quivered, and she repeated the word {}``Selfish?''
in a tone that implied---{}``do you really think him selfish?''

{}``The whole of his behaviour,'' replied Elinor, {}``from the
beginning to the end of the affair, has been grounded on selfishness.
It was selfishness which first made him sport with your affections;
which afterwards, when his own were engaged, made him delay the confession
of it, and which finally carried him from Barton. His own enjoyment,
or his own ease, was, in every particular, his ruling principle.''

{}``It is very true. \textit{My} happiness never was his object.''

{}``At present,'' continued Elinor, {}``he regrets what he has
done. And why does he regret it?---Because he finds it has not answered
towards himself. It has not made him happy. His circumstances are
now unembarrassed---he suffers from no evil of that kind; and he thinks
only that he has married a woman of a less amiable temper than yourself.
But does it follow that had he married you, he would have been happy?---The
inconveniences would have been different. He would then have suffered
under the pecuniary distresses which, because they are removed, he
now reckons as nothing. He would have had a wife of whose temper he
could make no complaint, but he would have been always necessitous---always
poor; and probably would soon have learned to rank the innumerable
comforts of a clear estate and good income as of far more importance,
even to domestic happiness, than the mere temper of a wife.''

{}``I have not a doubt of it,'' said Marianne; {}``and I have nothing
to regret---nothing but my own folly.''

{}``Rather say your mother's imprudence, my child,'' said Mrs.\ Dashwood;
{}``\textit{She} must be answerable.''

Marianne would not let her proceed;---and Elinor, satisfied that each
felt their own error, wished to avoid any survey of the past that
might weaken her sister's spirits; she, therefore, pursuing the first
subject, immediately continued,

{}``One observation may, I think, be fairly drawn from the whole
of the story---that all Willoughby's difficulties have arisen from
the first offence against virtue, in his behaviour to Eliza Williams.
That crime has been the origin of every lesser one, and of all his
present discontents.''

Marianne assented most feelingly to the remark; and her mother was
led by it to an enumeration of Colonel Brandon's injuries and merits,
warm as friendship and design could unitedly dictate. Her daughter
did not look, however, as if much of it were heard by her.

Elinor, according to her expectation, saw on the two or three following
days, that Marianne did not continue to gain strength as she had done;
but while her resolution was unsubdued, and she still tried to appear
cheerful and easy, her sister could safely trust to the effect of
time upon her health.

Margaret returned, and the family were again all restored to each
other, again quietly settled at the cottage; and if not pursuing their
usual studies with quite so much vigour as when they first came to
Barton, at least planning a vigorous prosecution of them in future.

Elinor grew impatient for some tidings of Edward. She had heard nothing
of him since her leaving London, nothing new of his plans, nothing
certain even of his present abode. Some letters had passed between
her and her brother, in consequence of Marianne's illness; and in
the first of John's, there had been this sentence:---{}``We know
nothing of our unfortunate Edward, and can make no enquiries on so
prohibited a subject, but conclude him to be still at Oxford;'' which
was all the intelligence of Edward afforded her by the correspondence,
for his name was not even mentioned in any of the succeeding letters.
She was not doomed, however, to be long in ignorance of his measures.

Their man-servant had been sent one morning to Exeter on business;
and when, as he waited at table, he had satisfied the inquiries of
his mistress as to the event of his errand, this was his voluntary
communication---

{}``I suppose you know, ma'am, that Mr.\ Ferrars is married.''

Marianne gave a violent start, fixed her eyes upon Elinor, saw her
turning pale, and fell back in her chair in hysterics. Mrs.\ Dashwood,
whose eyes, as she answered the servant's inquiry, had intuitively
taken the same direction, was shocked to perceive by Elinor's countenance
how much she really suffered, and a moment afterwards, alike distressed
by Marianne's situation, knew not on which child to bestow her principal
attention.

The servant, who saw only that Miss Marianne was taken ill, had sense
enough to call one of the maids, who, with Mrs.\ Dashwood's assistance,
supported her into the other room. By that time, Marianne was rather
better, and her mother leaving her to the care of Margaret and the
maid, returned to Elinor, who, though still much disordered, had so
far recovered the use of her reason and voice as to be just beginning
an inquiry of Thomas, as to the source of his intelligence. Mrs.\ Dashwood
immediately took all that trouble on herself; and Elinor had the benefit
of the information without the exertion of seeking it.

{}``Who told you that Mr.\ Ferrars was married, Thomas?''

{}``I see Mr.\ Ferrars myself, ma'am, this morning in Exeter, and
his lady too, Miss Steele as was. They was stopping in a chaise at
the door of the New London Inn, as I went there with a message from
Sally at the Park to her brother, who is one of the post-boys. I happened
to look up as I went by the chaise, and so I see directly it was the
youngest Miss Steele; so I took off my hat, and she knew me and called
to me, and inquired after you, ma'am, and the young ladies, especially
Miss Marianne, and bid me I should give her compliments and Mr.\ Ferrars's,
their best compliments and service, and how sorry they was they had
not time to come on and see you, but they was in a great hurry to
go forwards, for they was going further down for a little while, but
howsever, when they come back, they'd make sure to come and see you.''

{}``But did she tell you she was married, Thomas?''

{}``Yes, ma'am. She smiled, and said how she had changed her name
since she was in these parts. She was always a very affable and free-spoken
young lady, and very civil behaved. So, I made free to wish her joy.''

{}``Was Mr.\ Ferrars in the carriage with her?''

{}``Yes, ma'am, I just see him leaning back in it, but he did not
look up;---he never was a gentleman much for talking.''

Elinor's heart could easily account for his not putting himself forward;
and Mrs.\ Dashwood probably found the same explanation.

{}``Was there no one else in the carriage?''

{}``No, ma'am, only they two.''

{}``Do you know where they came from?''

{}``They come straight from town, as Miss Lucy---Mrs.\ Ferrars told
me.''

{}``And are they going farther westward?''

