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Title: Sense and Sensibility

Author: Jane Austen

Commentator: Austin Dobson

Illustrator: Hugh Thomson

Release date: June 15, 2007 [eBook #21839]
Most recently updated: July 27, 2026

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/21839

Credits: Fritz Ohrenschall and Sankar Viswanathan

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SENSE AND
SENSIBILITY ***

Transcriber's Note:

The Table of Contents is not part of the original
book. The illustration on page 290 is missing from
the book. The Introduction ends abruptly. Seems
incomplete.

Mr. Dashwood introduced him.—P. 219.

SENSE & SENSIBILITY

BY

JANE AUSTEN

WITH AN INTRODUCTION

BY

AUSTIN DOBSON

ILLUSTRATED

BY

HUGH THOMSON

LONDON: MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED

NEW YORK: THE MACMILLAN COMPANY

1902

First Edition with Hugh Thomson's Illustrations 1896

CONTENTS

PAGE
INTRODUCTION vii
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS xv
CHAPTER I 1
CHAPTER II 6
CHAPTER III 10
CHAPTER IV 16
CHAPTER V 20
CHAPTER VI 23
CHAPTER VII 27
CHAPTER VIII 31
CHAPTER IX 34
CHAPTER X 39
CHAPTER XI 45
CHAPTER XII 49
CHAPTER XIII 54
CHAPTER XIV 61
CHAPTER XV 65
CHAPTER XVI 72
CHAPTER XVII 79
CHAPTER XVIII 83
CHAPTER XIX 88
CHAPTER XX 97
CHAPTER XXI 103
CHAPTER XXII 112
CHAPTER XXIII 120
CHAPTER XXIV 126

CHAPTER XXV 132
CHAPTER XXVI 137
CHAPTER XXVII 144
CHAPTER XXVIII 150
CHAPTER XXIX 155
CHAPTER XXX 165
CHAPTER XXXI 173
CHAPTER XXXII 183
CHAPTER XXXIII 191
CHAPTER XXXIV 201
CHAPTER XXXV 209
CHAPTER XXXVI 216
CHAPTER XXXVII 223
CHAPTER XXXVIII 237
CHAPTER XXXIX 247
CHAPTER XL 252
CHAPTER XLI 259
CHAPTER XLII 267
CHAPTER XLIII 273
CHAPTER XLIV 283
CHAPTER XLV 299
CHAPTER XLVI 304
CHAPTER XLVII 313
CHAPTER XLVIII 320
CHAPTER XLIX 324
CHAPTER L 335

INTRODUCTION
With the title of Sense and Sensibility is connected one of those minor
problems which delight the cummin-splitters of criticism. In the Cecilia of
Madame D'Arblay—the forerunner, if not the model, of Miss Austen—is a
sentence which at first sight suggests some relationship to the name of the
book which, in the present series, inaugurated Miss Austen's novels. 'The
whole of this unfortunate business'—says a certain didactic Dr. Lyster,
talking in capitals, towards the end of volume three of Cecilia—'has been
the result of Pride and Prejudice,' and looking to the admitted familiarity of
Miss Austen with Madame D'Arblay's work, it has been concluded that
Miss Austen borrowed from Cecilia, the title of her second novel. But here
comes in the little problem to which we have referred. Pride and Prejudice
it is true, was written and finished before Sense and Sensibility—its original
title for several years being First Impressions. Then, in 1797, the author fell
to work upon an older essay in letters à la Richardson, called Elinor and
Marianne, which she re-christened Sense and Sensibility. This, as we know,
was her first published book; and whatever may be the connection between
the title of Pride and Prejudice and the passage in Cecilia, there is an
obvious connection between the title of Pride and Prejudice and the title of
Sense and Sensibility. If Miss Austen re-christened Elinor and Marianne
before she changed the title of First Impressions, as she well may have, it is
extremely unlikely that the name of Pride and Prejudice has anything to do
with Cecilia (which, besides, had been published at least twenty years
before). Upon the whole, therefore, it is most likely that the passage in
Madame D'Arblay is a mere coincidence; and that in Sense and Sensibility,
as well as in the novel that succeeded it in publication, Miss Austen, after
the fashion of the old morality plays, simply substituted the leading
characteristics of her principal personages for their names. Indeed, in Sense
and Sensibility the sense of Elinor, and the sensibility (or rather sensiblerie)
of Marianne, are markedly emphasised in the opening pages of the book
But Miss Austen subsequently, and, as we think, wisely, discarded in her
remaining efforts the cheap attraction of an alliterative title. Emma and

Persuasion, Northanger Abbey and Mansfield Park, are names far more in
consonance with the quiet tone of her easy and unobtrusive art.
Elinor and Marianne was originally written about 1792. After the
completion—or partial completion, for it was again revised in 1811—of
First Impressions (subsequently Pride and Prejudice), Miss Austen set
about recasting Elinor and Marianne, then composed in the form of letters;
and she had no sooner accomplished this task, than she began Northanger
Abbey. It would be interesting to know to what extent she remodelled Sense
and Sensibility in 1797-98, for we are told that previous to its publication in
1811 she again devoted a considerable time to its preparation for the press,
and it is clear that this does not mean the correction of proofs alone, but
also a preliminary revision of MS. Especially would it be interesting if we
could ascertain whether any of its more finished passages, e.g. the
admirable conversation between the Miss Dashwoods and Willoughby in
chapter x., were the result of those fallow and apparently barren years at
Bath and Southampton, or whether they were already part of the second
version of 1797-98. But upon this matter the records are mute. A careful
examination of the correspondence published by Lord Brabourne in 1884
only reveals two definite references to Sense and Sensibility and these are
absolutely unfruitful in suggestion. In April 1811 she speaks of having
corrected two sheets of 'S and S,' which she has scarcely a hope of getting
out in the following June; and in September, an extract from the diary of
another member of the family indirectly discloses the fact that the book had
by that time been published. This extract is a brief reference to a letter
which had been received from Cassandra Austen, begging her
correspondent not to mention that Aunt Jane wrote Sense and Sensibility.
Beyond these minute items of information, and the statement—already
referred to in the Introduction to Pride and Prejudice—that she considered
herself overpaid for the labour she had bestowed upon it, absolutely nothing
seems to have been preserved by her descendants respecting her first
printed effort. In the absence of particulars some of her critics have fallen to
speculate upon the reason which made her select it, and not Pride and
Prejudice, for her début; and they have, perhaps naturally, found in the fact
a fresh confirmation of that traditional blindness of authors to their own
best work, which is one of the commonplaces of literary history. But this is
to premise that she did regard it as her masterpiece, a fact which, apart from
this accident of priority of issue, is, as far as we are aware, nowhere

asserted. A simpler solution is probably that, of the three novels she had
written or sketched by 1811, Pride and Prejudice was languishing under the
stigma of having been refused by one bookseller without the formality of
inspection, while Northanger Abbey was lying perdu in another bookseller's
drawer at Bath. In these circumstances it is intelligible that she should turn
to Sense and Sensibility, when, at length—upon the occasion of a visit to
her brother in London in the spring of 1811—Mr. T. Egerton of the 'Military
Library,' Whitehall, dawned upon the horizon as a practicable publisher.
By the time Sense and Sensibility left the press, Miss Austen was again
domiciled at Chawton Cottage. For those accustomed to the swarming
reviews of our day, with their Babel of notices, it may seem strange that
there should be no record of the effect produced, seeing that, as already
stated, the book sold well enough to enable its putter-forth to hand over to
its author what Mr. Gargery, in Great Expectations, would have described
as 'a cool £150.' Surely Mr. Egerton, who had visited Miss Austen at Sloane
Street, must have later conveyed to her some intelligence of the way in
which her work had been welcomed by the public. But if he did, it is no
longer discoverable. Mr. Austen Leigh, her first and best biographer, could
find no account either of the publication or of the author's feelings
thereupon. As far as it is possible to judge, the critical verdicts she obtained
were mainly derived from her own relatives and intimate friends, and some
of these latter—if one may trust a little anthology which she herself
collected, and from which Mr. Austen Leigh prints extracts—must have
been more often exasperating than sympathetic. The long chorus of
intelligent approval by which she was afterwards greeted did not begin to
be really audible before her death, and her 'fit audience' during her lifetime
must have been emphatically 'few,' Of two criticisms which came out in the
Quarterly early in the century, she could only have seen one, that of 1815;
the other, by Archbishop Whately, the first which treated her in earnest, did
not appear until she had been three years dead. Dr. Whately deals mainly
with Mansfield Park and Persuasion; his predecessor professed to review
Emma, though he also gives brief summaries of Sense and Sensibility and
Pride and Prejudice. Mr. Austen Leigh, we think, speaks too
contemptuously of this initial notice of 1815. If, at certain points, it is half-
hearted and inadequate, it is still fairly accurate in its recognition of Miss
Austen's supreme merit, as contrasted with her contemporaries—to wit, her
skill in investing the fortunes of ordinary characters and the narrative of

common occurrences with all the sustained excitement of romance. The
Reviewer points out very justly that this kind of work, 'being deprived of all
that, according to Bayes, goes "to elevate and surprise," must make amends
by displaying depth of knowledge and dexterity of execution.' And in these
qualities, even with such living competitors of her own sex as Miss
Edgeworth and Miss Brunton (whose Self-control came out in the same
year as Sense and Sensibility), he does not scruple to declare that 'Miss
Austen stands almost alone.' If he omits to lay stress upon her judgment, her
nice sense of fitness, her restraint, her fine irony, and the delicacy of her
artistic touch, something must be allowed for the hesitations and
reservations which invariably beset the critical pioneer.
To contend, however, for a moment that the present volume is Miss
Austen's greatest, as it was her first published, novel, would be a mere
exercise in paradox. There are, who swear by Persuasion; there are, who
prefer Emma and Mansfield Park; there is a large contingent for Pride and
Prejudice; and there is even a section which advocates the pre-eminence of
Northanger Abbey. But no one, as far as we can remember, has ever put
Sense and Sensibility first, nor can we believe that its author did so herself.
And yet it is she herself who has furnished the standard by which we judge
it, and it is by comparison with Pride and Prejudice, in which the leading
characters are also two sisters, that we assess and depress its merit. The
Elinor and Marianne of Sense and Sensibility are only inferior when they
are contrasted with the Elizabeth and Jane of Pride and Prejudice; and even
then, it is probably because we personally like the handsome and amiable
Jane Bennet rather better than the obsolete survival of the sentimental novel
represented by Marianne Dashwood. Darcy and Bingley again are much
more 'likeable' (to use Lady Queensberry's word) than the colourless
Edward Ferrars and the stiff-jointed Colonel Brandon. Yet it might not
unfairly be contended that there is more fidelity to what Mr. Thomas Hardy
has termed 'life's little ironies' in Miss Austen's disposal of the two Miss
Dashwoods than there is in her disposal of the heroines of Pride and
Prejudice. Every one does not get a Bingley, or a Darcy (with a park); but a
good many sensible girls like Elinor pair off contentedly with poor
creatures like Edward Ferrars, while not a few enthusiasts like Marianne
decline at last upon middle-aged colonels with flannel waistcoats. George
Eliot, we fancy, would have held that the fates of Elinor and Marianne were
more probable than the fortunes of Jane and Eliza Bennet. That, of the

