Sense And Sensibility

CHAPTER I.
«
Ths family of Dashwood had been long settled in Sussec.^
Their estate was large, and their residence was at Norland
Park, in the centre of their property, where, for many genera-
tions , they had lived in so respectable 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 in-
vited 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 attach-
ment 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 re-
ceive ; 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 re-
spectable young man, was amply provided for by the fortune
of his mother, which had been large, and half of which de-
volved on him on his coming of age. By his own marriage,
Sense and SensUtUity. 1
2 SBKSE Asm SENSIBILITY,
likewise J which happened soon afterwards, he added to his
wealth. To him^ therefore:, the succession to the Norland
estate was not so really iuiportfiiit as to his sisters; fortlieir
fortune , independent &f wh^t might arise to them from their
father's inheriting ,tteatpi*operty, could be but emalL Their
mother had nothJti£, aind their father only seven thousand
pounds in his- £>w'ti. disposal; for the remaining moiety of hi»
first wife>X(frfli^6 ^^ ^la^ secured to her child , and he hsid
only qrrifeAhtereat in it.
*.^ Tk* -old gentleman died : his will waB read ; and , hke
\ amaost eveiy other wili, gave as much disappointment as
, Y^^^*!^*^* fi^ ^^^ neither so unjust , nor so ungrateful , as to
- leave hie estate from his nephew ■ but he left it to him on sneh
terms as destroyed half the value of the bequest. Mr* Dash-
wood 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
aon^sson, a chQd 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 provisiou
by any charge on the estate , or by any sale of its valuable
woodj. The whole was tied up for the benefit of this child^
who J in occasional visits with bis father and mother at
Norland , bad so far gained on the affections of bis uncle ^ by
such attractions as are by no means unnsnal in children of two
or three years old , — an imperfect articulation , an earnest
desire of having bis own way, many cunning tricks, and a
great deal of noise, ^ as to outweigh all the value of all the
attention which, for yearSj he had received from his niece and
her daughters. He meant not to be unkindj however, and , as
a mark of his affection for the three girls , he left them a
thousand pounds apiece.
Mr. Dash wood's disappointment was ) at first, severe^ but
his temper wtui cheerful and sanguine; and be might reason-
ably 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 imiacdiate improvement. But
the fortune f which had been so tardy in coming ^ waa Ms only
\
A
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 3
one twelvemonth. He survived his uncle no longer; and ten
thousand pounds, including the late legacies , was all that re-
mained 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
nigencj which illness could command, the interest of his
mo1^er-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 Dash-
wood had then leisure to consider how much there might
prudently be in his power to do for them.
He was not an ill-disposed young man , unless to be rather
cold-hearted and rather selfish is to be ill-disposed: but he
was, in general, well respected; for he conducted himself with
propriety in the discharge of his ordinary duties. Had he
married a more amiable woman, he might have been made
still more respectable than he was: he might even have been
made amiable himself; for he was very young when he
married, and very fond of his wife. But Mrs. John Dashwood
was a strong caricature of himself; more narrow-minded and
selfish.
When he gave his promise to his father, he meditated
within himself to increase the fortunes of his sisters by the
present of a thousand pounds apiece. He then really thought
himself equal to it. The prospect of four thousand a year , in
addition to Iiis 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 poxmds! 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
1*-
4 B^m^ AIO) SENSIBILITY.
Dash wood ^ without sen ding any notice of her iutentioa to h^
mother-in-law , arrived with her child and their attendantfl,
No one could dispute her right to come ; the house was her
huBband^B from the moment of his fathered decease^ but the
indelicacy of her conduct was so much the greater ^ and to a
woman in fttra. Dash woo d^s sltuatiou ^ with only common feel-
ings, must have been highly unpleaaiog; but in her mind there
was a sense of honour so keen, a generosity so romaatic, that
any offonce of the kind, by whomsoever given or received,
was to her a source of immovable disgust, Mrs. John Dash-
wood had never been a favourite with any of her husband's
family; but she bad had no opportunity, till the present, of
showing them with bow little attention to the comfort of other
people she conld act when occasion required it.
So acutely did Mrs, Dash wood feel this ungracious be-
haviour, and so earaestly did she despise her daughter-in-law
for it, that^ on the arrival of the latter, she would have quitted
the house for ever, bad not the entreaty of her eldest girl in-
duced her first to reflect on the propriety of going ^ and her
own tender love for all her three childiren determined her
afterwards to stay^ and for their aakes avoid a breach with
their broth er^
Elinor, this eldest daughter whose advice was so effectual,
possessed a strength of understanding, and coolnesB of judg-
ment , 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 Mr&, Dashwood which must generally have led to im-
prudence. She had an excellent hearty — her disposition
was aficctionate , and her feelings were strong; but she knew
how to govern them: it was a knowledge which her mother
had yet to learn , and which one of her sisters had resolved
never to be taught.
Marianne^s abilities were, in many respects, quite equal to
Elinor's. She was sensible and clever; but eager in every
thing ; her sorrows, her joys, could have no moderation. She
was generous, amiable, interesting: she was every thing but
i
i
i
A
SENSE AND SEN8TBILITT. 5
pnident. The resemblance between her and her mother was
strikingly great.
£linor saw, with concern, the excess of her sister's sen-
sibility; but by Mrs. Dashwood it was valued and cherished.
They encouraged each other now in the violence of their af-
fliction. The agony of grief which overpowered them at first
was 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 conso-
lation in future. Elinor, too, was deeply afflicted; but still
she could struggle, she could exert herself. She could consfdt
with her brother, could receive her sister-in-law on her arrival,
and treat her with proper attention ; and could strive to rouse
her mother to similar exertion, and encourage her to similar
forbearance.
Margaret, the other sister, was a good-humoured, well-
disposed girl; but as she had already imbibed a good deal
of Marianne's romance, without having much of her sense, she
did not , at thirteen, bid fair to equal her sisters at a more ad-
vanced 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 visiters. As such, however, they were
treated by her with quiet civility; and by her husband with as
much kindness as he could feel towards any body beyond
himself 9 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 re-
maining there till she could accommodate herself with a house
in tiie neighbourhood, his invitation was accepted.