{}``Yes, ma'am---but not to bide long. They will soon be back again,
and then they'd be sure and call here.''

Mrs.\ Dashwood now looked at her daughter; but Elinor knew better
than to expect them. She recognised the whole of Lucy in the message,
and was very confident that Edward would never come near them. She
observed in a low voice, to her mother, that they were probably going
down to Mr.\ Pratt's, near Plymouth.

Thomas's intelligence seemed over. Elinor looked as if she wished
to hear more.

{}``Did you see them off, before you came away?''

{}``No, ma'am---the horses were just coming out, but I could not
bide any longer; I was afraid of being late.''

{}``Did Mrs.\ Ferrars look well?''

{}``Yes, ma'am, she said how she was very well; and to my mind she
was always a very handsome young lady---and she seemed vastly contented.''

Mrs.\ Dashwood could think of no other question, and Thomas and the
tablecloth, now alike needless, were soon afterwards dismissed. Marianne
had already sent to say, that she should eat nothing more. Mrs.\ Dashwood's
and Elinor's appetites were equally lost, and Margaret might think
herself very well off, that with so much uneasiness as both her sisters
had lately experienced, so much reason as they had often had to be
careless of their meals, she had never been obliged to go without
her dinner before.

When the dessert and the wine were arranged, and Mrs.\ Dashwood and
Elinor were left by themselves, they remained long together in a similarity
of thoughtfulness and silence. Mrs.\ Dashwood feared to hazard any
remark, and ventured not to offer consolation. She now found that
she had erred in relying on Elinor's representation of herself; and
justly concluded that every thing had been expressly softened at the
time, to spare her from an increase of unhappiness, suffering as she
then had suffered for Marianne. She found that she had been misled
by the careful, the considerate attention of her daughter, to think
the attachment, which once she had so well understood, much slighter
in reality, than she had been wont to believe, or than it was now
proved to be. She feared that under this persuasion she had been unjust,
inattentive, nay, almost unkind, to her Elinor;---that Marianne's
affliction, because more acknowledged, more immediately before her,
had too much engrossed her tenderness, and led her away to forget
that in Elinor she might have a daughter suffering almost as much,
certainly with less self-provocation, and greater fortitude.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER 48}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER 48}

\markboth{SENSE AND SENSIBILITY}{CHAPTER 48}

Elinor now found the difference between the expectation of an unpleasant
event, however certain the mind may be told to consider it, and certainty
itself. She now found, that in spite of herself, she had always admitted
a hope, while Edward remained single, that something would occur to
prevent his marrying Lucy; that some resolution of his own, some mediation
of friends, or some more eligible opportunity of establishment for
the lady, would arise to assist the happiness of all. But he was now
married; and she condemned her heart for the lurking flattery, which
so much heightened the pain of the intelligence.

That he should be married soon, before (as she imagined) he could
be in orders, and consequently before he could be in possession of
the living, surprised her a little at first. But she soon saw how
likely it was that Lucy, in her self-provident care, in her haste
to secure him, should overlook every thing but the risk of delay.
They were married, married in town, and now hastening down to her
uncle's. What had Edward felt on being within four miles from Barton,
on seeing her mother's servant, on hearing Lucy's message!

They would soon, she supposed, be settled at Delaford.---Delaford,---that
place in which so much conspired to give her an interest; which she
wished to be acquainted with, and yet desired to avoid. She saw them
in an instant in their parsonage-house; saw in Lucy, the active, contriving
manager, uniting at once a desire of smart appearance with the utmost
frugality, and ashamed to be suspected of half her economical practices;---pursuing
her own interest in every thought, courting the favour of Colonel
Brandon, of Mrs.\ Jennings, and of every wealthy friend. In Edward---she
knew not what she saw, nor what she wished to see;---happy or unhappy,---nothing
pleased her; she turned away her head from every sketch of him.

Elinor flattered herself that some one of their connections in London
would write to them to announce the event, and give farther particulars,---but
day after day passed off, and brought no letter, no tidings. Though
uncertain that any one were to blame, she found fault with every absent
friend. They were all thoughtless or indolent.

{}``When do you write to Colonel Brandon, ma'am?''\ was an inquiry
which sprung from the impatience of her mind to have something going
on.

{}``I wrote to him, my love, last week, and rather expect to see,
than to hear from him again. I earnestly pressed his coming to us,
and should not be surprised to see him walk in today or tomorrow,
or any day.''

This was gaining something, something to look forward to. Colonel
Brandon must have some information to give.

Scarcely had she so determined it, when the figure of a man on horseback
drew her eyes to the window. He stopt at their gate. It was a gentleman,
it was Colonel Brandon himself. Now she could hear more; and she trembled
in expectation of it. But---it was \textit{not} Colonel Brandon---neither
his air---nor his height. Were it possible, she must say it must be
Edward. She looked again. He had just dismounted;---she could not
be mistaken,---it \textit{was} Edward. She moved away and sat down.
{}``He comes from Mr.\ Pratt's purposely to see us. I \textit{will}
be calm; I \textit{will} be mistress of myself.''

In a moment she perceived that the others were likewise aware of the
mistake. She saw her mother and Marianne change colour; saw them look
at herself, and whisper a few sentences to each other. She would have
given the world to be able to speak---and to make them understand
that she hoped no coolness, no slight, would appear in their behaviour
to him;---but she had no utterance, and was obliged to leave all to
their own discretion.

Not a syllable passed aloud. They all waited in silence for the appearance
of their visitor. His footsteps were heard along the gravel path;
in a moment he was in the passage, and in another he was before them.

His countenance, as he entered the room, was not too happy, even for
Elinor. His complexion was white with agitation, and he looked as
if fearful of his reception, and conscious that he merited no kind
one. Mrs.\ Dashwood, however, conforming, as she trusted, to the
wishes of that daughter, by whom she then meant in the warmth of her
heart to be guided in every thing, met with a look of forced complacency,
gave him her hand, and wished him joy.