remaining characters, there is certainly none to rival Mr. Bennet, or Lady
Catherine de Bourgh, or the ineffable Mr. Collins, of Pride and Prejudice, is
true; but we confess to a kindness for vulgar matchmaking Mrs. Jennings
with her still-room 'parmaceti for an inward bruise' in the shape of a glass of
old Constantia; and for the diluted Squire Western, Sir John Middleton,
whose horror of being alone carries him to the point of rejoicing in the
acquisition of two to the population of London. Excellent again are Mr.
Palmer and his wife; excellent, in their sordid veracity, the self-seeking
figures of the Miss Steeles. But the pearls of the book must be allowed to be
that egregious amateur in toothpick-cases, Mr. Robert Ferrars (with his
excursus in chapter xxxvi. on life in a cottage), and the admirably-matched
Mr. and Mrs. John Dashwood. Miss Austen herself has never done anything
better than the inimitable and oft-quoted chapter wherein is debated
between the last-named pair the momentous matter of the amount to be
devoted to Mrs. Dashwood and her daughters; while the suggestion in
chapters xxxiii. and xxxiv. that the owner of Norland was once within some
thousands of having to sell out at a loss, deserves to be remembered with
that other memorable escape of Sir Roger de Coverley's ancestor, who was
only not killed in the civil wars because 'he was sent out of the field upon a
private message, the day before the battle of Worcester.'
Of local colouring there is as little in Sense and Sensibility as in Pride
and Prejudice. It is not unlikely that some memories of Steventon may
survive in Norland; and it may be noted that there is actually a Barton Place
to the north of Exeter, not far from Lord Iddesleigh's well-known seat of
Upton Pynes. It is scarcely possible, also, not to believe that, in Mrs.
Jennings's description of Delaford—'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!'—Miss Austen
had in mind some real Hampshire or Devonshire country house. In any
case, it comes nearer a picture than what we usually get from her pen. 'Then
there is a dovecote, some delightful stew-ponds, and a very pretty canal;
and everything, 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.' The last lines suggest
those quaint 'gazebos' and alcoves, which, in the coaching days, were so

often to be found perched at the roadside, where one might sit and watch
the Dover or Canterbury stage go whirling by. Of genteel accomplishments
there is a touch In the 'landscape in coloured silks' which Charlotte Palmer
had worked at school (chap, xxvi.); and of old remedies for the lost art of
swooning, in the 'lavender drops' of chapter xxix. The mention of a dance as
a 'little hop' in chapter ix. reads like a premature instance of middle
Victorian slang. But nothing is new—even in a novel—and 'hop,' in this
sense, is at least as old as Joseph Andrews.

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

PAGE
Mr. Dashwood introduced him Frontispiece
His son's son, a child of four years old 3
"I cannot imagine how they will spend
half of it" 12
So shy before company 26
They sang together 42
He cut off a long lock of her hair 52
"I have found you out in spite of all your
tricks" 59
Apparently In violent affliction 66
Begging her to stop 76
Came to take a survey of the guest 87
"I declare they are quite charming" 95
Mischievous tricks 106
Drinking to her best affections 111
Amiably bashful 115
"I can answer for it," said Mrs. Jennings 129
At that moment she first perceived him 152
"How fond he was of it!" 171
Offered him one of Folly's puppies 186
A very smart beau 190
Introduced to Mrs. Jennings 193
Mrs. Jennings assured him directly that
she should not stand upon ceremony 195
Mrs. Ferrars 207
Drawing him a little aside 215

In a whisper 225
"You have heard, I suppose" 232
Talking over the business 236
"She put in the feather last night" 240
Listening at the door 243
Both gained considerable amusement 258
"Of one thing I may assure you" 264
Showing her child to the housekeeper 269
The gardener's lamentations 271
Opened a window-shutter 282
"I entreat you to stay" 284
"I was formally dismissed" 290
"I have entered many a shop to avoid
your sight" 294
"And see how the children go on" 308
"I suppose you know, ma'am, that Mr.
Ferrars is married" 317
It was Edward 322
"Everything in such respectable
condition" 338

CHAPTER I
The family of Dashwood had long been settled in Sussex. Their estate
was large, and their residence was at Norland Park, in the centre of their
property, where, for many generations, they had lived in so respectable a
manner as 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.

His son's son, a child of four years old.
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 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 immovable disgust. Mrs. John
Dashwood had never been a favourite with any of her husband's family; but
she had had no opportunity, till the present, of showing them with how little
attention to the comfort of other people she could act when occasion
required it.
So acutely did Mrs. Dashwood feel this ungracious 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 II
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, let something be done for them; but that something need not
be three thousand pounds. Consider," she added, "that when the money is
once parted with, it never can return. Your sisters will marry, and it will be
gone for ever. If, 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 really his sisters! And as it is—only half blood!
But you have such a generous spirit!"
"I would not wish to do any thing mean," he replied. "One had rather, on
such occasions, do too much than too little. No one, at least, can think I
have not done enough for them: even themselves, they can hardly expect
more."
"There is no knowing what they may expect," said the lady, "but we are
not to think of their expectations: the question is, what you can afford to
do."
"Certainly; and I think I may afford to give them five hundred pounds 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 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 be no
annuity in the case; whatever I may give them occasionally will be of far
greater assistance than a yearly allowance, because they would only enlarge
their style of living if they felt sure of a larger income, and would not be
sixpence the richer for it at the end of the year. It will certainly be much the
best way. 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 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, 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 they
can ever afford to live in. But, however, so it is. Your father thought only of
them And I must say this: that you owe no particular gratitude to him, nor
attention to his wishes; for we very well know that if he could, he would
have left almost everything in the world to them."
This argument was irresistible. It gave to his intentions whatever of
decision was wanting before; and he finally resolved, that it would be
absolutely unnecessary, if not highly indecorous, to do more for the widow
and children of his father, than such kind of neighbourly acts as his own
wife pointed out.

CHAPTER III
Mrs. Dashwood remained at Norland several months; not from any
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.

"I cannot imagine how they will spend half of it."
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 7000L 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 gentlemanlike 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 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 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 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 IV
"What a pity it is, Elinor," said Marianne, "that Edward should have no
taste for drawing."
"No taste for drawing!" replied Elinor, "why should you think so? He
does not draw himself, indeed, but he has great pleasure in seeing the
performances of other people, and I assure you he is by no means 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 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 indignation—
"Esteem him! Like him! Cold-hearted Elinor! Oh! worse than cold-
hearted! Ashamed of being otherwise. Use those words again, and I will

leave the 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 draw him 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 show
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 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 V
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. 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 adieus to a place so much
beloved. "Dear, dear Norland!" said Marianne, as she wandered alone
before the house, on the last evening of their being there; "when shall I
cease to regret you!—when learn 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 VI
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 bedrooms 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.

So shy before company.
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 showing 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 VII
Barton Park was about half a mile from the cottage. The ladies had
passed near it in their way along the valley, but it was screened from their
view at home by the projection of 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 insatiable 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 VIII
Mrs. Jennings was a widow with an ample jointure. She had only two
daughters, both of whom she had lived to see respectably married, and she
had 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 he was rich, and 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 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 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 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 bed-chamber, 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 adieus! 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 IX
The Dashwoods were now settled at Barton with tolerable comfort to
themselves. The house and the garden, with all the objects surrounding
them, were 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 than 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 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 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 my
daughters towards what you call 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 X
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 hardily 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 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.

They sang together.
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 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 protégé you can even be saucy."
"My protégé, 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 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 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 XI
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 shown; 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. Jennings's last illness, and what he said to his wife a few minutes before
he died. Lady Middleton was more agreeable than her mother only in being
more 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 accidentally 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 minutiæ 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 enforced
change—from a series of unfortunate circumstances—" Here he stopped
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 XII
As Elinor and Marianne were walking together the next morning the
latter communicated a piece of news to her sister, which in spite of all that
she knew before of Marianne's imprudence and want of thought, surprised
her by its extravagant testimony of both. Marianne told her, with the
greatest delight, that Willoughby had given her a horse, one that he had bred
himself on his estate in Somersetshire, and which was exactly calculated to
carry a woman. Without considering that it was not in her mother's plan to
keep any horse, that if she were to alter her resolution in favour of this gift,
she must buy another for the servant, and keep a servant to ride it, and after
all, build a stable to receive them, she had accepted the present without
hesitation, and told her sister of it in raptures.
"He intends to send his groom into Somersetshire immediately for it," she
added, "and when it arrives we will ride every day. You shall share its use
with me. Imagine to yourself, my dear Elinor, the delight of a gallop on
some of these downs."
Most unwilling was she to awaken from such a dream of felicity to
comprehend all the unhappy truths which attended the affair; and for some
time she refused to submit to them. As to an additional servant, the expense
would be a trifle; Mamma she was sure would never object to it; and any
horse would do for him; he might always get one at the park; as to a stable,
the merest shed would be sufficient. Elinor then ventured to doubt the
propriety of her receiving such a present from a man so little, or at least so
lately known to her. This was too much.
"You are mistaken, Elinor," said she warmly, "in supposing I know very
little of Willoughby. I have not known him long indeed, but I am much
better acquainted with him, than I am with any other creature in the world,
except yourself and mama. It is not time or opportunity that is to determine
intimacy; it is disposition alone. Seven years would be insufficient to make
some people acquainted with each other, and seven days are more than
enough for others. I should hold myself guilty of greater impropriety in
accepting a horse from my brother, than from Willoughby. Of John I know

very little, though we have lived together for years; but of Willoughby my
judgment has long been formed."
Elinor thought it wisest to touch that point no more. She knew her sister's
temper. Opposition on so tender a subject would only attach her the more to
her own opinion. But by an appeal to her affection for her mother, by
representing the inconveniences which that indulgent mother must draw on
herself, if (as would probably be the case) she consented to this increase of
establishment, Marianne was shortly subdued; and she promised not to
tempt her mother to such imprudent kindness by mentioning the offer, and
to tell Willoughby when she saw him next, that it must be declined.
She was faithful to her word; and when Willoughby called at the cottage,
the same day, Elinor heard her express her disappointment to him in a low
voice, on being obliged to forego the acceptance of his present. The reasons
for this alteration were at the same time related, and they were such as to
make further entreaty on his side impossible. His concern however was
very apparent; and after expressing it with earnestness, he added, in the
same low voice, "But, Marianne, the horse is still yours, though you cannot
use it now. I shall keep it only till you can claim it. When you leave Barton
to form your own establishment in a more lasting home, Queen Mab shall
receive you."
This was all overheard by Miss Dashwood; and in the whole of the
sentence, in his manner of pronouncing it, and in his addressing her sister
by her Christian name alone, she instantly saw an intimacy so decided, a
meaning so direct, as marked a perfect agreement between them. From that
moment she doubted not of their being engaged to each other; and the belief
of it created no other surprise than that she, or any of their friends, should
be left by tempers so frank, to discover it by accident.
Margaret related something to her the next day, which placed this matter
in a still clearer light. Willoughby had spent the preceding evening with
them, and Margaret, by being left some time in the parlour with only him
and Marianne, had had opportunity for observations, which, with a most
important face, she communicated to her eldest sister, when they were next
by themselves.
"Oh, Elinor!" she cried, "I have such a secret to tell you about Marianne.
I am sure she will be married to Mr. Willoughby very soon."