A continuance in a place where every thing reminded her
of former delight was exactly what suited her mind. In
6 SEKSB AND SEKSTBIUTY*
seasons of cUeerfulDeBB, no temper could be more cbaerfiil
than hers, or possess, in a greater degree, that aangtiine ez^
peetation of happiness which is happiness itself. But in
sorrow she must be equally carried away by her fancy,
and E& far beyond consolation as in pleasure she was beyond
alloy.
Mrs. John Dash wood did not at all approve of what her
husLand intended to do for Ms sisters^ To take three
thousand pounds from the fortune of their dear little boy
would be nnpov^crishing him to the most dreadful degree.
She begged him to think again on tbe subjeeL How could
he^answer it to himself to rob bis child , and his only child too»
of so large a sum ? And what possible claim could the Miss
Oasbwooda , who were related to bim only by hejf blood,
which she considered as no relationship at all, have on his
generosity to so large an amoimt? 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 giTing away all
his money to his half sisters?
^*It was my father's last request to me/' replied her hus-
band, *Hhat I should assist his widow and daughters.''
** He did not know whal he was talking of, I dare say; ten
to one but he was light-headed at the time. Had he been
in hia right seniles , 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, mj dear
Fanny; he only requested me, in general t^rma, to assist
them, and malLc their situation more comfortable than it was
in his power to do. Perhaps it would have been as well if he
bad left it wholly to myself* He couM hardly suppose I
should neglect them. But as be required the promise, 1 could
not do less than give it: at least I thought so at the time. The
promise, therefore, was given, and must be performed* Some-
thing must be done for them whenever they leave Norland
and settle in a new home/'
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 7
''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 ever be restored to our poor
little boy "
" Why, to be sure ," said her husband , very gravely, "that
would make a great difference. The time may come when
Harry will regret that so large a sum was parted with. If he
should have a numerous family, for instance, it would be a
very convenient addition."
"To be sure it would."
"Perhaps, then, it would be better for all parties , if the
sum were diminished one half. Five hundred pounds would
be a prodigious increase to their fortunes ! "
"Oh! beyond any thing great! What brother on earth
would do half so much for his sisters , even if really his sisters !
And as it is — only half blood I — But you have such a geper-
ous spirit!"
"1 would not wish to do anything mean," he replied.
"One had rather, on such occasions, do too much than too
little. No one, at l6ast, can think I have not done enough for
them: even themselves, they can hardly expect more."
"There is no knowing what they may expect," said the
lady, "but we are not to think of their expectations: the
question is, what you can afford to do."
"Certainly; and I think I may afford to give them five
hundred pounds apiece. As it is, without any addition of
mine, they will each have above three thousand pounds on
their mother's death — a very comfortable fortune for any
young woman."
"To be sure it is ; and , indeed , it strikes me that they can
want no addition at all. They will have ten thousand pounds
divided amongst them. If they marry, they will be sure of
doing well, and if they do not, they may all live very comfort-
ably together on the interest often thousand pounds."
" That is very true, and, therefore, I do not know whether,
S BEKSE ANTi REKSrBELITT.
upon the wholes it would not be more adyissbbk to do some-
thiELg for their mother while she lives ^ rather than for them —
sometliing of the annuity kind I mean. My sisters would feel
the good effects of it as well as hefself, A hundred a year
wouldmakethemallperfectly comfortable , "
Hifi wife liesitated a little , however, in giving her eonaent
to this plan.
"To be sure," aaid she, "it is better than parting with
fifteen hundred pounds at once. Butj then, if Mrs. Dash wood
should live fifteen years, we shall be completely t^iken in*"
"Fifteen years J my dear Fanny; her life cannot be worth
half that purchase."
** Certainly not; bnt if you observe , people always live for
ever when there is any annuity to be paid them; and she is
verystont and healthy , aud hard!y forty. An annuity Js a
very serious business^ it comes over and over every year, and
there is no getting rid of it. You axe 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 auperannuated sei'vanta by my father's will, and
it is amazing how disagreeable she found it. Twice evetj
year these aimuitiea were to be paid i 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 aaid, with &uch perpetual claims on it; and it was the more
unkind in my father, because, otherwise j the money would
have been entirely at ]my mother*s disposal, without any re-
st^ction whatever. It has given me auch an abhorrence of
ajmnitiea , that I am sure I would not pin myself down to the
payment of one for all tlie world/'
"It is certainly an unpleasant thing/' replied Mr. Dash-
wood, "to have Oiose kind of yearly drains on one's income.
One*B fortune, as your mother ju&tly 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
jBdependence."
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 9
'^Undoubtedlj; and, after all, you have no thanks for it*
Thej 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 fifky 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 cer-
tainly be much the best way. A present of fifty pounds , now
and tiien , 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 con-
vinced 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 send-
ing them presents of fish and game, and so forth, whenever
they are in season. 1*11 lay my life that he meant nothing
fartiber ; indeed, it would be very strange and unreasonable ^
he did. Do but consider, my dear Mr. Dashwood, how exces-
sively 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 wUl
pay their mother for their board out of it. Altogether, they
wiU have five hundred a year amongst them, and what on
earth can four women want for more than that? — They will
live so cheap ! Their house-keeping will be nothing at all.
They will have no carriage, no horses, and hardly any ser-
vants ; they wiU keep no company , and can have no expenses
10 SENSE Ain) SENSIBILITY.
of any kind I Only conceive how comfortable they will be f
Five hundred a year I I am sure I cannot imagine how they
will apend half of it \ and aa to your giving them more ^ it ia
quite absurd to think of it. They will be much more able to
give^&u iomething."