He coloured, and stammered out an unintelligible reply. Elinor's lips
had moved with her mother's, and, when the moment of action was over,
she wished that she had shaken hands with him too. But it was then
too late, and with a countenance meaning to be open, she sat down
again and talked of the weather.

Marianne had retreated as much as possible out of sight, to conceal
her distress; and Margaret, understanding some part, but not the whole
of the case, thought it incumbent on her to be dignified, and therefore
took a seat as far from him as she could, and maintained a strict
silence.

When Elinor had ceased to rejoice in the dryness of the season, a
very awful pause took place. It was put an end to by Mrs.\ Dashwood,
who felt obliged to hope that he had left Mrs.\ Ferrars very well.
In a hurried manner, he replied in the affirmative.

Another pause.

Elinor resolving to exert herself, though fearing the sound of her
own voice, now said,

{}``Is Mrs.\ Ferrars at Longstaple?''

{}``At Longstaple!''\ he replied, with an air of surprise.---{}``No,
my mother is in town.''

{}``I meant,'' said Elinor, taking up some work from the table,
{}``to inquire for Mrs.\ \textit{Edward} Ferrars.''

She dared not look up;---but her mother and Marianne both turned their
eyes on him. He coloured, seemed perplexed, looked doubtingly, and,
after some hesitation, said,---

{}``Perhaps you mean---my brother---you mean Mrs.---Mrs.\ \textit{Robert}
Ferrars.''

{}``Mrs.\ Robert Ferrars!''---was repeated by Marianne and her
mother in an accent of the utmost amazement;---and though Elinor could
not speak, even \textit{her} eyes were fixed on him with the same
impatient wonder. He rose from his seat, and walked to the window,
apparently from not knowing what to do; took up a pair of scissors
that lay there, and while spoiling both them and their sheath by cutting
the latter to pieces as he spoke, said, in a hurried voice,

{}``Perhaps you do not know---you may not have heard that my brother
is lately married to---to the youngest---to Miss Lucy Steele.''

His words were echoed with unspeakable astonishment by all but Elinor,
who sat with her head leaning over her work, in a state of such agitation
as made her hardly know where she was.

{}``Yes,'' said he, {}``they were married last week, and are now
at Dawlish.''

Elinor could sit it no longer. She almost ran out of the room, and
as soon as the door was closed, burst into tears of joy, which at
first she thought would never cease. Edward, who had till then looked
any where, rather than at her, saw her hurry away, and perhaps saw---or
even heard, her emotion; for immediately afterwards he fell into a
reverie, which no remarks, no inquiries, no affectionate address of
Mrs.\ Dashwood could penetrate, and at last, without saying a word,
quitted the room, and walked out towards the village---leaving the
others in the greatest astonishment and perplexity on a change in
his situation, so wonderful and so sudden;---a perplexity which they
had no means of lessening but by their own conjectures.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER 49}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER 49}

\markboth{SENSE AND SENSIBILITY}{CHAPTER 49}

Unaccountable, however, as the circumstances of his release might
appear to the whole family, it was certain that Edward was free; and
to what purpose that freedom would be employed was easily pre-determined
by all;---for after experiencing the blessings of \textit{one} imprudent
engagement, contracted without his mother's consent, as he had already
done for more than four years, nothing less could be expected of him
in the failure of \textit{that}, than the immediate contraction of
another.

His errand at Barton, in fact, was a simple one. It was only to ask
Elinor to marry him;---and considering that he was not altogether
inexperienced in such a question, it might be strange that he should
feel so uncomfortable in the present case as he really did, so much
in need of encouragement and fresh air.

How soon he had walked himself into the proper resolution, however,
how soon an opportunity of exercising it occurred, in what manner
he expressed himself, and how he was received, need not be particularly
told. This only need be said;---that when they all sat down to table
at four o'clock, about three hours after his arrival, he had secured
his lady, engaged her mother's consent, and was not only in the rapturous
profession of the lover, but, in the reality of reason and truth,
one of the happiest of men. His situation indeed was more than commonly
joyful. He had more than the ordinary triumph of accepted love to
swell his heart, and raise his spirits. He was released without any
reproach to himself, from an entanglement which had long formed his
misery, from a woman whom he had long ceased to love;---and elevated
at once to that security with another, which he must have thought
of almost with despair, as soon as he had learnt to consider it with
desire. He was brought, not from doubt or suspense, but from misery
to happiness;---and the change was openly spoken in such a genuine,
flowing, grateful cheerfulness, as his friends had never witnessed
in him before.

His heart was now open to Elinor, all its weaknesses, all its errors
confessed, and his first boyish attachment to Lucy treated with all
the philosophic dignity of twenty-four.

{}``It was a foolish, idle inclination on my side,'' said he, {}``the
consequence of ignorance of the world---and want of employment. Had
my brother given me some active profession when I was removed at eighteen
from the care of Mr.\ Pratt, I think---nay, I am sure, it would never
have happened; for though I left Longstaple with what I thought, at
the time, a most unconquerable preference for his niece, yet had I
then had any pursuit, any object to engage my time and keep me at
a distance from her for a few months, I should very soon have outgrown
the fancied attachment, especially by mixing more with the world,
as in such case I must have done. But instead of having any thing
to do, instead of having any profession chosen for me, or being allowed
to chuse any myself, I returned home to be completely idle; and for
the first twelvemonth afterwards I had not even the nominal employment,
which belonging to the university would have given me; for I was not
entered at Oxford till I was nineteen. I had therefore nothing in
the world to do, but to fancy myself in love; and as my mother did
not make my home in every respect comfortable, as I had no friend,
no companion in my brother, and disliked new acquaintance, it was
not unnatural for me to be very often at Longstaple, where I always
felt myself at home, and was always sure of a welcome; and accordingly
I spent the greatest part of my time there from eighteen to nineteen:
Lucy appeared everything that was amiable and obliging. She was pretty
too---at least I thought so \textit{then}; and I had seen so little
of other women, that I could make no comparisons, and see no defects.
Considering everything, therefore, I hope, foolish as our engagement
was, foolish as it has since in every way been proved, it was not
at the time an unnatural or an inexcusable piece of folly.''