"You have said so," replied Elinor, "almost every day since they first met
on High-church Down; and they had not known each other a week, I
believe, before you were certain that Marianne wore his picture round her
neck; but it turned out to be only the miniature of our great uncle."
"But indeed this is quite another thing. I am sure they will be married
very soon, for he has got a lock of her hair."
"Take care, Margaret. It may be only the hair of some great uncle of his."
"But, indeed, Elinor, it is Marianne's. I am almost sure it is, for I saw him
cut it off. Last night after tea, when you and mama went out of the room,
they were whispering and talking together as fast as could be, and he
seemed to be begging something of her, and presently he took up her
scissors and cut off a long lock of her hair, for it was all tumbled down her
back; and he kissed it, and folded it up in a piece of white paper; and put it
into his pocket-book."
For such particulars, stated on such authority, Elinor could not withhold
her credit; nor was she disposed to it, for the circumstance was in perfect
unison with what she had heard and seen herself.
Margaret's sagacity was not always displayed in a way so satisfactory to
her sister. When Mrs. Jennings attacked her one evening at the park, to give
the name of the young man who was Elinor's particular favourite, which
had been long a matter of great curiosity to her, Margaret answered by
looking at her sister, and saying, "I must not tell, may I, Elinor?"
This of course made every body laugh; and Elinor tried to laugh too. But
the effort was painful. She was convinced that Margaret had fixed on a
person whose name she could not bear with composure to become a
standing joke with Mrs. Jennings.

He cut off a long lock of her hair.
Marianne felt for her most sincerely; but she did more harm than good to
the cause, by turning very red and saying in an angry manner to Margaret—

"Remember that whatever your conjectures may be, you have no right to
repeat them."
"I never had any conjectures about it," replied Margaret; "it was you who
told me of it yourself."
This increased the mirth of the company, and Margaret was eagerly
pressed to say something more.
"Oh! pray, Miss Margaret, let us know all about it," said Mrs. Jennings.
"What is the gentleman's name?"
"I must not tell, ma'am. But I know very well what it is; and I know
where he is too."
"Yes, yes, we can guess where he is; at his own house at Norland to be
sure. He is the curate of the parish I dare say."
"No, that he is not. He is of no profession at all."
"Margaret," said Marianne with great warmth, "you know that all this is
an invention of your own, and that there is no such person in existence."
"Well, then, he is lately dead, Marianne, for I am sure there was such a
man once, and his name begins with an F."
Most grateful did Elinor feel to Lady Middleton for observing, at this
moment, "that it rained very hard," though she believed the interruption to
proceed less from any attention to her, than from her ladyship's great dislike
of all such inelegant subjects of raillery as delighted her husband and
mother. The idea however started by her, was immediately pursued by
Colonel Brandon, who was on every occasion mindful of the feelings of
others; and much was said on the subject of rain by both of them.
Willoughby opened the piano-forte, and asked Marianne to sit down to it;
and thus amidst the various endeavours of different people to quit the topic,
it fell to the ground. But not so easily did Elinor recover from the alarm into
which it had thrown her.
A party was formed this evening for going on the following day to see a
very fine place about twelve miles from Barton, belonging to a brother-in-
law of Colonel Brandon, without whose interest it could not be seen, as the
proprietor, who was then abroad, had left strict orders on that head. The
grounds were declared to be highly beautiful, and Sir John, who was
particularly warm in their praise, might be allowed to be a tolerable judge,
for he had formed parties to visit them, at least, twice every summer for the

last ten years. They contained a noble piece of water—a sail on which was
to a form a great part of the morning's amusement; cold provisions were to
be taken, open carriages only to be employed, and every thing conducted in
the usual style of a complete party of pleasure.
To some few of the company it appeared rather a bold undertaking,
considering the time of year, and that it had rained every day for the last
fortnight; and Mrs. Dashwood, who had already a cold, was persuaded by
Elinor to stay at home.

CHAPTER XIII
Their intended excursion to Whitwell turned out very different from what
Elinor had expected. She was prepared to be wet through, fatigued, and
frightened; but the event was still more unfortunate, for they did not go at
all.
By ten o'clock the whole party was assembled at the park, where they
were to breakfast. The morning was rather favourable, though it had rained
all night, as the clouds were then dispersing across the sky, and the sun
frequently appeared. They were all in high spirits and good humour, eager
to be happy, and determined to submit to the greatest inconveniences and
hardships rather than be otherwise.
While they were at breakfast the letters were brought in. Among the rest
there was one for Colonel Brandon:—he took it, looked at the direction,
changed colour, and immediately left the room.
"What is the matter with Brandon?" said Sir John.
Nobody could tell.
"I hope he has had no bad news," said Lady Middleton. "It must be
something extraordinary that could make Colonel Brandon leave my
breakfast table so suddenly."
In about five minutes he returned.
"No bad news, Colonel, I hope;" said Mrs. Jennings, as soon as he
entered the room.
"None at all, ma'am, I thank you."
"Was it from Avignon? I hope it is not to say that your sister is worse."
"No, ma'am. It came from town, and is merely a letter of business."
"But how came the hand to discompose you so much, if it was only a
letter of business? Come, come, this won't do, Colonel; so let us hear the
truth of it."
"My dear madam," said Lady Middleton, "recollect what you are saying."

"Perhaps it is to tell you that your cousin Fanny is married?" said Mrs.
Jennings, without attending to her daughter's reproof.
"No, indeed, it is not."
"Well, then, I know who it is from, Colonel. And I hope she is well."
"Whom do you mean, ma'am?" said he, colouring a little.
"Oh! you know who I mean."
"I am particularly sorry, ma'am," said he, addressing Lady Middleton,
"that I should receive this letter today, for it is on business which requires
my immediate attendance in town."
"In town!" cried Mrs. Jennings. "What can you have to do in town at this
time of year?"
"My own loss is great," he continued, "in being obliged to leave so
agreeable a party; but I am the more concerned, as I fear my presence is
necessary to gain your admittance at Whitwell."
What a blow upon them all was this!
"But if you write a note to the housekeeper, Mr. Brandon," said
Marianne, eagerly, "will it not be sufficient?"
He shook his head.
"We must go," said Sir John. "It shall not be put off when we are so near
it. You cannot go to town till tomorrow, Brandon, that is all."
"I wish it could be so easily settled. But it is not in my power to delay my
journey for one day!"
"If you would but let us know what your business is," said Mrs. Jennings,
"we might see whether it could be put off or not."
"You would not be six hours later," said Willoughby, "if you were to
defer your journey till our return."
"I cannot afford to lose one hour."
Elinor then heard Willoughby say, in a low voice to Marianne, "There are
some people who cannot bear a party of pleasure. Brandon is one of them.
He was afraid of catching cold I dare say, and invented this trick for getting
out of it. I would lay fifty guineas the letter was of his own writing."
"I have no doubt of it," replied Marianne.

"There is no persuading you to change your mind, Brandon, I know of
old," said Sir John, "when once you are determined on anything. But,
however, I hope you will think better of it. Consider, here are the two Miss
Careys come over from Newton, the three Miss Dashwoods walked up from
the cottage, and Mr. Willoughby got up two hours before his usual time, on
purpose to go to Whitwell."
Colonel Brandon again repeated his sorrow at being the cause of
disappointing the party; but at the same time declared it to be unavoidable.
"Well, then, when will you come back again?"
"I hope we shall see you at Barton," added her ladyship, "as soon as you
can conveniently leave town; and we must put off the party to Whitwell till
you return."
"You are very obliging. But it is so uncertain, when I may have it in my
power to return, that I dare not engage for it at all."
"Oh! he must and shall come back," cried Sir John. "If he is not here by
the end of the week, I shall go after him."
"Ay, so do, Sir John," cried Mrs. Jennings, "and then perhaps you may
find out what his business is."
"I do not want to pry into other men's concerns. I suppose it is something
he is ashamed of."
Colonel Brandon's horses were announced.
"You do not go to town on horseback, do you?" added Sir John.
"No. Only to Honiton. I shall then go post."
"Well, as you are resolved to go, I wish you a good journey. But you had
better change your mind."
"I assure you it is not in my power."
He then took leave of the whole party.
"Is there no chance of my seeing you and your sisters in town this winter,
Miss Dashwood?"
"I am afraid, none at all."
"Then I must bid you farewell for a longer time than I should wish to do."
To Marianne, he merely bowed and said nothing.

"Come Colonel," said Mrs. Jennings, "before you go, do let us know
what you are going about."
He wished her a good morning, and, attended by Sir John, left the room.
The complaints and lamentations which politeness had hitherto
restrained, now burst forth universally; and they all agreed again and again
how provoking it was to be so disappointed.
"I can guess what his business is, however," said Mrs. Jennings
exultingly.
"Can you, ma'am?" said almost every body.
"Yes; it is about Miss Williams, I am sure."
"And who is Miss Williams?" asked Marianne.
"What! do not you know who Miss Williams is? I am sure you must have
heard of her before. She is a relation of the Colonel's, my dear; a very near
relation. We will not say how near, for fear of shocking the young ladies."
Then, lowering her voice a little, she said to Elinor, "She is his natural
daughter."
"Indeed!"
"Oh, yes; and as like him as she can stare. I dare say the Colonel will
leave her all his fortune."
When Sir John returned, he joined most heartily in the general regret on
so unfortunate an event; concluding however by observing, that as they
were all got together, they must do something by way of being happy; and
after some consultation it was agreed, that although happiness could only be
enjoyed at Whitwell, they might procure a tolerable composure of mind by
driving about the country. The carriages were then ordered; Willoughby's
was first, and Marianne never looked happier than when she got into it. He
drove through the park very fast, and they were soon out of sight; and
nothing more of them was seen till their return, which did not happen till
after the return of all the rest. They both seemed delighted with their drive;
but said only in general terms that they had kept in the lanes, while the
others went on the downs.
It was settled that there should be a dance in the evening, and that every
body should be extremely merry all day long. Some more of the Careys
came to dinner, and they had the pleasure of sitting down nearly twenty to
table, which Sir John observed with great contentment. Willoughby took his

usual place between the two elder Miss Dashwoods. Mrs. Jennings sat on
Elinor's right hand; and they had not been long seated, before she leant
behind her and Willoughby, and said to Marianne, loud enough for them
both to hear, "I have found you out in spite of all your tricks. I know where
you spent the morning."
Marianne coloured, and replied very hastily, "Where, pray?"
"Did not you know," said Willoughby, "that we had been out in my
curricle?"
"Yes, yes, Mr. Impudence, I know that very well, and I was determined to
find out where you had been to. I hope you like your house, Miss Marianne.
It is a very large one, I know; and when I come to see you, I hope you will
have new-furnished it, for it wanted it very much when I was there six years
ago."
Marianne turned away in great confusion. Mrs. Jennings laughed
heartily; and Elinor found that in her resolution to know where they had
been, she had actually made her own woman enquire of Mr. Willoughby's
groom; and that she had by that method been informed that they had gone
to Allenham, and spent a considerable time there in walking about the
garden and going all over the house.
Elinor could hardly believe this to be true, as it seemed very unlikely that
Willoughby should propose, or Marianne consent, to enter the house while
Mrs. Smith was in it, with whom Marianne had not the smallest
acquaintance.
As soon as they left the dining-room, Elinor enquired of her about it; and
great was her surprise when she found that every circumstance related by
Mrs. Jennings was perfectly true. Marianne was quite angry with her for
doubting it.
"Why should you imagine, Elinor, that we did not go there, or that we did
not see the house? Is not it what you have often wished to do yourself?"
"Yes, Marianne, but I would not go while Mrs. Smith was there, and with
no other companion than Mr. Willoughby."