** Upon my word," said Mr. Dash wood, "I believe you are
perfectly right. My father certainly could mean nothing
more by his request to me than what you say. I clearly under-
stand it now, and I will strictly fulfil my engagement by such
acta of assifltance and kindness to them as you have described.
When my mother removes into another house my services
shall be readily given to accommodate lier as far aa I can.
Some little present of fiirniture too may be acceptable then/'
^'Certainly," returned Mrs, John Dashwood. "But, how*
ever, ime thing must be considered. When your father and
mother moved to Norland , though the furniture of Stanbill
was sold, all the china^ plate, and linen was saved, and is now
left to your mother. Her house will therefore be almost com-
pletely fitted up as soon as she takes it."
** That is a material consideration undoubtedly, A valu-
able legacy indeed f And yet some of the plate would have
been a very pleasant addition to our own stock here.*^
*' Yes \ and the act of breakfast china is twice aa handsome
aa 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 ihem.
And 1 must say this , that you owe no particular gratitude to
him, nor attention to his wiBhea ■ for we very well know that if
he could , he would have left almoat eveiy thing in the world
to them.'*
This argument was irresistible. It gave to his intentions
whatever of decision was wanting before; and he finally re-
solved , that it would be absolutely unnecessary, if not highly
indecorous, to do more for the widow *ud children of his
father than such kind of neighbourly acts aa hia own wife
pointed out.
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 11
CHAPTER III.
Mbs. Dabhwood 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 pro-
duced 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 enquiries
for a suitable dwelling in the neighbourhood of Norland; for
to remove far from that beloved spot was impossible. But she
eould 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 ap-
proved.
Mrs. Dashwood had been informed by her husband of the
Bolenm promise on the part of his son in their favour, which
gave comfort to his last earthly reflections. She doubted the
nncerity of this assurance no more than he had doubted it
himself, and she thought of it for her daughters* sake with
Batisfaction, though as for herself she was persuaded that a
much smaller provision than 7000/. would support her in
affluence. For their brother's sake, too, for the sake of his
own heart, she rejoiced; and she reproached herself for being
unjust to his merit before, in believing him incapable of
generosity. His attentive behaviour to herself and his sisters
convinced her that their welfare was dear to him, and, for a
long time, she firmly relied on the liberality of his intentions.
The contempt which she had, very early in their acquaint-
ance , 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 impos-
IS SENSE AKD SlSKSTRILrTT,
iible to bave lived together so long, bad not a particular cbr-
eum stance occuired to give etill greater eligibility, according
to the opinions of Mrs, Dash^ood, to her duughters' contimi-
ance at Norland.
This circumstance was a growing att^ichment between her
eldest girl and the brother of Mra. John Daehwood , a gen-
tleraanhke and pleasing yoTJtng man , who was introdnced to
their acquaintance soon after his sister^s establishment at
Norland, and who had Hince spent the greatest part of his
time there.
Some mothers might have encoiiraged the intimaey 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 uninflnenced by cither considera-
tion. It was enongix for her that be appeared to be amiable,
that he loved her daughter, and that Elinor retunied the
partiality. It was contrary to every doctrine of hers that
difference of fortune should keep any couple asunder who
were attracted by resemblance of disposition ; and that Eli-
nor's merit should not be acknowledged by every one who
knew her was to her comprehension impossible-
Edward FeiTftrs 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 hia natural shyness wa« overcome, his
^^K behaviour gave every indication of an open, aflectionate
^^f hearts His understanding was good , and his education had
W given it solid improvement. But be was neither fitted by abj-
I lities nor disposition to answer the wishes of his mother and
I sister, who longed to see him distinguished ^ as — they
■ hardly knew what. They wanted him to make a fine figure
I in the world in some manner or other. His mother wished to
I interest him in political concerns, to get him into parliament,
■ or to see him connected with some of the great men of the day*
SBNSE AND SENSIBILITY. 13
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 be-
fore he engaged much of Mrs. Dashwood^s attention; for she
was, at that time, in such affliction as rendered her careless of
suzrounding objects. She saw only that he was quiet and un-
obtrusive, 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 recom-
mended him most forcibly to her mother.
"It is enough,'' said she; "to say that he is unlike Fanny
is enough. It implies every thing amiable. I love him al-
ready."
" I think you will like him ," said Elinor , " when you know
more of him."
" Like him ! " replied her mother with a smile. " I can feel
no 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 per-
suasion of his regard for Elinor perhaps assisted her penetra-
tion; 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 be-
14 SENSE Al!fB gENBlBILITY.
baviour to Eliaor than she consideTed their seriauB attach-
raent as certain, and looked forward to their marriage as
rapidly approaching.
" In a few months , mj dear Marianne/* &aid she, "Elinor
will, in all probah ill tj, be settled for life. We eliall miae her ;
but she will be happy,"
" Ohj mamma, Low shall we do without her?*'
'^My love, it will he Bcarcely a separation. We shall Uve
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 eister'fi choice? '*
** Perhaps ," said Marianne , "I may consider it with Bome
surprise. Edward is very amiable, and I love him tenderly. But
yet — he is not the kind of young man — there ia a eomethiug
wanting — bia figure is not Btrikiug; it has uone of that grace
which I should expect in the man who could seriously attach
my HiBter. His eyes want all that spirit, that fire, which at
once announce virtue and intelligence. And besides all this,
I am afraid, manima, he has no real taste. Music seema
ecarcely to attract him; and, thougli he admires £linor*8
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 tiie matter. He admirea a& a lover, not as a
connoiBseur. IJlO 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 bothj
Ob , mamma, how spiritless, how tame was Edward^s mann^
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 tny seat. To hear those
beautiful lines which have freqfuently almost driven me wild
pronounced with such impenetrabie calmness, such dreadful
indifference I "
SEKSB AND SENSIBILITY. 15
"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 broken my heart, had I loved
him , to hear him read with so little sensibility. Mamma , the
morel know of the world the more am 1 convinced that I shall
never see a man whom I can really love. I require so much !