The change which a few hours had wrought in the minds and the happiness
of the Dashwoods, was such---so great---as promised them all, the
satisfaction of a sleepless night. Mrs.\ Dashwood, too happy to be
comfortable, knew not how to love Edward, nor praise Elinor enough,
how to be enough thankful for his release without wounding his delicacy,
nor how at once to give them leisure for unrestrained conversation
together, and yet enjoy, as she wished, the sight and society of both.

Marianne could speak \textit{her} happiness only by tears. Comparisons
would occur---regrets would arise;---and her joy, though sincere as
her love for her sister, was of a kind to give her neither spirits
nor language.

But Elinor---how are \textit{her} feelings to be described?---From
the moment of learning that Lucy was married to another, that Edward
was free, to the moment of his justifying the hopes which had so instantly
followed, she was every thing by turns but tranquil. But when the
second moment had passed, when she found every doubt, every solicitude
removed, compared her situation with what so lately it had been,---saw
him honourably released from his former engagement, saw him instantly
profiting by the release, to address herself and declare an affection
as tender, as constant as she had ever supposed it to be,---she was
oppressed, she was overcome by her own felicity;---and happily disposed
as is the human mind to be easily familiarized with any change for
the better, it required several hours to give sedateness to her spirits,
or any degree of tranquillity to her heart.

Edward was now fixed at the cottage at least for a week;---for whatever
other claims might be made on him, it was impossible that less than
a week should be given up to the enjoyment of Elinor's company, or
suffice to say half that was to be said of the past, the present,
and the future;---for though a very few hours spent in the hard labor
of incessant talking will despatch more subjects than can really be
in common between any two rational creatures, yet with lovers it is
different. Between \textit{them} no subject is finished, no communication
is even made, till it has been made at least twenty times over.

Lucy's marriage, the unceasing and reasonable wonder among them all,
formed of course one of the earliest discussions of the lovers;---and
Elinor's particular knowledge of each party made it appear to her
in every view, as one of the most extraordinary and unaccountable
circumstances she had ever heard. How they could be thrown together,
and by what attraction Robert could be drawn on to marry a girl, of
whose beauty she had herself heard him speak without any admiration,---a
girl too already engaged to his brother, and on whose account that
brother had been thrown off by his family---it was beyond her comprehension
to make out. To her own heart it was a delightful affair, to her imagination
it was even a ridiculous one, but to her reason, her judgment, it
was completely a puzzle.

Edward could only attempt an explanation by supposing, that, perhaps,
at first accidentally meeting, the vanity of the one had been so worked
on by the flattery of the other, as to lead by degrees to all the
rest. Elinor remembered what Robert had told her in Harley Street,
of his opinion of what his own mediation in his brother's affairs
might have done, if applied to in time. She repeated it to Edward.

{}``\textit{That} was exactly like Robert,''---was his immediate
observation.---{}``And \textit{that},'' he presently added, {}``might
perhaps be in \textit{his} head when the acquaintance between them
first began. And Lucy perhaps at first might think only of procuring
his good offices in my favour. Other designs might afterward arise.''

How long it had been carrying on between them, however, he was equally
at a loss with herself to make out; for at Oxford, where he had remained
for choice ever since his quitting London, he had had no means of
hearing of her but from herself, and her letters to the very last
were neither less frequent, nor less affectionate than usual. Not
the smallest suspicion, therefore, had ever occurred to prepare him
for what followed;---and when at last it burst on him in a letter
from Lucy herself, he had been for some time, he believed, half stupified
between the wonder, the horror, and the joy of such a deliverance.
He put the letter into Elinor's hands.

\begin{quotation}
\noindent {}``\textit{\emph{\noun{Dear}}} \textit{\emph{\noun{Sir}}}\emph{\noun{,}}

{}``Being very sure I have long lost your affections, I have thought
myself at liberty to bestow my own on another, and have no doubt of
being as happy with him as I once used to think I might be with you;
but I scorn to accept a hand while the heart was another's. Sincerely
wish you happy in your choice, and it shall not be my fault if we
are not always good friends, as our near relationship now makes proper.
I can safely say I owe you no ill-will, and am sure you will be too
generous to do us any ill offices. Your brother has gained my affections
entirely, and as we could not live without one another, we are just
returned from the altar, and are now on our way to Dawlish for a few
weeks, which place your dear brother has great curiosity to see, but
thought I would first trouble you with these few lines, and shall
always remain,

{}``Your sincere well-wisher, fri\-end, and sister,

\hspace{\stretch{1}}{}``\textit{\emph{\noun{Lucy}}} \textit{\emph{\noun{Ferrars}}}.

\noindent {}``I have burnt all your letters, and will return your
picture the first opportunity. Please to destroy my scrawls---but
the ring with my hair you are very welcome to keep.'' 
\end{quotation}
Elinor read and returned it without any comment.

{}``I will not ask your opinion of it as a composition,'' said Edward.---{}``For
worlds would not I have had a letter of hers seen by \textit{you}
in former days.---In a sister it is bad enough, but in a wife!---how
I have blushed over the pages of her writing!---and I believe I may
say that since the first half year of our foolish---business---this
is the only letter I ever received from her, of which the substance
made me any amends for the defect of the style.''

{}``However it may have come about,'' said Elinor, after a pause,---{}``they
are certainly married. And your mother has brought on herself a most
appropriate punishment. The independence she settled on Robert, through
resentment against you, has put it in his power to make his own choice;
and she has actually been bribing one son with a thousand a-year,
to do the very deed which she disinherited the other for intending
to do. She will hardly be less hurt, I suppose, by Robert's marrying
Lucy, than she would have been by your marrying her.''