"I have found you out in spite of all your tricks."
"Mr. Willoughby however is the only person who can have a right to
show that house; and as he went in an open carriage, it was impossible to
have any other companion. I never spent a pleasanter morning in my life."
"I am afraid," replied Elinor, "that the pleasantness of an employment
does not always evince its propriety."
"On the contrary, nothing can be a stronger proof of it, Elinor; for if there
had been any real impropriety in what I did, I should have been sensible of

it at the time, for we always know when we are acting wrong, and with such
a conviction I could have had no pleasure."
"But, my dear Marianne, as it has already exposed you to some very
impertinent remarks, do you not now begin to doubt the discretion of your
own conduct?"
"If the impertinent remarks of Mrs. Jennings are to be the proof of
impropriety in conduct, we are all offending every moment of our lives. I
value not her censure any more than I should do her commendation. I am
not sensible of having done anything wrong in walking over Mrs. Smith's
grounds, or in seeing her house. They will one day be Mr. Willoughby's,
and—"
"If they were one day to be your own, Marianne, you would not be
justified in what you have done."
She blushed at this hint; but it was even visibly gratifying to her; and
after a ten minutes' interval of earnest thought, she came to her sister again,
and said with great good humour, "Perhaps, Elinor, it was rather ill-judged
in me to go to Allenham; but Mr. Willoughby wanted particularly to show
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 XIV
The sudden termination of Colonel Brandon's visit at the park, with his
steadiness in concealing its cause, filled the mind, and raised the wonder of
Mrs. Jennings for two or three days; she was a great wonderer, as every one
must be who takes a very lively interest in all the comings and goings of all
their acquaintance. She wondered, with little intermission what could be the
reason of it; was sure there must be some bad news, and thought over every
kind of distress that could have befallen him, with a fixed determination
that he should not escape them all.
"Something very melancholy must be the matter, I am sure," said she. "I
could see it in his face. Poor man! I am afraid his circumstances may be
bad. The estate at Delaford was never reckoned more than two thousand a
year, and his brother left everything sadly involved. I do think he must have
been sent for about money matters, for what else can it be? I wonder
whether it is so. I would give anything to know the truth of it. Perhaps it is
about Miss Williams and, by the bye, I dare say it is, because he looked so
conscious when I mentioned her. May be she is ill in town; nothing in the
world more likely, for I have a notion she is always rather sickly. I would
lay any wager it is about Miss Williams. It is not so very likely he should be
distressed in his circumstances now, for he is a very prudent man, and to be
sure must have cleared the estate by this time. I wonder what it can be! May
be his sister is worse at Avignon, and has sent for him over. His setting off
in such a hurry seems very like it. Well, I wish him out of all his trouble
with all my heart, and a good wife into the bargain."
So wondered, so talked Mrs. Jennings. Her opinion varying with every
fresh conjecture, and all seeming equally probable as they arose. Elinor,
though she felt really interested in the welfare of Colonel Brandon, could
not bestow all the wonder on his going so suddenly away, which Mrs.
Jennings was desirous of her feeling; for besides that the circumstance did
not in her opinion justify such lasting amazement or variety of speculation,
her wonder was otherwise disposed of. It was engrossed by the
extraordinary silence of her sister and Willoughby on the subject, which
they must know to be peculiarly interesting to them all. As this silence

continued, every day made it appear more strange and more incompatible
with the disposition of both. Why they should not openly acknowledge to
her mother and herself, what their constant behaviour to each other declared
to have taken place, Elinor could not imagine.
She could easily conceive that marriage might not be immediately in
their power; for though Willoughby was independent, there was no reason
to believe him rich. His estate had been rated by Sir John at about six or
seven hundred a year; but he lived at an expense to which that income could
hardly be equal, and he had himself often complained of his poverty. But
for this strange kind of secrecy maintained by them relative to their
engagement, which in fact concealed nothing at all, she could not account;
and it was so wholly contradictory to their general opinions and practice,
that a doubt sometimes entered her mind of their being really engaged, and
this doubt was enough to prevent her making any inquiry of Marianne.
Nothing could be more expressive of attachment to them all, than
Willoughby's behaviour. To Marianne it had all the distinguishing
tenderness which a lover's heart could give, and to the rest of the family it
was the affectionate attention of a son and a brother. The cottage seemed to
be considered and loved by him as his home; many more of his hours were
spent there than at Allenham; and if no general engagement collected them
at the park, the exercise which called him out in the morning was almost
certain of ending there, where the rest of the day was spent by himself at the
side of Marianne, and by his favourite pointer at her feet.
One evening in particular, about a week after Colonel Brandon left the
country, his heart seemed more than usually open to every feeling of
attachment to the objects around him; and on Mrs. Dashwood's happening
to mention her design of improving the cottage in the spring, he warmly
opposed every alteration of a place which affection had established as
perfect with him.
"What!" he exclaimed, "Improve this dear cottage! No. That I will never
consent to. Not a stone must be added to its walls, not an inch to its size, if
my feelings are regarded."
"Do not be alarmed," said Miss Dashwood, "nothing of the kind will be
done; for my mother will never have money enough to attempt it."
"I am heartily glad of it," he cried. "May she always be poor, if she can
employ her riches no better."

"Thank you, Willoughby. But you may be assured that I would not
sacrifice one sentiment of local attachment of yours, or of any one whom I
loved, for all the improvements in the world. Depend upon it that whatever
unemployed sum may remain, when I make up my accounts in the spring, I
would even rather lay it uselessly by than dispose of it in a manner so
painful to you. But are you really so attached to this place as to see no
defect in it?"
"I am," said he. "To me it is faultless. Nay, more, I consider it as the only
form of building in which happiness is attainable, and were I rich enough I
would instantly pull Combe down, and build it up again in the exact plan of
this cottage."
"With dark narrow stairs and a kitchen that smokes, I suppose," said
Elinor.
"Yes," cried he in the same eager tone, "with all and every thing
belonging to it—in no one convenience or inconvenience about it, should
the least variation be perceptible. Then, and then only, under such a roof, I
might perhaps be as happy at Combe as I have been at Barton."
"I flatter myself," replied Elinor, "that even under the disadvantage of
better rooms and a broader staircase, you will hereafter find your own house
as faultless as you now do this."
"There certainly are circumstances," said Willoughby, "which might
greatly endear it to me; but this place will always have one claim of my
affection, which no other can possibly share."
Mrs. Dashwood looked with pleasure at Marianne, whose fine eyes were
fixed so expressively on Willoughby, as plainly denoted how well she
understood him.
"How often did I wish," added he, "when I was at Allenham this time
twelvemonth, that Barton cottage were inhabited! I never passed within
view of it without admiring its situation, and grieving that no one should
live in it. How little did I then think that the very first news I should hear
from Mrs. Smith, when I next came into the country, would be that Barton
cottage was taken: and I felt an immediate satisfaction and interest in the
event, which nothing but a kind of prescience of what happiness I should
experience from it, can account for. Must it not have been so, Marianne?"
speaking to her in a lowered voice. Then continuing his former tone, he
said, "And yet this house you would spoil, Mrs. Dashwood? You would rob

it of its simplicity by imaginary improvement! and this dear parlour in
which our acquaintance first began, and in which so many happy hours
have been since spent by us together, you would degrade to the condition of
a common entrance, and every body would be eager to pass through the
room which has hitherto contained within itself more real accommodation
and comfort than any other apartment of the handsomest dimensions in the
world could possibly afford."
Mrs. Dashwood again assured him that no alteration of the kind should
be attempted.
"You are a good woman," he warmly replied. "Your promise makes me
easy. Extend it a little farther, and it will make me happy. Tell me that not
only your house will remain the same, but that I shall ever find you and
yours as unchanged as your dwelling; and that you will always consider me
with the kindness which has made everything belonging to you so dear to
me."
The promise was readily given, and Willoughby's behaviour during the
whole of the evening declared at once his affection and happiness.
"Shall we see you tomorrow to dinner?" said Mrs. Dashwood, when he
was leaving them. "I do not ask you to come in the morning, for we must
walk to the park, to call on Lady Middleton."
He engaged to be with them by four o'clock.

CHAPTER XV
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 mantelpiece with his back
towards them. He turned round on their coming in, and his countenance
showed that he strongly partook of the emotion which overpowered
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."

Apparently in violent affliction.
"This is very unfortunate. But Mrs. Smith must be obliged, and her
business will not detain you from us long I hope."
He coloured as he replied, "You are very kind, but I have no idea of
returning into Devonshire immediately. My visits to Mrs. Smith are never
repeated within the twelvemonth."
"And is Mrs. Smith your only friend? Is Allenham the only house in the
neighbourhood to which you will be welcome? For shame, Willoughby, can

you wait for an invitation here?"
His colour increased; and with his eyes fixed on the ground he only
replied, "You are too good."
Mrs. Dashwood looked at Elinor with surprise. Elinor felt equal
amazement. For a few moments every one was silent. Mrs. Dashwood first
spoke.
"I have only to add, my dear Willoughby, that at Barton cottage you will
always be welcome; for I will not press you to return here immediately,
because you only can judge how far that might be pleasing to Mrs. Smith;
and on this head I shall be no more disposed to question your judgment than
to doubt your inclination."
"My engagements at present," replied Willoughby, confusedly, "are of
such a nature—that—I dare not flatter myself—"
He stopped. Mrs. Dashwood was too much astonished to speak, and
another pause succeeded. This was broken by Willoughby, who said with a
faint smile, "It is folly to linger in this manner. I will not torment myself
any longer by remaining among friends whose society it is impossible for
me now to enjoy."
He then hastily took leave of them all and left the room. They saw him
step into his carriage, and in a minute it was out of sight.
Mrs. Dashwood felt too much for speech, and instantly quitted the
parlour to give way in solitude to the concern and alarm which this sudden
departure occasioned.
Elinor's uneasiness was at least equal to her mother's. She thought of
what had just passed with anxiety and distrust. Willoughby's behaviour in
taking leave of them, his embarrassment, and affectation of cheerfulness,
and, above all, his unwillingness to accept her mother's invitation—a
backwardness so unlike a lover, so unlike himself—greatly disturbed her.
One moment she feared that no serious design had ever been formed on his
side; and the next that some unfortunate quarrel had taken place between
him and her sister. The distress in which Marianne had quitted the room was
such as a serious quarrel could most reasonably account for, though when
she considered what Marianne's love for him was, a quarrel seemed almost
impossible.

But whatever might be the particulars of their separation, her sister's
affliction was indubitable; and she thought with the tenderest compassion of
that violent sorrow which Marianne was in all probability not merely giving
way to as a relief, but feeding and encouraging as a duty.
In about half an hour her mother returned, and though her eyes were red,
her countenance was not uncheerful.
"Our dear Willoughby is now some miles from Barton, Elinor," said she,
as she sat down to work, "and with how heavy a heart does he travel?"
"It is all very strange. So suddenly to be gone! It seems but the work of a
moment. And last night he was with us so happy, so cheerful, so
affectionate? And now, after only ten minutes notice,—gone too without
intending to return! Something more than what he owned to us must have
happened. He did not speak, he did not behave like himself. You must have
seen the difference as well as I. What can it be? Can they have quarrelled?
Why else should he have shown such unwillingness to accept your
invitation here?"
"It was not inclination that he wanted, Elinor; I could plainly see that. He
had not the power of accepting it. I have thought it all over I assure you,
and I can perfectly account for every thing that at first seemed strange to me
as well as to you."
"Can you, indeed!"
"Yes. I have explained it to myself in the most satisfactory way; but you,
Elinor, who love to doubt where you can—it will not satisfy you, I know;
but you shall not talk me out of my trust in it. I am persuaded that Mrs.
Smith suspects his regard for Marianne, disapproves of it, (perhaps because
she has other views for him,) and on that account is eager to get him away;
and that the business which she sends him off to transact is invented as an
excuse to dismiss him. This is what I believe to have happened. He is,
moreover, aware that she does disapprove the connection, he dares not
therefore at present confess to her his engagement with Marianne, and he
feels himself obliged, from his dependent situation, to give into her
schemes, and absent himself from Devonshire for a while. You will tell me,
I know, that this may or may not have happened; but I will listen to no
cavil, unless you can point out any other method of understanding the affair
as satisfactory at this. And now, Elinor, what have you to say?"
"Nothing, for you have anticipated my answer."