He most have all Edward's virtues, and his person and man-
ners mufit 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 cir-
cumstance only, my Marianne, may your destiny be different
from hers!"
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 hie 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
sabject; 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
16 SBNSE A^no SEKsran^iTT,
alone be called taste. Yet, though smiliDg withiu Lerself
the mistake , she honoured her sister for that blmd partiah
to Edward which produced it,
"I hope, Marianne," continued Elinor, ^*yoa do not con-
sider hini as deficient in general taste. Indeed, I think 1 may
say that you cannot, for your behaviour to him is perfectly
cordial, and if thai were your opinion, I am sure you could
never be civU to him."
Marianne hardly knew what to eay. She would not
wound the feelings of her sister on any account, and yet to
say what she did not believe was impOBsiblc, At length she
replied, —
** Do not he offended , Elinor ^ if my praise of him is not in
every thing equal to yonr sense of his merits, 1 have not had
so many oppoi-tunities of estimating the minuter propensities
of his mind , his inehnations and tastes , as yon have ; but 1
Iiave 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. 1 do not perceive how you could eicpress youi'self more
warmly."
Marianne was rejoiced to find her lister so easily pleased.
"Of his sense and his goodneaa," continued Elinor, "no
one can , I think, be in doubt, who has seen him often enough
to engage him in unreserved conversation. The eicelleuce
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 justiee to hia solid worth. But of Uis
minuter propensities, as you call them,youhave, from peculiar
circmustaaces ^ 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 tbe whole, 1 venture to pro-
nounce that his mind is well-informed, his ei^oynient of books
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 17
exceedingly great, his imagination lively, bis 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 hand-
some ; 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 £dward 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 agree-
able to her. She knew that what Marianne and her mother
eonjectured 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
tiiose 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
Sense and SensibUUy. 2



IB BEXSE AND BJi;i?81BILITTp
my own partiality, by believing or calling it more than it ia.
Iii my heart I feel little— scarcely any doubt of his preference.
But there are other points to be eonsidered besides his incli-
nation. He 13 very far from being independent. What bia
mother really m we cannot know; but, from Fanny's occasio a al
mention of her conduct and opinions, we have never been
disposed to think her amiable ; and £ am very much mistaken
if Edward is not himself aware that there would be many dif-
iiculties in his way , if he were to wish to marry a woman who
had not either a gi'eat fortune or high rank/^
Marianne was aatoniihed to find how much the imagina-
tion of her mother and herself had outstripped the truth.
"And you really are not engaged to him I " said she. " Yet
it certainly soon will happen. But two advantages will pro-
ceed from this delay, /shall not lose you so EOon, and Edward
will have greater opportuii Sty of improving that natural taste
for your favourite pursuit which must be so indispensably
necessary to your future felicity* Oh I if he should be so far
sthnulated by your genius as to learn to draw himself, how
delightful it would he !"
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
apu'its about him which , if it did not denote inditlerence,
spoke a something almost as unpromising, A doubt of her
regard, supposing him to feel it , need not give him more than
inquietude. It would not be likely to produce that dejection
of mind which frequently attended him. A more reasonable
cause might be found in the depeudeni situation which forbad
the indulgence of his alfectioa. 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 fomt
a home for himself, without strictly attending to her views for
his aggrandisement. With such a knowledge as this , it was
impossible for Elinor to feel easy on the subject. She was
far from depending on that result of his preference of bar,
which her mother and sister still considered as certaiu^ ^^Jj
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. l9
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 afironting her mother-in-law
on fJie 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 Mm in, that Mrs. Dash-
wood could neither pretend to be unconscious , nor endeavour
to be calm. She gave her an answer which marked her con-
tempt, 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
inch insinuations.
In this state of her 8pirits,a letter was delivered to her from
the post, which contained a proposal particularly well timed.
It was the oflfer of a small house, on very easy terms, belong-
iog to a relation of her own, a gentleman of consequence and
{iroperty in Devonshire. The letter was from this gentleman
I limself, and written in the true spirit of friendly accommoda-
tion. Heunderstoodthatshe was in need of a dwelling; and
though the house he now offered her was merely a cottage,
be assured her that every thing should be done to it which she
night think necessary, if the situation pleased her. He
earnestly pressed her, after giving the particulars of the
bouse and garden, to come with her daughters to Barton
Park, the place of his own residence, from whence she might
jadge, herself, whether Barton Cottage, for the houses were
in the same parish, could, by any alteration, be made com-
fortable to her. He seemed really anxious to accommodate
tiiem; and the whole of his letter was written in so friendly
« style as could not fail of giving pleasure to his cousin; more
especially at a moment when she was suffering under the cold
and nnfeelii)g behaviour of her nearer connections. She
9«
20 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
needed no time for deliberation or enquiry. Her reaolutio]
waa formed aa she read. The si taut ion of Barton, in a county
HO far distant from Sua Bex as Devon shire j which, but a few
houra before, would have been a sufficient objection to out-
weigh every possible advantage belonging to the place, waa
now its first recommendation* To quit the neighbourhood
of Norland was no longer an evil ; it was an object of de-
sire ; it was a blessing, in comparison of the misery of con-
tLnujng her dangliter-in-law*s guest: and to remove for ever
from that beloved place would be leas painful than to snliabit
or visit it while sueh a woman was its mistress. She iui
stantly wrote Sir John Middleton her acknowledgment ol
his kindness, and her acceptance of liis proposal i and then
hastened to show both letters to her daughters, that sh^
might be secure of their approbation before her answer wets
Bent.
Elinor had always thought It would be more prudent for
them to settle at some distance from Norland than imme-
diately amongst their present acquaintance. On that bead,
therefore, it was not for her to oppose her motber^s intent! on
of removing into Devonshire. The bonac, too, as deaeiibe^
by Sir John, was on so simple a scale, and the rent so un-
commonly moderate, as to leave her no right of objection on
either point; and, therefore, though it was not a plan whid
brought any charm t^ her fancy, though it was a remova
from the vicinity of Norland beyond her wishes, she madi
no attempt to diasuade her mother &om sending a letter o
acquiescence.