{}``She will be more hurt by it, for Robert always was her favourite.---She
will be more hurt by it, and on the same principle will forgive him
much sooner.''

In what state the affair stood at present between them, Edward knew
not, for no communication with any of his family had yet been attempted
by him. He had quitted Oxford within four and twenty hours after Lucy's
letter arrived, and with only one object before him, the nearest road
to Barton, had had no leisure to form any scheme of conduct, with
which that road did not hold the most intimate connection. He could
do nothing till he were assured of his fate with Miss Dashwood; and
by his rapidity in seeking \textit{that} fate, it is to be supposed,
in spite of the jealousy with which he had once thought of Colonel
Brandon, in spite of the modesty with which he rated his own deserts,
and the politeness with which he talked of his doubts, he did not,
upon the whole, expect a very cruel reception. It was his business,
however, to say that he \textit{did}, and he said it very prettily.
What he might say on the subject a twelvemonth after, must be referred
to the imagination of husbands and wives.

That Lucy had certainly meant to deceive, to go off with a flourish
of malice against him in her message by Thomas, was perfectly clear
to Elinor; and Edward himself, now thoroughly enlightened on her character,
had no scruple in believing her capable of the utmost meanness of
wanton ill-nature. Though his eyes had been long opened, even before
his acquaintance with Elinor began, to her ignorance and a want of
liberality in some of her opinions---they had been equally imputed,
by him, to her want of education; and till her last letter reached
him, he had always believed her to be a well-disposed, good-hearted
girl, and thoroughly attached to himself. Nothing but such a persuasion
could have prevented his putting an end to an engagement, which, long
before the discovery of it laid him open to his mother's anger, had
been a continual source of disquiet and regret to him.

{}``I thought it my duty,'' said he, {}``independent of my feelings,
to give her the option of continuing the engagement or not, when I
was renounced by my mother, and stood to all appearance without a
friend in the world to assist me. In such a situation as that, where
there seemed nothing to tempt the avarice or the vanity of any living
creature, how could I suppose, when she so earnestly, so warmly insisted
on sharing my fate, whatever it might be, that any thing but the most
disinterested affection was her inducement? And even now, I cannot
comprehend on what motive she acted, or what fancied advantage it
could be to her, to be fettered to a man for whom she had not the
smallest regard, and who had only two thousand pounds in the world.
She could not foresee that Colonel Brandon would give me a living.''

{}``No; but she might suppose that something would occur in your
favour; that your own family might in time relent. And at any rate,
she lost nothing by continuing the engagement, for she has proved
that it fettered neither her inclination nor her actions. The connection
was certainly a respectable one, and probably gained her consideration
among her friends; and, if nothing more advantageous occurred, it
would be better for her to marry \textit{you} than be single.''

Edward was, of course, immediately convinced that nothing could have
been more natural than Lucy's conduct, nor more self-evident than
the motive of it.

Elinor scolded him, harshly as ladies always scold the imprudence
which compliments themselves, for having spent so much time with them
at Norland, when he must have felt his own inconstancy.

{}``Your behaviour was certainly very wrong,'' said she; {}``because---to
say nothing of my own conviction, our relations were all led away
by it to fancy and expect \textit{what}, as you were \textit{then}
situated, could never be.''

He could only plead an ignorance of his own heart, and a mistaken
confidence in the force of his engagement.

{}``I was simple enough to think, that because my \textit{faith}
was plighted to another, there could be no danger in my being with
you; and that the consciousness of my engagement was to keep my heart
as safe and sacred as my honour. I felt that I admired you, but I
told myself it was only friendship; and till I began to make comparisons
between yourself and Lucy, I did not know how far I was got. After
that, I suppose, I \textit{was} wrong in remaining so much in Sussex,
and the arguments with which I reconciled myself to the expediency
of it, were no better than these:---The danger is my own; I am doing
no injury to anybody but myself.''

Elinor smiled, and shook her head.

Edward heard with pleasure of Colonel Brandon's being expected at
the Cottage, as he really wished not only to be better acquainted
with him, but to have an opportunity of convincing him that he no
longer resented his giving him the living of Delaford---{}``Which,
at present,'' said he, {}``after thanks so ungraciously delivered
as mine were on the occasion, he must think I have never forgiven
him for offering.''

\textit{Now} he felt astonished himself that he had never yet been
to the place. But so little interest had be taken in the matter, that
he owed all his knowledge of the house, garden, and glebe, extent
of the parish, condition of the land, and rate of the tithes, to Elinor
herself, who had heard so much of it from Colonel Brandon, and heard
it with so much attention, as to be entirely mistress of the subject.

One question after this only remained undecided, between them, one
difficulty only was to be overcome. They were brought together by
mutual affection, with the warmest approbation of their real friends;
their intimate knowledge of each other seemed to make their happiness
certain---and they only wanted something to live upon. Edward had
two thousand pounds, and Elinor one, which, with Delaford living,
was all that they could call their own; for it was impossible that
Mrs.\ Dashwood should advance anything; and they were neither of
them quite enough in love to think that three hundred and fifty pounds
a-year would supply them with the comforts of life.

Edward was not entirely without hopes of some favourable change in
his mother towards him; and on \textit{that} he rested for the residue
of their income. But Elinor had no such dependence; for since Edward
would still be unable to marry Miss Morton, and his chusing herself
had been spoken of in Mrs.\ Ferrars's flattering language as only
a lesser evil than his chusing Lucy Steele, she feared that Robert's
offence would serve no other purpose than to enrich Fanny.

About four days after Edward's arrival Colonel Brandon appeared, to
complete Mrs.\ Dashwood's satisfaction, and to give her the dignity
of having, for the first time since her living at Barton, more company
with her than her house would hold. Edward was allowed to retain the
privilege of first comer, and Colonel Brandon therefore walked every
night to his old quarters at the Park; from whence he usually returned
in the morning, early enough to interrupt the lovers' first \emph{t\^{e}te-\`{a}-t\^{e}te}
before breakfast.