"Then you would have told me, that it might or might not have happened.
Oh, Elinor, how incomprehensible are your feelings! You had rather take
evil upon credit than good. You had rather look out for misery for
Marianne, and guilt for poor Willoughby, than an apology for the latter. You
are resolved to think him blamable, because he took leave of us with less
affection than his usual behaviour has shown. And is no allowance to be
made for inadvertence, or for spirits depressed by recent disappointment?
Are no probabilities to be accepted, merely because they are not certainties?
Is nothing due to the man whom we have all such reason to love, and no
reason in the world to think ill of?—to the possibility of motives
unanswerable in themselves, though unavoidably secret for a while? And,
after all, what is it you suspect him of?"
"I can hardly tell myself. But suspicion of something unpleasant is the
inevitable consequence of such an alteration as we just witnessed in him.
There is great truth, however, in what you have now urged of the
allowances which ought to be made for him, and it is my wish to be candid
in my judgment of every body. Willoughby may undoubtedly have very
sufficient reasons for his conduct, and I will hope that he has. But it would
have been more like Willoughby to acknowledge them at once. Secrecy
may be advisable; but still I cannot help wondering at its being practiced by
him."
"Do not blame him, however, for departing from his character, where the
deviation is necessary. But you really do admit the justice of what I have
said in his defence?—I am happy—and he is acquitted."
"Not entirely. It may be proper to conceal their engagement (if they are
engaged) from Mrs. Smith; and if that is the case, it must be highly
expedient for Willoughby to be but little in Devonshire at present. But this
is no excuse for their concealing it from us."
"Concealing it from us! my dear child, do you accuse Willoughby and
Marianne of concealment? This is strange indeed, when your eyes have
been reproaching them every day for incautiousness."
"I want no proof of their affection," said Elinor; "but of their engagement
I do."
"I am perfectly satisfied of both."
"Yet not a syllable has been said to you on the subject, by either of them."

"I have not wanted syllables where actions have spoken so plainly. Has
not his behaviour to Marianne and to all of us, for at least the last fortnight,
declared that he loved and considered her as his future wife, and that he felt
for us the attachment of the nearest relation? Have we not perfectly
understood each other? Has not my consent been daily asked by his looks,
his manner, his attentive and affectionate respect? My Elinor, is it possible
to doubt their engagement? How could such a thought occur to you? How is
it to be supposed that Willoughby, persuaded as he must be of your sister's
love, should leave her, and leave her perhaps for months, without telling her
of his affection,—that they should part without a mutual exchange of
confidence?"
"I confess," replied Elinor, "that every circumstance except one is in
favour of their engagement; but that one is the total silence of both on the
subject, and with me it almost outweighs every other."
"How strange this is! You must think wretchedly indeed of Willoughby,
if, after all that has openly passed between them, you can doubt the nature
of the terms on which they are together. Has he been acting a part in his
behaviour to your sister all this time? Do you suppose him really indifferent
to her?"
"No, I cannot think that. He must and does love her I am sure."
"But with a strange kind of tenderness, if he can leave her with such
indifference, such carelessness of the future, as you attribute to him."
"You must remember, my dear mother, that I have never considered this
matter as certain. I have had my doubts, I confess; but they are fainter than
they were, and they may soon be entirely done away. If we find they
correspond, every fear of mine will be removed."
"A mighty concession indeed! If you were to see them at the altar, you
would suppose they were going to be married. Ungracious girl! But I
require no such proof. Nothing in my opinion has ever passed to justify
doubt; no secrecy has been attempted; all has been uniformly open and
unreserved. You cannot doubt your sister's wishes. It must be Willoughby
therefore whom you suspect. But why? Is he not a man of honour and
feeling? Has there been any inconsistency on his side to create alarm? can
he be deceitful?"
"I hope not, I believe not," cried Elinor. "I love Willoughby, sincerely
love him; and suspicion of his integrity cannot be more painful to yourself

than to me. It has been involuntary, and I will not encourage it. I was
startled, I confess, by the alteration in his manners this morning; he did not
speak like himself, and did not return your kindness with any cordiality. But
all this may be explained by such a situation of his affairs as you have
supposed. He had just parted from my sister, had seen her leave him in the
greatest affliction; and if he felt obliged, from a fear of offending Mrs.
Smith, to resist the temptation of returning here soon, and yet aware that by
declining your invitation, by saying that he was going away for some time,
he should seem to act an ungenerous, a suspicious part by our family, he
might well be embarrassed and disturbed. In such a case, a plain and open
avowal of his difficulties would have been more to his honour I think, as
well as more consistent with his general character;—but I will not raise
objections against any one's conduct on so illiberal a foundation, as a
difference in judgment from myself, or a deviation from what I may think
right and consistent."
"You speak very properly. Willoughby certainly does not deserve to be
suspected. Though we have not known him long, he is no stranger in this
part of the world; and who has ever spoken to his disadvantage? Had he
been in a situation to act independently and marry immediately, it might
have been odd that he should leave us without acknowledging everything to
me at once: but this is not the case. It is an engagement in some respects not
prosperously begun, for their marriage must be at a very uncertain distance;
and even secrecy, as far as it can be observed, may now be very advisable."
They were interrupted by the entrance of Margaret; and Elinor was then
at liberty to think over the representations of her mother, to acknowledge
the probability of many, and hope for the justice of all.
They saw nothing of Marianne till dinner time, when she entered the
room and took her place at the table without saying a word. Her eyes were
red and swollen; and it seemed as if her tears were even then restrained with
difficulty. She avoided the looks of them all, could neither eat nor speak,
and after some time, on her mother's silently pressing her hand with tender
compassion, her small degree of fortitude was quite overcome, she burst
into tears and left the room.
This violent oppression of spirits continued the whole evening. She was
without any power, because she was without any desire of command over
herself. The slightest mention of anything relative to Willoughby

overpowered her in an instant; and though her family were most anxiously
attentive to her comfort, it was impossible for them, if they spoke at all, to
keep clear of every subject which her feelings connected with him.

CHAPTER XVI
Marianne would have thought herself very inexcusable had she been able
to sleep at all the first night after parting from Willoughby. She would have
been ashamed to look her family in the face the next morning, had she not
risen from her bed in more need of repose than when she lay down in it. But
the feelings which made such composure a disgrace, left her in no danger of
incurring it. She was awake the whole night, and she wept the greatest part
of it. She got up with a headache, was unable to talk, and unwilling to take
any nourishment; giving pain every moment to her mother and sisters, and
forbidding all attempt at consolation from either. Her sensibility was potent
enough!
When breakfast was over she walked out by herself, and wandered about
the village of Allenham, indulging the recollection of past enjoyment and
crying over the present reverse for the chief of the morning.
The evening passed off in the equal indulgence of feeling. She played
over every favourite song that she had been used to play to Willoughby,
every air in which their voices had been oftenest joined, and sat at the
instrument gazing on every line of music that he had written out for her, till
her heart was so heavy that no farther sadness could be gained; and this
nourishment of grief was every day applied. She spent whole hours at the
pianoforte alternately singing and crying; her voice often totally suspended
by her tears. In books too, as well as in music, she courted the misery which
a contrast between the past and present was certain of giving. She read
nothing but what they had been used to read together.
Such violence of affliction indeed could not be supported for ever; it sunk
within a few days into a calmer melancholy; but these employments, to
which she daily recurred, her solitary walks and silent meditations, still
produced occasional effusions of sorrow as lively as ever.
No letter from Willoughby came; and none seemed expected by
Marianne. Her mother was surprised, and Elinor again became uneasy. But
Mrs. Dashwood could find explanations whenever she wanted them, which
at least satisfied herself.

"Remember, Elinor," said she, "how very often Sir John fetches our
letters himself from the post, and carries them to it. We have already agreed
that secrecy may be necessary, and we must acknowledge that it could not
be maintained if their correspondence were to pass through Sir John's
hands."
Elinor could not deny the truth of this, and she tried to find in it a motive
sufficient for their silence. But there was one method so direct, so simple,
and in her opinion so eligible of knowing the real state of the affair, and of
instantly removing all mystery, that she could not help suggesting it to her
mother.
"Why do you not ask Marianne at once," said she, "whether she is or she
is not engaged to Willoughby? From you, her mother, and so kind, so
indulgent a mother, the question could not give offence. It would be the
natural result of your affection for her. She used to be all unreserve, and to
you more especially."
"I would not ask such a question for the world. Supposing it possible that
they are not engaged, what distress would not such an enquiry inflict! At
any rate it would be most ungenerous. I should never deserve her
confidence again, after forcing from her a confession of what is meant at
present to be unacknowledged to any one. I know Marianne's heart: I know
that she dearly loves me, and that I shall not be the last to whom the affair is
made known, when circumstances make the revealment of it eligible. I
would not attempt to force the confidence of any one; of a child much less;
because a sense of duty would prevent the denial which her wishes might
direct."
Elinor thought this generosity overstrained, considering her sister's youth,
and urged the matter farther, but in vain; common sense, common care,
common prudence, were all sunk in Mrs. Dashwood's romantic delicacy.
It was several days before Willoughby's name was mentioned before
Marianne by any of her family; Sir John and Mrs. Jennings, indeed, were
not so nice; their witticisms added pain to many a painful hour; but one
evening, Mrs. Dashwood, accidentally taking up a volume of Shakespeare,
exclaimed—
"We have never finished Hamlet, Marianne; our dear Willoughby went
away before we could get through it. We will put it by, that when he comes
again—; But it may be months, perhaps, before that happens."

"Months!" cried Marianne, with strong surprise. "No—nor many weeks."
Mrs. Dashwood was sorry for what she had said; but it gave Elinor
pleasure, as it produced a reply from Marianne so expressive of confidence
in Willoughby and knowledge of his intentions.
One morning, about a week after his leaving the country, Marianne was
prevailed on to join her sisters in their usual walk, instead of wandering
away by herself. Hitherto she had carefully avoided every companion in her
rambles. If her sisters intended to walk on the downs, she directly stole
away towards the lanes; if they talked of the valley, she was as speedy in
climbing the hills, and could never be found when the others set off. But at
length she was secured by the exertions of Elinor, who greatly disapproved
such continual seclusion. They walked along the road through the valley,
and chiefly in silence, for Marianne's mind could not be controlled, and
Elinor, satisfied with gaining one point, would not then attempt more.
Beyond the entrance of the valley, where the country, though still rich, was
less wild and more open, a long stretch of the road which they had travelled
on first coming to Barton, lay before them; and on reaching that point, they
stopped to look around them, and examine a prospect which formed the
distance of their view from the cottage, from a spot which they had never
happened to reach in any of their walks before.
Amongst the objects in the scene, they soon discovered an animated one;
it was a man on horseback riding towards them. In a few minutes they could
distinguish him to be a gentleman; and in a moment afterwards Marianne
rapturously exclaimed—
"It is he; it is indeed—I know it is!" and was hastening to meet him,
when Elinor cried out—
"Indeed, Marianne, I think you are mistaken. It is not Willoughby. The
person is not tall enough for him, and has not his air."
"He has, he has," cried Marianne, "I am sure he has. His air, his coat, his
horse. I knew how soon he would come."
She walked eagerly on as she spoke; and Elinor, to screen Marianne from
particularity, as she felt almost certain of its not being Willoughby,
quickened her pace and kept up with her. They were soon within thirty
yards of the gentleman. Marianne looked again; her heart sunk within her;
and abruptly turning round, she was hurrying back, when the voices of both
her sisters were raised to detain her; a third, almost as well known as

Willoughby's, joined them in begging her to stop, and she turned round with
surprise to see and welcome Edward Ferrars.