CHAPTER V.
No sooner was bar answer despatched, than Mrs. Dash«
wood indulged herself in the pleasure of announcing to hei
son-in-law and his wife that she was provided with a house,
and should incommode them no longer than till every tbiu|_
were ready for her inhabiting tt. They heard hor with but-
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 21
prise. Mrs. John Dashwood said nothing; but her husband
eivilly hoped that she would not be settled far from Norland.
She had great satisfaction in replying that she was going into
DeYonshire. — Edward turned hastily towards her, on hear-
ing this, and, in a voice of surprise and concern, which re-
quired no explanation to her, repeated, '< Devonshire I Are
70a, indeed, going there? So far &om hence ! and to what
part of it?" She explaimed 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
tdded; and if my friends find no difficulty in travelling so
Ur 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
gaye one with still greater affection. Though her late con-
versation 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 ser-
vice to her in removing her furniture. He really felt con-
scientiously 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 round by water. It chiefly con-
listed of household linen, plate, china, and books, with a
handsome piano-forte of Marianne's. Mrs. John Dashwood
law the packages depart with a sigh : she could not help feel-
ing it hard that, as Mrs. Dash wood's income would be so
3S SE^SE AND BFJNBJBILITT.
tdflitig In cf>iripan8on with their o^v^^ she fihouM hn\e n.ny
handsome article of famiturep
Mrs, D&Bhwood took the house for a twelvemonth | it wsm
ready fuTnished^ s.nd she might have immediate poaaesfllon*
Ko 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 aet off for the
west^ and this, as she was exceedingly rapid in the per*
formance of every thing that interested her^ was soon done. —
The horses which were left her by her husband had been sold
Boon after hie 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 ejrtablish-
ment 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 visiter at Barton Park ; and she relied so undoubt-
ingly on Sir John's description of the house , as to feel no
curiosity to examine it heraelf tlLl 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 in-
vitation to her to defer her departure. Now was the time
when her son-in-law^s promise to his father might with
particular propriety he fulHUed. Since he had neglected to
do it oa first coming to the estate, their quitting his house
might be looked on as the most suitable period for its accom-
plishmeat. But Mrs. Dasliwood hegaUf shortly, to give over
every hope of the kind, and to be convinced, from the general
BENBE AND SEM8IBILITT. 23
drift of his discooTBe, that his assistance extended no farther
than their maintenance for six months at Norland. He so
freqaently talked of the increasing expenses of housekeep-
ing, and of the perpetaal demands upon his purse, which a
man of any consequence in the world was beyond calcula-
ti<m 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
Ifiddleton's first letter to Norland, every thing was so far
settled in their future abode as to enable Mrs. Dashwood and
her dan^ters to begin their journey.
liany 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 I — when learn to feel a home elsewhere! — Oh!
happy house, could you know what I suffer in now viewing
yon 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 re-
moved, 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.
Thb first part of their journey was performed in too me-
lancholy a disposition to be otherwise than tedious and un-
pleasant. But as they drew towards the end of it their inter-
est in tiie appearance of a country which they were to inhabit
overcame flieir 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
M BEKBl AND SEH&IBILITT.
along it for more than a mile, thej reached tlieir own house.
A small green court was the w^hole of its demefltie in front ^
and a neat wieket gate admitted them into it.
Aft a hoQBe, Barton Cottage, though emalii was comfort-
ahle and compact; but as a cottage it was defective, for the
building wafi regular, the roof was tiled, the window shut-
ters were not painted green, nor were the walla covered with
honeysuckles. A narrow passage led directly through the
house into the garden behind. On each side of the eutnuiee
was a sitting room, about sixteen feet square; and beyond
them were the oiHces and the stairs. Four bed-rooms and
two garrets formed the rest of the house* It had not been
buUt many years, and was in good repair. In companion
of Norhiud, it was poor and small indeed 1 — but the teara
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
Dthera resolved to appear happy. It was very early in Septem-
ber; the season wm fine; and from first seeing the place
under the advantage of good weather, they received an im*
pressiou In its favour which was of material service in recom-
mending 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 chJefiy on one of these
liilJs, 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 comitry beyond.
The hilis which smTOunded the cottage terminated the valley
m that directiou; under another namci and in another
course, it branched out again between two of the steepest of
them.
With the size aud fmmiture of the house Mrs. Dash wood
was upon the whole well satisfied; for though her former
style of life rendered many additions to the latter ijidis-
pensahle, yet to add and improve was a delight to her; and
*
i
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 25
she had at lliis 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
familj, but we will make ourselves tolerably comfortable for
the present, as it is too late in the year for improvements.
Periiaps in the spring, if I have plenty of money, as I dare
say I shall, we may think about building. These parlours
are both too small for such parties of our friends as I hope to
see often collected here ; and I have some thoughts of throw-
ing the passage into one of them, with perhaps a part of the
other, and so leave the remainder of that other for an en-
trance ; 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 hand-
some. But one must not expect every thing; though I sup-
pose 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 endeavour-
ing, by placing around them their books and other pos-
sessions, to form themselves a home. Marianne's piano-forte
was unpacked and properly disposed of; and Elinor's draw-
ings 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 land-
lord, who called to welcome them to Barton, and to offer
them every accommodation from his own house and garden
m which theirs might at present be deficient. Sir John
mddleton was a good looking man about forty. He had
formerly visited at Stanhill, but it was too long ago for his
young cousins to remember him. His countenance was
thoroughly good-humoured; and His manners were as
friendly as the style of his letter. Their arrival seemed to
9l% SENSE AXD SENStBILITT.