A three weeks' residence at Delaford, where, in his evening hours
at least, he had little to do but to calculate the disproportion between
thirty-six and seventeen, brought him to Barton in a temper of mind
which needed all the improvement in Marianne's looks, all the kindness
of her welcome, and all the encouragement of her mother's language,
to make it cheerful. Among such friends, however, and such flattery,
he did revive. No rumour of Lucy's marriage had yet reached him:---he
knew nothing of what had passed; and the first hours of his visit
were consequently spent in hearing and in wondering. Every thing was
explained to him by Mrs.\ Dashwood, and he found fresh reason to
rejoice in what he had done for Mr.\ Ferrars, since eventually it
promoted the interest of Elinor.

It would be needless to say, that the gentlemen advanced in the good
opinion of each other, as they advanced in each other's acquaintance,
for it could not be otherwise. Their resemblance in good principles
and good sense, in disposition and manner of thinking, would probably
have been sufficient to unite them in friendship, without any other
attraction; but their being in love with two sisters, and two sisters
fond of each other, made that mutual regard inevitable and immediate,
which might otherwise have waited the effect of time and judgment.

The letters from town, which a few days before would have made every
nerve in Elinor's body thrill with transport, now arrived to be read
with less emotion that mirth. Mrs.\ Jennings wrote to tell the wonderful
tale, to vent her honest indignation against the jilting girl, and
pour forth her compassion towards poor Mr.\ Edward, who, she was
sure, had quite doted upon the worthless hussy, and was now, by all
accounts, almost broken-hearted, at Oxford.---{}``I do think,''
she continued, {}``nothing was ever carried on so sly; for it was
but two days before Lucy called and sat a couple of hours with me.
Not a soul suspected anything of the matter, not even Nancy, who,
poor soul!\ came crying to me the day after, in a great fright for
fear of Mrs.\ Ferrars, as well as not knowing how to get to Plymouth;
for Lucy it seems borrowed all her money before she went off to be
married, on purpose we suppose to make a show with, and poor Nancy
had not seven shillings in the world;---so I was very glad to give
her five guineas to take her down to Exeter, where she thinks of staying
three or four weeks with Mrs.\ Burgess, in hopes, as I tell her,
to fall in with the Doctor again. And I must say that Lucy's crossness
not to take them along with them in the chaise is worse than all.
Poor Mr.\ Edward! I cannot get him out of my head, but you must send
for him to Barton, and Miss Marianne must try to comfort him.''

Mr.\ Dashwood's strains were more solemn. Mrs.\ Ferrars was the
most unfortunate of women---poor Fanny had suffered agonies of sensibility---and
he considered the existence of each, under such a blow, with grateful
wonder. Robert's offence was unpardonable, but Lucy's was infinitely
worse. Neither of them were ever again to be mentioned to Mrs.\ Ferrars;
and even, if she might hereafter be induced to forgive her son, his
wife should never be acknowledged as her daughter, nor be permitted
to appear in her presence. The secrecy with which everything had been
carried on between them, was rationally treated as enormously heightening
the crime, because, had any suspicion of it occurred to the others,
proper measures would have been taken to prevent the marriage; and
he called on Elinor to join with him in regretting that Lucy's engagement
with Edward had not rather been fulfilled, than that she should thus
be the means of spreading misery farther in the family.---He thus
continued:

{}``Mrs.\ Ferrars has never yet mentioned Edward's name, which does
not surprise us; but, to our great astonishment, not a line has been
received from him on the occasion. Perhaps, however, he is kept silent
by his fear of offending, and I shall, therefore, give him a hint,
by a line to Oxford, that his sister and I both think a letter of
proper submission from him, addressed perhaps to Fanny, and by her
shewn to her mother, might not be taken amiss; for we all know the
tenderness of Mrs.\ Ferrars's heart, and that she wishes for nothing
so much as to be on good terms with her children.''

This paragraph was of some importance to the prospects and conduct
of Edward. It determined him to attempt a reconciliation, though not
exactly in the manner pointed out by their brother and sister.

{}``A letter of proper submission!''\ repeated he; {}``would they
have me beg my mother's pardon for Robert's ingratitude to \textit{her},
and breach of honour to \textit{me}?---I can make no submission---I
am grown neither humble nor penitent by what has passed.---I am grown
very happy; but that would not interest.---I know of no submission
that \textit{is} proper for me to make.''

{}``You may certainly ask to be forgiven,'' said Elinor, {}``because
you have offended;---and I should think you might \textit{now} venture
so far as to profess some concern for having ever formed the engagement
which drew on you your mother's anger.''

He agreed that he might.

{}``And when she has forgiven you, perhaps a little humility may
be convenient while acknowledging a second engagement, almost as imprudent
in \textit{her} eyes as the first.''

He had nothing to urge against it, but still resisted the idea of
a letter of proper submission; and therefore, to make it easier to
him, as he declared a much greater willingness to make mean concessions
by word of mouth than on paper, it was resolved that, instead of writing
to Fanny, he should go to London, and personally intreat her good
offices in his favour.---{}``And if they really \textit{do} interest
themselves,'' said Marianne, in her new character of candour, {}``in
bringing about a reconciliation, I shall think that even John and
Fanny are not entirely without merit.''

After a visit on Colonel Brandon's side of only three or four days,
the two gentlemen quitted Barton together.---They were to go immediately
to Delaford, that Edward might have some personal knowledge of his
future home, and assist his patron and friend in deciding on what
improvements were needed to it; and from thence, after staying there
a couple of nights, he was to proceed on his journey to town.


\chapter*{\raggedright CHAPTER 50}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{CHAPTER 50}

\markboth{SENSE AND SENSIBILITY}{CHAPTER 50}

After a proper resistance on the part of Mrs.\ Ferrars, just so violent
and so steady as to preserve her from that reproach which she always
seemed fearful of incurring, the reproach of being too amiable, Edward
was admitted to her presence, and pronounced to be again her son.