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

He dismounted, and giving his horse to his servant, walked back with
them to Barton, whither he was purposely coming to visit them.
He was welcomed by them all with great cordiality, but especially by
Marianne, who showed more warmth of regard in her reception of him than
even Elinor herself. To Marianne, indeed, the meeting between Edward and
her sister was but a continuation of that unaccountable coldness which she
had often observed at Norland in their mutual behaviour. On Edward's side,
more particularly, there was a deficiency of all that a lover ought to look
and say on such an occasion. He was confused, seemed scarcely sensible of
pleasure in seeing them, looked neither rapturous nor gay, said little but
what was forced from him by questions, and distinguished Elinor by no
mark of affection. Marianne saw and listened with increasing surprise. She
began almost to feel a dislike of Edward; and it ended, as every feeling
must end with her, by carrying back her thoughts to Willoughby, whose
manners formed a contrast sufficiently striking to those of his brother elect.
After a short silence which succeeded the first surprise and enquiries of
meeting, Marianne asked Edward if he came directly from London. No, he
had been in Devonshire a fortnight.
"A fortnight!" she repeated, surprised at his being so long in the same
county with Elinor without seeing her before.
He looked rather distressed as he added, that he had been staying with
some friends near Plymouth.
"Have you been lately in Sussex?" said Elinor.
"I was at Norland about a month ago."
"And how does dear, dear Norland look?" cried Marianne.
"Dear, dear Norland," said Elinor, "probably looks much as it always
does at this time of the year—the woods and walks thickly covered with
dead leaves."
"Oh," cried Marianne, "with what transporting sensation have I formerly
seen them fall! How have I delighted, as I walked, to see them driven in
showers about me by the wind! What feelings have they, the season, the air
altogether inspired! Now there is no one to regard them. They are seen only
as a nuisance, swept hastily off, and driven as much as possible from the
sight."
"It is not every one," said Elinor, "who has your passion for dead leaves."

"No; my feelings are not often shared, not often understood. But
sometimes they are." As she said this, she sunk into a reverie for a few
moments; but rousing herself again, "Now, Edward," said she, calling his
attention to the prospect, "here is Barton valley. Look up to it, and be
tranquil if you can. Look at those hills! Did you ever see their equals? To
the left is Barton park, amongst those woods and plantations. You may see
the end of the house. And there, beneath that farthest hill, which rises with
such grandeur, is our cottage."
"It is a beautiful country," he replied; "but these bottoms must be dirty in
winter."
"How can you think of dirt, with such objects before you?"
"Because," replied he, smiling, "among the rest of the objects before me,
I see a very dirty lane."
"How strange!" said Marianne to herself as she walked on.
"Have you an agreeable neighbourhood here? Are the Middletons
pleasant people?"
"No, not all," answered Marianne; "we could not be more unfortunately
situated."
"Marianne," cried her sister, "how can you say so? How can you be so
unjust? They are a very respectable family, Mr. Ferrars; and towards us
have behaved in the friendliest manner. Have you forgot, Marianne, how
many pleasant days we have owed to them?"
"No," said Marianne, in a low voice, "nor how many painful moments."
Elinor took no notice of this; and directing her attention to their visitor,
endeavoured to support something like discourse with him, by talking of
their present residence, its conveniences, &c. extorting from him occasional
questions and remarks. His coldness and reserve mortified her severely; she
was vexed and half angry; but resolving to regulate her behaviour to him by
the past rather than the present, she avoided every appearance of resentment
or displeasure, and treated him as she thought he ought to be treated from
the family connection.

CHAPTER XVII
Mrs. Dashwood was surprised only for a moment at seeing him; for his
coming to Barton was, in her opinion, of all things the most natural. Her joy
and expression of regard long outlived her wonder. He received the kindest
welcome from her; and shyness, coldness, reserve could not stand against
such a reception. They had begun to fail him before he entered the house,
and they were quite overcome by the captivating manners of Mrs.
Dashwood. Indeed a man could not very well be in love with either of her
daughters, without extending the passion to her; and Elinor had the
satisfaction of seeing him soon become more like himself. His affections
seemed to reanimate towards them all, and his interest in their welfare again
became perceptible. He was not in spirits, however; he praised their house,
admired its prospect, was attentive, and kind; but still he was not in spirits.
The whole family perceived it, and Mrs. Dashwood, attributing it to some
want of liberality in his mother, sat down to table indignant against all
selfish parents.
"What are Mrs. Ferrars's views for you at present, Edward?" said she,
when dinner was over and they had drawn round the fire; "are you still to be
a great orator in spite of yourself?"
"No. I hope my mother is now convinced that I have no more talents than
inclination for a public life!"
"But how is your fame to be established? for famous you must be to
satisfy all your family; and with no inclination for expense, no affection for
strangers, no profession, and no assurance, you may find it a difficult
matter."
"I shall not attempt it. I have no wish to be distinguished; and have every
reason to hope I never shall. Thank Heaven! I cannot be forced into genius
and eloquence."
"You have no ambition, I well know. Your wishes are all moderate."
"As moderate as those of the rest of the world, I believe. I wish as well as
every body else to be perfectly happy; but, like every body else it must be
in my own way. Greatness will not make me so."

"Strange that it would!" cried Marianne. "What have wealth or grandeur
to do with happiness?"
"Grandeur has but little," said Elinor, "but wealth has much to do with it."
"Elinor, for shame!" said Marianne, "money can only give happiness
where there is nothing else to give it. Beyond a competence, it can afford no
real satisfaction, as far as mere self is concerned."
"Perhaps," said Elinor, smiling, "we may come to the same point. Your
competence and my wealth are very much alike, I dare say; and without
them, as the world goes now, we shall both agree that every kind of external
comfort must be wanting. Your ideas are only more noble than mine. Come,
what is your competence?"
"About eighteen hundred or two thousand a year; not more than that."
Elinor laughed. "Two thousand a year! One is my wealth! I guessed how
it would end."
"And yet two thousand a-year is a very moderate income," said
Marianne. "A family cannot well be maintained on a smaller. I am sure I am
not extravagant in my demands. A proper establishment of servants, a
carriage, perhaps two, and hunters, cannot be supported on less."
Elinor smiled again, to hear her sister describing so accurately their
future expenses at Combe Magna.
"Hunters!" repeated Edward; "but why must you have hunters? Every
body does not hunt."
Marianne coloured as she replied, "But most people do."
"I wish," said Margaret, striking out a novel thought, "that somebody
would give us all a large fortune 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 show 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—for your opinion on that point is
unchanged, I presume?"
"Undoubtedly. At my time of life opinions are tolerably fixed. It is not
likely that I should now see or hear any thing to change them."
"Marianne is as steadfast as ever, you see," said Elinor, "she is not at all
altered."
"She is only grown a little more grave than she was."
"Nay, Edward," said Marianne, "you need not reproach me. You are not
very gay yourself."
"Why should you think so!" replied he, with a sigh. "But gaiety never
was a part of my character."

"Nor do I think it a part of Marianne's," said Elinor; "I should hardly call
her a lively girl—she is very earnest, very eager in all she does—sometimes
talks a great deal and always with animation—but she is not often really
merry."
"I believe you are right," he replied, "and yet I have always set her down
as a lively girl."
"I have frequently detected myself in such kind of mistakes," said Elinor,
"in a total misapprehension of character in some point or other: fancying
people so much more gay or grave, or ingenious or stupid than they really
are, and I can hardly tell why or in what the deception originated.
Sometimes one is guided by what they say of themselves, and very
frequently by what other people say of them, without giving oneself time to
deliberate and judge."
"But I thought it was right, Elinor," said Marianne, "to be guided wholly
by the opinion of other people. I thought our judgments were given us
merely to be subservient to those of neighbours. This has always been your
doctrine, I am sure."
"No, Marianne, never. My doctrine has never aimed at the subjection of
the understanding. All I have ever attempted to influence has been the
behaviour. You must not confound my meaning. I am guilty, I confess, of
having often wished you to treat our acquaintance in general with greater
attention; but when have I advised you to adopt their sentiments or to
conform to their judgment in serious matters?"
"You have not been able to bring your sister over to your plan of general
civility," said Edward to Elinor, "Do you gain no ground?"
"Quite the contrary," replied Elinor, looking expressively at Marianne.
"My judgment," he returned, "is all on your side of the question; but I am
afraid my practice is much more on your sister's. I never wish to offend, but
I am so foolishly shy, that I often seem negligent, when I am only kept back
by my natural awkwardness. I have frequently thought that I must have
been intended by nature to be fond of low company, I am so little at my
ease among strangers of gentility!"
"Marianne has not shyness to excuse any inattention of hers," said Elinor.
"She knows her own worth too well for false shame," replied Edward.
"Shyness is only the effect of a sense of inferiority in some way or other. If

I could persuade myself that my manners were perfectly easy and graceful,
I should not be shy."
"But you would still be reserved," said Marianne, "and that is worse."
Edward started. "Reserved! Am I reserved, Marianne?"
"Yes, very."
"I do not understand you," replied he, colouring. "Reserved!—how, in
what manner? What am I to tell you? What can you suppose?"
Elinor looked surprised at his emotion; but trying to laugh off the subject,
she said to him, "Do not you know my sister well enough to understand
what she means? Do not you know she calls every one reserved who does
not talk as fast, and admire what she admires as rapturously as herself?"
Edward made no answer. His gravity and thoughtfulness returned on him
in their fullest extent—and he sat for some time silent and dull.

CHAPTER XVIII
Elinor saw, with great uneasiness the low spirits of her friend. His visit
afforded her but a very partial satisfaction, while his own enjoyment in it
appeared so imperfect. It was evident that he was unhappy; she wished it
were equally evident that he still distinguished her by the same affection
which once she had felt no doubt of inspiring; but hitherto the continuance
of his preference seemed very uncertain; and the reservedness of his manner
towards her contradicted one moment what a more animated look had
intimated the preceding one.
He joined her and Marianne in the breakfast-room the next morning
before the others were down; and Marianne, who was always eager to
promote their happiness as far as she could, soon left them to themselves.
But before she was half way upstairs she heard the parlour door open, and,
turning round, was astonished to see Edward himself come out.
"I am going into the village to see my horses," said he, "as you are not
yet ready for breakfast; I shall be back again presently."