A^ord him real satiafaction , and their comfort to be an object
of real solicitude to hirn. He said much of his earnest desire
of their living in the most sociable terms with his family, and
pres&ed them so cordially to dine at Barton Park eveiy day
till they were better settled at home, that, though h'm
entreaties were carried to a point of perseverance beyond
civiUt}% they could not give offence. His kindness was not
confined to words j for within an hour after he left thetn, a
large basket full of garden stufi' and fruit arrived from the
park , which was followed before the end of the day by a pre-
sent of game. He insisted, moreover^ on conveying all their
letters to and from the post for them, and would not he
denied the satisfaetiou of sending them his newspaper every
day.
Lady Middleton had sent a very civil message by him,
denotitig her intention of waiting on Mrs. Daahwood as soon
&s she could he assured that her visit would be no incon-
venience; and aa this message was answered by an invita-
tion etjually polite , her ladyship was introduced to them the
next day.
They were , of course , very anxious to see a person on
whom so much of their comfort at Barton must depend; and
the elegance of her appearance was favourable to their
wishes* Lady Middleton was not more than six or seven and
twenty ; her face was handsome , her figure tall and striking,
and her address graceful Her manners had all the elegance
which her hushand^s wanted. But they would have been im-
proved by some share of his frankness and warmth \ and her
visit was long enough to detract something from their first ad*
miration, by showing that, though perfectly well bred, she
was reserved, cold, and had nothing to say for hen^elf beyond
the most common-place enquiry or remark.
Conversation , however, was not wanted, for Hir John was
very chatty j and Lady Middleton had taken the wise pre-
caution of bringing with her their eldest child, a fine little boy
about six years old i by which means there was one subject
always to be recurred to by the ladies in case of extremity.
1
I
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 27
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.
Babton Pabk 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 tiie 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, imconnected with such as society produced,
wi&in 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 resourses.
Lady Middleton had the advantage of being able to spoil her
children all the year round, while Sir John's independent
28 SENSE AND SENSTBrLITT,
Continual M
I
employraenta were in existence only half tlie time, ContinuaT
engagenienta at home and abroad] however | supplied M
the good Bpirite of Sir Johu, and gave exerciBe to the good
breed hig of his wife.
Lady Mid die ton piqued herself upon the elegance of her
table, and of all her domestic airangementB^ and from this
kind of vanity was her greatest enjoyment In tiny of their
parties. But Sii* John's satis faction in society was mneh
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 tbe
juvenile part of the neighbourhood; for in summer he was for
ever forming parties to eat eold hotn and chicken out of doors,
and in winter his private balls were numerous enough for
any young lady who was not suffering under the unsatiable
appetite of fifteen.
The arrival of a new family in the country was always
a matter of joy to him ; and in every point of view he was
charmed with the inhabitants he had now procured for his
cottage at Barton, The Mies Dashwoods were young, pretty,
and unafieeted. It was enough to secure his good opinion ;
for to be unaffected was all that a pretty girl could waiit to
make her mind as captivating as her persoa. 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 hia couBinfi,
therefore , he had the real satisfaction of a good he ail; 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 sejtwhoare gportsniea likewise ^ ie
not often desirous of encouraging their t4iste by admitting
them to a residence within his own manor.
Mrs. Dash wood and her daughters were met at the door
of the house by Sir John, who welcomed them to Barton Park
with unaSected 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
J
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 29
unable to get any smart young men to meet them. They
would see , he said , only one gentleman there besides him*
self; a piurticular fViend 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;
bat 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 re-
commend them as companions to the Dashwoods; but the
r
80 SHKSE AND SEHaiBILlTy.
rlj repul' I
cold iniipidity of Lady Middleton wan so particularly \
flive , that in comparison of it the gravity of Colonel Brandon,
and even the boiBteroua mirth of Sir John and hii mother-in-
law, was intereBtiijg. Lady Middleton seemed to be roused
to enjoyment only by the entrance of her four noisy children
after dinner, who pulled her ahout, tore her clothes , and
put an end to every kind of discourse except what related to
themselves.
In the evening, as Marianne waa discovered to be musi-
cal, she was invited to play* The instrument was unloeked,
every body prepared to he charmed, and Marianne, who sang
very well, at their request went through the chief of the songs
which Lady iMiddleton had brought Into the family on her
marriage^ and which, perhaps^ had lain ever since in the saiae
position on the piano-forte ; for her ladyship had celebrated
that event by giving up music, although j by her mothers
account, she had played extremely well, and by her own
was very fond of it.
Marl anne's perform ance was highly applaude d . Sir John
was loud in his admiration at the end of every aong, and as
loud ui hia conversation with the others while every song
lasted* Lady Middleton frequently called him to order,
wondered how any one^s attention conld be diverted from
music for a moment, and asked Marijuine 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 Mm 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 ecst^itic
delight which alone could sympathise with her own, was
estimable when contrasted against the homble insensibility
of the othei*s; and she was reasonable enough to allow that a
man of five- and -thirty might well have outlived all acute n ess
of feeling J and ^Yiiry exquisite power of enjoyment. She
was perfectly disposed to make every allowance for the
coloners advanced state of life which humanity required.
SENSE AND SENSIBILITr. 31
CHAPTER VIIL
Mrs. jENNiNas 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 Dash-
wood. 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. I 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
smce her connection with Sir John first brought him to her
knowledge , and she was always anxious to get a good hus-
band for every pretty girl.
The immediate advantage to herself was by no means in-
considerable , 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 in-
di£ferent; 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 i1» impertinence ;
for she considered it as an unfeeling reflection on the co-
32 SEJSSE AKD SBNSIULLITY.
1
loneVs advanced years , and on hia forlorn condition as an old
bachelor.
Mrs. Dash wood, who could not think a man five jeara
younger thau herself so exceedingly ancient as he appeared
to the yoathfiil fancy of her daughter ^ ventured to clear Mrs.
Jennings from the probability of wishiDg to throw ridicule on
his age.
*' But at least, mamma , you cannot deny the absurdity of
the aceusation , though you may not think it intentionally ill-
natured. Colonel Brandon is certainly younger than Mrs.