Her family had of late been exceedingly fluctuating. For many years
of her life she had had two sons; but the crime and annihilation of
Edward a few weeks ago, had robbed her of one; the similar annihilation
of Robert had left her for a fortnight without any; and now, by the
resuscitation of Edward, she had one again.

In spite of his being allowed once more to live, however, he did not
feel the continuance of his existence secure, till he had revealed
his present engagement; for the publication of that circumstance,
he feared, might give a sudden turn to his constitution, and carry
him off as rapidly as before. With apprehensive caution therefore
it was revealed, and he was listened to with unexpected calmness.
Mrs.\ Ferrars at first reasonably endeavoured to dissuade him from
marrying Miss Dashwood, by every argument in her power;---told him,
that in Miss Morton he would have a woman of higher rank and larger
fortune;---and enforced the assertion, by observing that Miss Morton
was the daughter of a nobleman with thirty thousand pounds, while
Miss Dashwood was only the daughter of a private gentleman with no
more than \textit{three}; but when she found that, though perfectly
admitting the truth of her representation, he was by no means inclined
to be guided by it, she judged it wisest, from the experience of the
past, to submit---and therefore, after such an ungracious delay as
she owed to her own dignity, and as served to prevent every suspicion
of good-will, she issued her decree of consent to the marriage of
Edward and Elinor.

What she would engage to do towards augmenting their income was next
to be considered; and here it plainly appeared, that though Edward
was now her only son, he was by no means her eldest; for while Robert
was inevitably endowed with a thousand pounds a-year, not the smallest
objection was made against Edward's taking orders for the sake of
two hundred and fifty at the utmost; nor was anything promised either
for the present or in future, beyond the ten thousand pounds, which
had been given with Fanny.

It was as much, however, as was desired, and more than was expected,
by Edward and Elinor; and Mrs.\ Ferrars herself, by her shuffling
excuses, seemed the only person surprised at her not giving more.

With an income quite sufficient to their wants thus secured to them,
they had nothing to wait for after Edward was in possession of the
living, but the readiness of the house, to which Colonel Brandon,
with an eager desire for the accommodation of Elinor, was making considerable
improvements; and after waiting some time for their completion, after
experiencing, as usual, a thousand disappointments and delays from
the unaccountable dilatoriness of the workmen, Elinor, as usual, broke
through the first positive resolution of not marrying till every thing
was ready, and the ceremony took place in Barton church early in the
autumn.

The first month after their marriage was spent with their friend at
the Mansion-house; from whence they could superintend the progress
of the Parsonage, and direct every thing as they liked on the spot;---could
chuse papers, project shrubberies, and invent a sweep. Mrs.\ Jennings's
prophecies, though rather jumbled together, were chiefly fulfilled;
for she was able to visit Edward and his wife in their Parsonage by
Michaelmas, and she found in Elinor and her husband, as she really
believed, one of the happiest couples in the world. They had in fact
nothing to wish for, but the marriage of Colonel Brandon and Marianne,
and rather better pasturage for their cows.

They were visited on their first settling by almost all their relations
and friends. Mrs.\ Ferrars came to inspect the happiness which she
was almost ashamed of having authorised; and even the Dashwoods were
at the expense of a journey from Sussex to do them honour.

{}``I will not say that I am disappointed, my dear sister,'' said
John, as they were walking together one morning before the gates of
Delaford House, {}``\textit{That} would be saying too much, for certainly
you have been one of the most fortunate young women in the world,
as it is. But, I confess, it would give me great pleasure to call
Colonel Brandon brother. His property here, his place, his house,
every thing is in such respectable and excellent condition!---and
his woods!---I have not seen such timber any where in Dorsetshire,
as there is now standing in Delaford Hanger!---And though, perhaps,
Marianne may not seem exactly the person to attract him---yet I think
it would altogether be advisable for you to have them now frequently
staying with you, for as Colonel Brandon seems a great deal at home,
nobody can tell what may happen---for, when people are much thrown
together, and see little of anybody else---and it will always be in
your power to set her off to advantage, and so forth;---in short,
you may as well give her a chance---You understand me.''---

But though Mrs.\ Ferrars \textit{did} come to see them, and always
treated them with the make-believe of decent affection, they were
never insulted by her real favour and preference. \textit{That} was
due to the folly of Robert, and the cunning of his wife; and it was
earned by them before many months had passed away. The selfish sagacity
of the latter, which had at first drawn Robert into the scrape, was
the principal instrument of his deliverance from it; for her respectful
humility, assiduous attentions, and endless flatteries, as soon as
the smallest opening was given for their exercise, reconciled Mrs.\ Ferrars
to his choice, and re-established him completely in her favour.