Edward returned to them with fresh admiration of the surrounding
country; in his walk to the village, he had seen many parts of the valley to
advantage; and the village itself, in a much higher situation than the cottage,
afforded a general view of the whole, which had exceedingly pleased him.
This was a subject which ensured Marianne's attention, and she was
beginning to describe her own admiration of these scenes, and to question
him more minutely on the objects that had particularly struck him, when
Edward interrupted her by saying, "You must not enquire too far, Marianne:
remember I have no knowledge in the picturesque, and I shall offend you by
my ignorance and want of taste if we come to particulars. I shall call hills
steep, which ought to be bold; surfaces strange and uncouth, which ought to
be irregular and rugged; and distant objects out of sight, which ought only
to be indistinct through the soft medium of a hazy atmosphere. You must be

satisfied with such admiration as I can honestly give. I call it a very fine
country,—the hills are steep, the woods seem full of fine timber, and the
valley looks comfortable and snug,—with rich meadows and several neat
farm houses scattered here and there. It exactly answers my idea of a fine
country, because it unites beauty with utility—and I dare say it is a
picturesque one too, because you admire it; I can easily believe it to be full
of rocks and promontories, grey moss and brush wood, but these are all lost
on me. I know nothing of the picturesque."
"I am afraid it is but too true," said Marianne; "but why should you boast
of it?"
"I suspect," said Elinor, "that to avoid one kind of affectation, Edward
here falls into another. Because he believes many people pretend to more
admiration of the beauties of nature than they really feel, and is disgusted
with such pretensions, he affects greater indifference and less
discrimination in viewing them himself than he possesses. He is fastidious
and will have an affectation of his own."
"It is very true," said Marianne, "that admiration of landscape scenery is
become a mere jargon. Every body pretends to feel and tries to describe
with the taste and elegance of him who first defined what picturesque
beauty was. I detest jargon of every kind, and sometimes I have kept my
feelings to myself, because I could find no language to describe them in but
what was worn and hackneyed out of all sense and meaning."
"I am convinced," said Edward, "that you really feel all the delight in a
fine prospect which you profess to feel. But, in return, your sister must
allow me to feel no more than I profess. I like a fine prospect, but not on
picturesque principles. I do not like crooked, twisted, blasted trees. I admire
them much more if they are tall, straight, and flourishing. I do not like
ruined, tattered cottages. I am not fond of nettles or thistles, or heath
blossoms. I have more pleasure in a snug farm-house than a watch-tower,—
and a troop of tidy, happy villages please me better than the finest banditti
in the world."
Marianne looked with amazement at Edward, with compassion at her
sister. Elinor only laughed.
The subject was continued no farther; and Marianne remained
thoughtfully silent, till a new object suddenly engaged her attention. She
was sitting by Edward, and in taking his tea from Mrs. Dashwood, his hand

passed so directly before her, as to make a ring, with a plait of hair in the
centre, very conspicuous on one of his fingers.
"I never saw you wear a ring before, Edward," she cried. "Is that Fanny's
hair? I remember her promising to give you some. But I should have
thought her hair had been darker."
Marianne spoke inconsiderately what she really felt; but when she saw
how much she had pained Edward, her own vexation at her want of thought
could not be surpassed by his. He coloured very deeply, and giving a
momentary glance at Elinor, replied, "Yes; it is my sister's hair. The setting
always casts a different shade on it, you know."
Elinor had met his eye, and looked conscious likewise. That the hair was
her own, she instantaneously felt as well satisfied as Marianne; the only
difference in their conclusions was, that what Marianne considered as a free
gift from her sister, Elinor was conscious must have been procured by some
theft or contrivance unknown to herself. She was not in a humour, however,
to regard it as an affront, and affecting to take no notice of what passed, by
instantly talking of something else, she internally resolved henceforward to
catch every opportunity of eyeing the hair and of satisfying herself, beyond
all doubt, that it was exactly the shade of her own.
Edward's embarrassment lasted some time, and it ended in an absence of
mind still more settled. He was particularly grave the whole morning.
Marianne severely censured herself for what she had said; but her own
forgiveness might have been more speedy, had she known how little offence
it had given her sister.
Before the middle of the day, they were visited by Sir John and Mrs.
Jennings, who, having heard of the arrival of a gentleman at the cottage,
came to take a survey of the guest. With the assistance of his mother-in-law,
Sir John was not long in discovering that the name of Ferrars began with an
F. and this prepared a future mine of raillery against the devoted Elinor,
which nothing but the newness of their acquaintance with Edward could
have prevented from being immediately sprung. But, as it was, she only
learned, from some very significant looks, how far their penetration,
founded on Margaret's instructions, extended.
Sir John never came to the Dashwoods without either inviting them to
dine at the park the next day, or to drink tea with them that evening. On the
present occasion, for the better entertainment of their visitor, towards whose

amusement he felt himself bound to contribute, he wished to engage them
for both.
"You must drink tea with us to night," said he, "for we shall be quite
alone; and tomorrow you must absolutely dine with us, for we shall be a
large party."
Mrs. Jennings enforced the necessity. "And who knows but you may raise
a dance," said she. "And that will tempt you, Miss Marianne."
"A dance!" cried Marianne. "Impossible! Who is to dance?"

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

"I wish with all my soul," cried Sir John, "that Willoughby were among
us again."
This, and Marianne's blushing, gave new suspicions to Edward. "And
who is Willoughby?" said he, in a low voice, to Miss Dashwood, by whom
he was sitting.
She gave him a brief reply. Marianne's countenance was more
communicative. Edward saw enough to comprehend, not only the meaning
of others, but such of Marianne's expressions as had puzzled him before;
and when their visitors left them, he went immediately round her, and said,
in a whisper, "I have been guessing. Shall I tell you my guess?"
"What do you mean?"
"Shall I tell you."
"Certainly."
"Well then; I guess that Mr. Willoughby hunts."
Marianne was surprised and confused, yet she could not help smiling at
the quiet archness of his manner, and after a moment's silence, said—
"Oh, Edward! How can you?—But the time will come I hope—I am sure
you will like him."
"I do not doubt it," replied he, rather astonished at her earnestness and
warmth; for had he not imagined it to be a joke for the good of her
acquaintance in general, founded only on a something or a nothing between
Mr. Willoughby and herself, he would not have ventured to mention it.

CHAPTER XIX
Edward remained a week at the cottage; he was earnestly pressed by Mrs.
Dashwood to stay longer; but, as if he were bent only on self-mortification,
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 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 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 stayed.
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.

"I declare they are quite charming."
"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 choose to dine with them oftener than
they dined at the cottage, absolutely refused on her own account; her
daughters might do as they pleased. But they had no curiosity to see how
Mr. and Mrs. Palmer ate their dinner, and no expectation of pleasure from
them in any other way. They attempted, therefore, likewise, to excuse
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 XX
As the Miss Dashwoods entered the drawing-room of the park the next
day, at one door, Mrs. Palmer came running in at the other, looking as good
humoured and merry as before. She took them all most affectionately by the
hand, and expressed great delight in seeing them again.
"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 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 XXI
The Palmers returned to Cleveland the next day, and the two families at
Barton were again left to entertain each other. But this did not last long;
Elinor had hardly got their last visitors out of her head, had hardly done
wondering at Charlotte's being so happy without a cause, at Mr. Palmer's
acting so simply, with good abilities, and at the strange 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. 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 Steele's
pocket handkerchief, and throwing it out of window—"He is full of monkey
tricks."
And soon afterwards, on the second boy's violently pinching one of the
same lady's fingers, she fondly observed, "How playful William is!"

Mischievous tricks.
"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 éclat. 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 must admire it," replied Elinor, "who ever saw the
place; though it is not to be supposed that any one can estimate its beauties
as we do."
"And had you a great many smart beaux there? I suppose you have not so
many in this part of the world; for my part, I think they are a vast addition
always."
"But why should you think," said Lucy, looking 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 beaux in Exeter; but you know, how could I tell
what smart beaux there might be about Norland; and I was only afraid the
Miss Dashwoods might find it dull at Barton, if they had not so many as
they used to have. But perhaps you young ladies may not care about the
beaux, and had as lief be without them as with them. For my part, I think
they are vastly agreeable, provided they dress smart and behave civil. But I

can't bear to see them dirty and nasty. Now there's Mr. Rose at Exeter, a
prodigious smart young man, quite a beau, clerk to Mr. Simpson, you know,
and yet if you do but meet him of a morning, he is not fit to be seen. I
suppose your brother was quite a beau, Miss Dashwood, before 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 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 beaux—they have
something else to do."
"Lord! Anne," cried her sister, "you can talk of nothing but beaux;—you
will make Miss Dashwood believe you think of nothing else." And then to
turn the discourse, she began admiring the house and the furniture.
This specimen of the Miss Steeles was 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 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 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."

Drinking to her best affections.
"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 choose to join in it
herself; but nothing more of it was said, and for the first time in her life, she
thought Mrs. Jennings deficient either in curiosity after petty information,
or in a disposition to communicate it. The manner in which Miss Steele had
spoken of 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 XXII
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 show 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 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 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 you. I am sorry you do not
happen to know Mrs. Ferrars."
"I am sorry I do not," said Elinor, in great astonishment, "if it could be of
any use to you to know my opinion of her. But really 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 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. 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.

Amiably bashful.
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 occasion for ever mentioning my name to you;
and, as he was always particularly afraid of his sister's suspecting any thing,
that was reason enough for his not mentioning it."
She was silent. Elinor's security sunk; but her self-command did not sink
with it.
"Four years you have been 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 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 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 XXIII
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 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 me—you know I detest cards. I shall go to the piano-forte; I have
not touched it since it was tuned." And without farther ceremony, she turned
away and walked to the instrument.
Lady Middleton looked as if she thanked heaven that she had never made
so rude a speech.
"Marianne can never keep long from that instrument you know, ma'am,"
said Elinor, endeavouring to smooth away the offence; "and I do not much
wonder at it; for it is the very best toned piano-forte I ever heard."
The remaining five were now to draw their cards.
"Perhaps," continued Elinor, "if I should happen to cut out, I may be of
some use to Miss Lucy Steele, in rolling her papers for her; and there is so
much still to be done to the basket, that it must be impossible I think for her
labour singly, to finish it this evening. I should like the work exceedingly, if
she would allow me a share in it."

"Indeed I shall be very much obliged to you for your 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 XXIV
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 beaux, I dare say."
"No sister," cried Lucy, "you are mistaken there, our favourite beaux are
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 she likes."