Jcnuings, hut 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 I When ia a —
man to be safe from such witj if age and infirmity will not m
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 decHning life? "
"My dearest child," said her mother, laughing, **at this
rate you must be in continual terror of m^ 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 fipprehensive of losing hitn in the course of nature* He
may live twenty years longer. But thirty-five has nothing ta
do with matrimony."
"Perhaps," said Elinor, "thirty-five and seventeen had
better not have any thing to do with matrimony together,
But if tlv'Te 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 manjing
Aei*."
"A woman of seven-and-twentyj" said Marianne, after
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 33
pausing a moment, "can never hope to feel or inspire affec-
tion again , and if her home be uncomfortable , or her fortune
small, I can suppose that she might briug 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 con-
venience , and Ihe world would be satisfied. In my eyes it
would be no marriage at all, but that would be notMng. 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 any thing 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 con-
finement of a sick chamber, merely because he chanced to
eomplain yesterday (a very cold damp day) of a slight
rheumatic feel in one of iiis 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 ail-
ment 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
jet he does not come. Nothing but real indisposition could
occasion this extraordinary delay. What else can detain
lorn at Norland?"
"Had you any idea of his coming so soon?** said Mrs.
Daahwood. "7 had none. On the contrary, if I have felt any
anxiety at all on the subject, it has been in recollecting that
be sometimes showed a want of plesisure and readiness in ac-
Sense and Sensibility. o
3i mi^B3 AHB SMNSmiLITY.
ceptmg m J inyitation , wben I talked of hie coming to Bafton.
Does Elinor expect liim already?*^
*^I have never mentioned it to her, but of courae 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 tio immediate hurry for
it, a» it was not likely that the room would be wanted for
some time."
"How strange this is I what can be the meaning of itl
But the whole of their behaviour to each other has been un-
accountable! How cold^ how composed were their last
adieus I How languid their conversation the last evening of
their being together! In Edward's farewell there was no dis-
tinction between Elinor and me: it was the good wishes of an
affectionate brother to bothi, ^^wice did I leave them pur-
posely together in the coui'se 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 ia invariable. When is
she dejected or melancholy? WLen does she try to avoid
society, or appear restless and dissatisfied in it?"
CHAPTER IX.
Tas 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 witlj far greater enjoyment
than Norland had been able to afford since the loss of their
father* Sir John Middleton, who called on them everyday
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 Tislters, except thosp from Barton Park ^ were aol
I
I
1
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 36
many; for, in spite of Sir John's urgent entreaties that they
would mix more in the neighbourhood, and repeated as-
surances of his carriage being always at their service, the in-
dependence of Mrs. Dashwood*8 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 &om 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 en-
quiry, that its possessor, an elderly lady of very good char-
acter, 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 con-
finement which the settled rain of the two preceding days had
occasioned. The weather was not tempting enough to draw
die 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 sensa-
tions.
6$ SENSE AND FEASIBILITY.
"Ib there a felicity in the world/* said Marianne, *' su-
perior to this? — Margaret, we will walk here at least two
hours."
Margaret agreed ^ and they pursued their way against the
wind J resisting it witli laughing delig)it for about twenty
minutes longer, wheii 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 houHe, One
conaolation, 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 iirat the advantage , but
a false step brought her suddenly to the ground j and Mar-
garet, unable to stop herself to assist her, was involuntarily
hurried along, and reached the bottom in safety.






A gentleman carrying a gun , with two pointers playbg
round him, was paniing 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 iu the fall , and she
was scarce ly able to stand. The gentleman offered hie ser-
vices; 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 Mar-
garet 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 amaisemeat at their
entrance; and while the eyes of both were fi^ed on hkn witli
an evident wonder and a secret admiration which equally
sprung from his appearance, he apologised for his intrusiou,
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
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 37
been even old, ugly, and vulgar, the gratitude and kindness
of Mrs. Dashwood would have been secured by any act of at-
tention to her child; but the influence of youtii, 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 to-morrow to enquire after Miss Dash-
wood. The honour was readily granted, and he then de-
parted, 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 her-
self 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 be-
longing 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
38 SENSE AND SEKSTBILTTT,
asked whether he knew anj gentleman of the name of
Willoughby at Allenhara,
^^Willoughby!" cried Sir John; **what^ is he in the
country? That ii good news however; I will ride over to-
morrow j and ask him to dinner on ThuTBday."
"You know him ^ then,*' said Mre. Dashwood.
'^ Know bim 1 to be sure I do. Why, he ib down here every
year,"
^■^And what iort of a young man is he?"
'^Ab good a kind of fellow as ever lived, I asBiire you.
A very decent shot, and there is not a bolder rider in Eng-
land."
^*And is that all yon 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 ray soul/' said he, ^*I do not know much about
him as to all that. But he is a pleasant^ good-hmnoured fellow,
and haa got the nicest little black bitch of a pointer I ever
taw. Was she out with him to-day?"
But Marianne could no more satisfy him as to the coloiu" of
Mr. Willonghby's pointer, than he could describe to her the
shades of hi i 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 intelli-
gence; and he told them that Mr, Willoughby had no property
of his own in the country; that he resided there only while be
was visiting the old lady at Allenham Court, to whom he was
related, and whose poBscssions he was to inherit; adding,
"Yea, yes, he is very well worth catching, I can tell you,
Miss Dashwood; he has a pret^ little estate of his own, in
Somersetshire besides; and if I were yout 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 j ealous , if she does not take
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 39
"I do not believe," said Mrs. Dashwood, with a good-
humonred smile, "that Mr. Willoughby will be incommoded
hj 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, sifl 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."
"Ay, ay, 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 commonplace
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 o^er. 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."
SENSE AND SKKSIBILITY.
CHAPTER X.
Mabianne'b preserver, as Margaret, with more elegance
than preciflion, styled Willoughbj, called at the cottage early
the uait momingf to make his personal enqiiirieB, Re was
received by Mrs. Dash wood with more than politeness; with
a kindness which Sir John's account of him and her own grati-
tude 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 eharms he had not
required a second interview to be convinced.