The whole of Lucy's behaviour in the affair, and the prosperity which
crowned it, therefore, may be held forth as a most encouraging instance
of what an earnest, an unceasing attention to self-interest, however
its progress may be apparently obstructed, will do in securing every
advantage of fortune, with no other sacrifice than that of time and
conscience. When Robert first sought her acquaintance, and privately
visited her in Bartlett's Buildings, it was only with the view imputed
to him by his brother. He merely meant to persuade her to give up
the engagement; and as there could be nothing to overcome but the
affection of both, he naturally expected that one or two interviews
would settle the matter. In that point, however, and that only, he
erred;---for though Lucy soon gave him hopes that his eloquence would
convince her in \textit{time}, another visit, another conversation,
was always wanted to produce this conviction. Some doubts always lingered
in her mind when they parted, which could only be removed by another
half hour's discourse with himself. His attendance was by this means
secured, and the rest followed in course. Instead of talking of Edward,
they came gradually to talk only of Robert,---a subject on which he
had always more to say than on any other, and in which she soon betrayed
an interest even equal to his own; and in short, it became speedily
evident to both, that he had entirely supplanted his brother. He was
proud of his conquest, proud of tricking Edward, and very proud of
marrying privately without his mother's consent. What immediately
followed is known. They passed some months in great happiness at Dawlish;
for she had many relations and old acquaintances to cut---and he drew
several plans for magnificent cottages;---and from thence returning
to town, procured the forgiveness of Mrs.\ Ferrars, by the simple
expedient of asking it, which, at Lucy's instigation, was adopted.
The forgiveness, at first, indeed, as was reasonable, comprehended
only Robert; and Lucy, who had owed his mother no duty and therefore
could have transgressed none, still remained some weeks longer unpardoned.
But perseverance in humility of conduct and messages, in self-condemnation
for Robert's offence, and gratitude for the unkindness she was treated
with, procured her in time the haughty notice which overcame her by
its graciousness, and led soon afterwards, by rapid degrees, to the
highest state of affection and influence. Lucy became as necessary
to Mrs.\ Ferrars, as either Robert or Fanny; and while Edward was
never cordially forgiven for having once intended to marry her, and
Elinor, though superior to her in fortune and birth, was spoken of
as an intruder, \textit{she} was in every thing considered, and always
openly acknowledged, to be a favourite child. They settled in town,
received very liberal assistance from Mrs.\ Ferrars, were on the
best terms imaginable with the Dashwoods; and setting aside the jealousies
and ill-will continually subsisting between Fanny and Lucy, in which
their husbands of course took a part, as well as the frequent domestic
disagreements between Robert and Lucy themselves, nothing could exceed
the harmony in which they all lived together.

What Edward had done to forfeit the right of eldest son, might have
puzzled many people to find out; and what Robert had done to succeed
to it, might have puzzled them still more. It was an arrangement,
however, justified in its effects, if not in its cause; for nothing
ever appeared in Robert's style of living or of talking to give a
suspicion of his regretting the extent of his income, as either leaving
his brother too little, or bringing himself too much;---and if Edward
might be judged from the ready discharge of his duties in every particular,
from an increasing attachment to his wife and his home, and from the
regular cheerfulness of his spirits, he might be supposed no less
contented with his lot, no less free from every wish of an exchange.

Elinor's marriage divided her as little from her family as could well
be contrived, without rendering the cottage at Barton entirely useless,
for her mother and sisters spent much more than half their time with
her. Mrs.\ Dashwood was acting on motives of policy as well as pleasure
in the frequency of her visits at Delaford; for her wish of bringing
Marianne and Colonel Brandon together was hardly less earnest, though
rather more liberal than what John had expressed. It was now her darling
object. Precious as was the company of her daughter to her, she desired
nothing so much as to give up its constant enjoyment to her valued
friend; and to see Marianne settled at the mansion-house was equally
the wish of Edward and Elinor. They each felt his sorrows, and their
own obligations, and Marianne, by general consent, was to be the reward
of all.

With such a confederacy against her---with a knowledge so intimate
of his goodness---with a conviction of his fond attachment to herself,
which at last, though long after it was observable to everybody else---burst
on her---what could she do?

Marianne Dashwood was born to an extraordinary fate. She was born
to discover the falsehood of her own opinions, and to counteract,
by her conduct, her most favourite maxims. She was born to overcome
an affection formed so late in life as at seventeen, and with no sentiment
superior to strong esteem and lively friendship, voluntarily to give
her hand to another!---and \textit{that} other, a man who had suffered
no less than herself under the event of a former attachment, whom,
two years before, she had considered too old to be married,---and
who still sought the constitutional safeguard of a flannel waistcoat!

But so it was. Instead of falling a sacrifice to an irresistible passion,
as once she had fondly flattered herself with expecting,---instead
of remaining even for ever with her mother, and finding her only pleasures
in retirement and study, as afterwards in her more calm and sober
judgment she had determined on,---she found herself at nineteen, submitting
to new attachments, entering on new duties, placed in a new home,
a wife, the mistress of a family, and the patroness of a village.

Colonel Brandon was now as happy, as all those who best loved him,
believed he deserved to be;---in Marianne he was consoled for every
past affliction;---her regard and her society restored his mind to
animation, and his spirits to cheerfulness; and that Marianne found
her own happiness in forming his, was equally the persuasion and delight
of each observing friend. Marianne could never love by halves; and
her whole heart became, in time, as much devoted to her husband, as
it had once been to Willoughby.

Willoughby could not hear of her marriage without a pang; and his
punishment was soon afterwards complete in the voluntary forgiveness
of Mrs.\ Smith, who, by stating his marriage with a woman of character,
as the source of her clemency, gave him reason for believing that
had he behaved with honour towards Marianne, he might at once have
been happy and rich. That his repentance of misconduct, which thus
brought its own punishment, was sincere, need not be doubted;---nor
that he long thought of Colonel Brandon with envy, and of Marianne
with regret. But that he was for ever inconsolable, that he fled from
society, or contracted an habitual gloom of temper, or died of a broken
heart, must not be depended on---for he did neither. He lived to exert,
and frequently to enjoy himself. His wife was not always out of humour,
nor his home always uncomfortable; and in his breed of horses and
dogs, and in sporting of every kind, he found no inconsiderable degree
of domestic felicity.

For Marianne, however---in spite of his incivility in surviving her
loss---he always retained that decided regard which interested him
in every thing that befell her, and made her his secret standard of
perfection in woman;---and many a rising beauty would be slighted
by him in after-days as bearing no comparison with Mrs.\ Brandon.

Mrs.\ Dashwood was prudent enough to remain at the cottage, without
attempting a removal to Delaford; and fortunately for Sir John and
Mrs.\ Jennings, when Marianne was taken from them, Margaret had reached
an age highly suitable for dancing, and not very ineligible for being
supposed to have a lover.

Between Barton and Delaford, there was that constant communication
which strong family affection would naturally dictate;---and among
the merits and the happiness of Elinor and Marianne, let it not be
ranked as the least considerable, that though sisters, and living
almost within sight of each other, they could live without disagreement
between themselves, or producing coolness between their husbands. 
\end{document}