"I can answer for it," said Mrs. Jennings.
"Oh," cried Miss Steele, looking significantly round at them, "I dare say
Lucy's beau is quite as modest and pretty behaved as Miss Dashwood's."
Elinor blushed in spite of herself. Lucy bit her lip, and looked angrily at
her sister. A mutual silence took place for some time. Lucy first put an end

to it by saying in a lower tone, though Marianne was then giving them the
powerful protection of a very magnificent concerto—
"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—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 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 XXV
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 do beg
you will favour me with your company, for I've quite set my heart upon it.
Don't fancy that you will be any inconvenience to me, for I shan't put
myself at all out of my way for you. It will only be sending Betty by the
coach, and I hope I can afford that. We three shall be able to go very well in
my chaise; and when we are in town, if you do not like to go wherever I do,
well and good, you may always go with one of my daughters. I am sure
your mother will not 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 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 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 not let
me hear a word about the expense of it."
"My objection is this; though I think very well of Mrs. Jennings's heart,
she is not a woman whose society can afford us pleasure, or whose
protection will give us consequence."
"That is very true," replied her mother, "but of her society, separately
from that of other people, you will scarcely have any thing at all, and you
will almost always appear in public with Lady Middleton."
"If Elinor is frightened away by her dislike of Mrs. Jennings," said
Marianne, "at least it need not prevent my accepting her invitation. I have
no such scruples, and 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 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 XXVI
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 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 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 XXVII
"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 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 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. Jennings'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 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—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 XXVIII
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 that moment she first perceived him.
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 as
the carriage could be found. Scarcely a word was spoken during their return
to Berkeley Street. Marianne was in a silent agony, too much oppressed
even for tears; but as Mrs. Jennings was luckily not come home, they could
go 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, 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 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 XXIX
Before the housemaid had lit their fire the next day, or the sun gained any
power over a cold, gloomy morning in January, Marianne, only half
dressed, was kneeling against one of the window-seats for the sake of all
the little light she could command from it, and writing as fast as a 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. Jennings's
notice entirely to herself.
As this was a favourite meal with Mrs. Jennings, it lasted a considerable
time, and they were just setting themselves, after it, round the common

working table, when a letter was delivered to Marianne, which she eagerly
caught from the servant, and, turning of a death-like 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 tremor as made her fear it impossible to escape Mrs.
Jennings'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! 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:—
"Bond Street, January.
"My Dear Madam,
"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,
Your most obedient humble
servant,
"John Willoughby."
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 could do, which
might be of comfort to you."
This, as every thing else would have been, was too much for Marianne,
who could only exclaim, in the anguish of her heart, "Oh! Elinor, I am
miserable, indeed," before her voice was entirely lost in sobs.
Elinor could no longer witness this torrent of unresisted grief in silence.
"Exert yourself, dear Marianne," she cried, "if you would not kill
yourself and all who love you. Think of your mother; think of her misery
while you suffer: for her sake you must exert yourself."
"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, you cannot have an idea of what I suffer."
"Do you call me happy, Marianne? Ah! if you knew!—And can you
believe me to be so, while I see you so wretched!"
"Forgive me, forgive me," throwing her arms round her sister's neck; "I
know you feel 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
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:—
"Berkeley Street,
January.
"How surprised you will be, Willoughby, on receiving this;
and I think you will feel something more than surprise, when
you know that I am in town. An 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 tonight,
but I will not depend on it. At any rate I shall expect you to-
morrow. For the present, adieu.

M.D."
Her second note, which had been written on the morning after the dance
at the Middletons', was in these words:—
"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.
M.D."
The contents of her last note to him were these:—
"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.
M.D."
That such letters, so full of affection and confidence, could have been so
answered, Elinor, for Willoughby's sake, would have been unwilling to
believe. But her 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 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 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 XXX
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 wretchedly, she ate more and was
calmer than her sister had expected. Had she tried to speak, or had she been
conscious of half Mrs. Jennings's well-meant but ill-judged attentions to
her, this calmness could not have been maintained; but not a syllable
escaped her lips; and the 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 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 dovecote, 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 can but put
Willoughby out of her head!"
"Ay, if we can do that, Ma'am," said Elinor, "we shall do very well with
or without Colonel Brandon." And then rising, she went away to join
Marianne, whom she found, as she expected, in her own room, leaning, in
silent misery, over the small remains of a fire, which, till Elinor's entrance,
had been her only light.
"You had better leave me," was all the notice that her sister received from
her.
"I will leave you," said Elinor, "if you will go to bed." But this, from the
momentary perverseness of 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."

"How fond he was of it!"

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 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 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 XXXI
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 good-will.

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 enforce, at her feet,
by the eloquence of his eyes, the assurances of his letter. The work of one
moment was destroyed by the next. The hand writing of her mother, never
till then unwelcome, was before her; and, in the acuteness of the
disappointment which followed such an ecstasy of more than hope, she felt
as if, till that instant, she had never suffered.
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 entreat from Marianne greater
openness towards them both; and this, with such tenderness towards her,
such affection for Willoughby, and such a conviction of their future
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 had been
safe."
Marianne moved to the window—
"It is Colonel Brandon!" said she, with vexation. "We are never safe from
him."
"He will not come in, as Mrs. Jennings is from home."
"I will not trust to that," retreating to her own room. "A man who has
nothing to do with his own time has no conscience in his intrusion on that
of others."
The event proved her conjecture right, though it was founded on injustice
and error; for Colonel Brandon did come in; and Elinor, who was convinced
that solicitude for Marianne brought him thither, and who saw that
solicitude in his disturbed and melancholy look, and in his anxious though
brief 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 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 shown Marianne. My gratitude will be
insured immediately by any information tending to that end, and 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 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 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 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 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 did find her. Regard for a
former servant of my own, who had since fallen into misfortune, carried me
to visit him in a spunging-house, where he was confined for debt; and there,
in the same house, under a similar confinement, was my unfortunate sister.
So altered—so faded—worn down by acute suffering of every kind! hardly
could I believe the melancholy and sickly figure before me, to be the
remains of the lovely, blooming, healthful girl, on whom I had once doted.
What I endured in so beholding her—but I have no right to wound your
feelings by 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 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 had he
known it, what would it have availed? Would he have been less gay or less
happy in the smiles of your sister? No, he had already done that, which no
man who can feel for another would do. He had left the girl whose youth
and innocence he had 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 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 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 XXXII
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 show by her tears
that she felt it to be impossible. But though this behaviour assured Elinor
that the conviction of this guilt was carried home to her mind, though she
saw with satisfaction the effect of it, in her no longer avoiding Colonel
Brandon when he called, in her speaking to him, even voluntarily speaking,
with a kind of compassionate respect, and though she saw her spirits less
violently irritated than before, she did not see her less wretched. Her mind
did become settled, but it was settled in a gloomy dejection. She felt the
loss of Willoughby's character yet more heavily than she had felt the loss of
his heart; his seduction and desertion of Miss Williams, the misery of that
poor girl, and the doubt of what his designs might once have been on
herself, preyed altogether so much on her spirits, that she could not bring
herself to speak of what she felt even to Elinor; and, brooding over her
sorrows in silence, gave more pain to her sister than could have been
communicated by the most open and most frequent confession of them.
To give the feelings or the language of Mrs. Dashwood on receiving and
answering Elinor's letter would be only to give a repetition of what her
daughters had already felt and said; of a disappointment hardly less painful
than Marianne's, and an indignation even greater than Elinor's. Long letters
from her, quickly succeeding each other, arrived to tell all that she suffered
and thought; to express her anxious solicitude for Marianne, and entreat she
would bear up with fortitude under this misfortune. Bad indeed must the
nature of Marianne's affliction be, when her mother could talk of fortitude!
mortifying and humiliating must be the origin of those regrets, which she
could wish her not to indulge!
Against the interest of her own individual comfort, Mrs. Dashwood had
determined that it would be better for Marianne to be any where, at that

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

Offered him one of Folly's puppies.
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 one person at least among their circle of friends: a
great comfort to know that there was one who would meet her without
feeling any curiosity after particulars, or any anxiety for her sister's health.

Every qualification is 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. These assured him that his exertion had produced an increase of good-
will towards himself, and these gave Elinor hopes of its being farther
augmented hereafter; but Mrs. Jennings, who knew nothing of all this, who
knew only that the Colonel continued as grave as ever, and that she could
neither prevail on him to make the offer himself, nor commission her to
make it for him, began, at the end of two days, to think that, instead of Mid-
summer, 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 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, Holborn, 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 still in town.
"I should have been quite disappointed if I had not found you here still,"
said she repeatedly, with a strong emphasis on the word. "But I always
thought I should I was almost sure you would not leave London yet awhile;
though you told me, you know, at Barton, that you should not stay above a
month. But I thought, at the time, that you would most likely change your
mind when it came to the point. It would have been such a great pity to
have went away before your brother and sister came. And now to be sure
you will be in no hurry to be gone. I am amazingly glad you did not keep to
your word."
Elinor perfectly understood her, and was forced to use all her self-
command to make it appear that she did not.
"Well, my dear," said Mrs. Jennings, "and how did you travel?"
"Not in the stage, I assure you," replied Miss Steele, with quick
exultation; "we came post all the way, and had a very smart beau to attend

us. Dr. Davies was 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 beau, Nancy,'
my cousin said t'other day, when she saw him crossing the street to the
house. My beau, indeed! said I—I cannot think who you mean. The Doctor
is no beau of mine."
"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 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!"

A very smart beau.
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 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 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 XXXIII
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.

Introduced to Mrs. Jennings.
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. 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 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.

Mrs. Jennings assured him directly that she should not stand upon ceremony.
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 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 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
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 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 all 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 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 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 you, but so it happened to
strike her. She will be mistaken, however. I question whether Marianne
now, will marry a man worth more than five or six hundred a-year, at the
utmost, and I am very much deceived if 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 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 XXXIV
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 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 choose 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 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 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 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 teased 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 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 Middleton'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 pretty,"—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 does paint most delightfully!—How
beautifully her last landscape is done!"
"Beautifully indeed! But 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 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.

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 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 has
been a beauty in the loss of her personal attractions. You would not think it
perhaps, but Marianne was remarkably handsome a few months ago; quite
as handsome as Elinor. Now you see it is all gone."

CHAPTER XXXV
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 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 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 not 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 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 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 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 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 showed 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 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 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 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 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 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 outstayed him, had his visit lasted
two hours, soon afterwards went away.
"What can bring her here so often?" said Marianne, on her leaving them.
"Could not she see that we wanted her gone!—how teasing 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.

Drawing him a little aside.

CHAPTER XXXVI
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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 and conceit of the one, put
her out of all charity with the modesty and worth of the other. Why they
were different, Robert explained to her himself in the course of a quarter of
an hour's conversation; for, talking of his brother, and lamenting the
extreme gaucherie which he really believed kept him from mixing in proper
society, he candidly and generously attributed it much less to any natural
deficiency, than to the misfortune of a private education; while he himself,
though probably without any particular, any 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. Jennings'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 shows. 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 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 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 XXXVII
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?"

In a whisper.
"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! 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 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 his knees too, to persuade her
to let them stay till they had packed up their clothes. 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
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 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 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.
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 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 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 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. 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 showing that I was very unhappy."—
Marianne was quite subdued.
"Oh! Elinor," she cried, "you have made me hate myself for ever. How
barbarous have I been to you!—you, who have been my only comfort, who
have borne with me in all my misery, who have seemed to be only suffering

for me! Is this my gratitude? Is this the only return I can make you?
Because your merit cries out upon myself, I have been trying to do it away."
The tenderest caresses followed this confession. In such a frame of mind
as she was now in, Elinor had no 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.

"You have heard, I suppose."
"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 shown, so much confidence had been placed! It was quite out of the
benevolence of her heart, that she had asked these young women to her
house; merely because she thought they deserved some attention, were
harmless, well-behaved girls, and would be pleasant companions; for
otherwise we both wished very much to have invited you and Marianne to
be with us, while your kind friend there, was attending her daughter. And
now to be so rewarded! 'I wish, with all my heart,' says poor Fanny in her
affectionate way, 'that we had asked your sisters instead of them.'"
Here he stopped to be thanked; which being done, he went on.
"What poor Mrs. Ferrars suffered, when first Fanny broke it to her, is not
to be described. While she with the truest affection had been planning a
most eligible 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 any prepossession elsewhere, it
could not be in that quarter. '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 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 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."

Talking over the business.
"Well!" said Mrs. Jennings, "that is 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 XXXVIII
Mrs. Jennings was very warm in her praise of Edward's conduct, but only
Elinor and Marianne understood its true merit. 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 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 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, you are going to laugh at me too. But why should not I
wear pink ribbons? I do not care if it is the Doctor's favourite colour. I am
sure, for my part, I should never have known he did like it better than any
other colour, if he had not happened to say so. My cousins have been so

plaguing me! I declare sometimes I do not know which way to look before
them."
She had wandered away to a subject on which Elinor had nothing to say,
and therefore soon judged it expedient to find her way back again to the
first.
"Well, but Miss Dashwood," speaking triumphantly, "people may say
what they choose about Mr. Ferrars's 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.