Miss Dash wood had a delicate complexion, regular fea-
tures, and a remarkably pretty figure. Marianne was still
handsomer. Her form, though not so correct as her sistcr^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 compleiion was uncommonly
brilliant 5 her features were all good; her smile was sweet
and attractive; and in her eyes , which were very dark , there
was a life, a spirit, an eagerness, which could hardly be seen
without delight. From Willoughby their expression wae at
first held back, by the em baiTassment which the remembrance
of his assistance created. But when this pasted 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 ah6 had neither shyness nor re^
SENSE AND SENSIBILITTf. 41
serve 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 farther examina-
tion of his opinions, she proceeded to question him on the sub-
ject 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 idolised by
each; or if any difference appeared, any objection arose, it
lasted no longer than till the force of her arguments and the
brightness ofher 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 Co wper 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 , spirit-
less, 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."
4S SENSE AND SEKSTBrLITT*
"My love J " said her mother j '^^jou must not be offended
with Elinor — she was only in jest. I should seold her myself,
if she were capable of wiahing to check the delight of your
conversation with our new friend-" Marianne was softened in
a moment.
Willoughby, on his aide, gave every proof of hia pleasure
in their acquaintance, which mi evident wish of improving it
could offer. He came to them every day. To enquire after
Marianne was at first his excuse \ hut the encouragement of
his reception, to which every day gave greater kindnesa, made
such an excuse unnecessary before it had ceased to be pos-
sible, 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 , hnt
a natural ardour of mind which was uow roused and increased
by the example of her own , and which recommended him to*
her affection beyond every thing else,
Hifl society became gradually her most exquisite enjoy-
ment* They read, they talked, they sang together; hia musical
talents were considerable ; and he read with all the sensibility
and spirit which Edward had unfortunately wanted.
In Mrs^ Dash wood's estimation he was as faultless as in
Marianne's; and Elinor saw nothing to censure in him hut
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 Efinor could not approve, in spite of all that he
and Mai'ianue could say in its support,
Marianne began now to perceive that the desperation
which had seized her at sixteen and a half , of eveir seeing a
I
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 43
nan who could satisfy her ideas of perfection, had been rash
ind trnjustifiable. Willoughby was all that her fancy had
lelineated in that unhappy hour, and in every brighter period,
is capable of attaching her; and his behaviour declared his
Irishes to be in that respect as earnest as his abilities were
(trong.
Her mother, too, in whose mind not one speculative
diought 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
Buch sons-in-law as Edward and Willoughby.
Colonel Brandon's partiality for Marianne , which had so
early been discovered by his £riends, now first became per-
ceptible 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 sensibiHty.
£linor was obliged, though imwillingly, 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 hinderance to
the regard of Colonel Brandon. She saw it with concern ; for
what could a silent man of five-and-thirty hope, when opposed
by a very lively one of five-and- twenty ? and as she 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
bjuries 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
1
ill
44 SENS^ AND SENSIBILITY,
was eligbted by Willoughby andMariatine, who, prejudice!
against him for being neither lively nor young, seemed re
solved to undervalue hiB merits.
"Brandon is juet the kind of man," said Willougbby oi
day, when they were talking of him together, ^^whom eve:
body speaks well of, and nobody cares jibont; whom all aij
delighted to see, and nobody remcmbera to t^ilk to/*
** That is exactly what I think of him," cried Marianne. [
"Do not boast of it, however," said Elinor, ^^foritisiu
justice in both of you* He is highly esteemed by all th
family at the Park, and 1 never see him myself without takinj
pains to converse with him."
" That he is patronised by yon ," replied Willoughby , *^ i
certainly in his favour ; but as for the esteem of the others, i
is a reproach in itself. Wlio wonld submit to the indignity o
being approved by such women as Lady Middle ton and Mr«
Jennings, that could command the indi£Ference of any bod
else?" ■ «
^*But perhaps the abuse of snch people as yourself ani
Marianne will make amends for the regard of Lady Middteto
and her mother. If their praise is censure , yonr censure ma;
be praise, for they are not more undisceniiug, than you ar
prejudiced and unjust." j
" In defence of your protege yon can even be saucy*"
^^My proMge'j as you call him, is a sensible man ; and sens
will always have attractions for me. Yes, Marianne , even i;
a man between thirty and forty. He has seen a great deal c
the world; has been abroad, has read, and has a thinkin,
mind. I have found him capable of givmg me much w
formation on various subjects; and he has always answer©
my enquiries with the readiness of good breeding and gooj
nature." v
"That is to say," cded Mariaime contemptuously,
has told you, that in the East Indies the climate is hot,
the musquittos are trouble some."
'*He wouid have told me so, I doubt not, had I made
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 45
such enquiries, 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 palan-
quins."
"I may venture to say that Ms observations have stretched
much farther 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 ex-
pression."
"You decide on his imperfections so much in the mass,"
replied Elinor, "and so much on the strength of your own
imagination, tiiat the commendation /am able to give of him
is comparatively cold and insipid. I can only pronoimce him
to be a sensible man, well-bred, well-informed, of gentle
address, and, I believe, possessing an amiable heart."
I " 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 has
threatened me with rain when I wanted it to be fine; he has
found fault with the hanging of my curricle, and I cannot per-
suade him to buy my brown mare. If it will be any satisfac-
tion 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
B<Hne pain, you cannot deny me the privilege of disliking him
as much as ever."
SENBB AND fiEN^IBILITT.
CHAPTEE XL
IjittiiIc Kad Mrs* Dash wood or her daughters imsgiuedp
when they firat came into Devonshire , that ao many eugage-
raents would arise to occupy their time as shortly preaented!
themselves, or that they should have sutib frequent iuvitatiouji
aud such constant visiters as to leave them little leiaui^e for
serious employ meot. Yet such was the case. When Marianne
was recovered^ the schemes of amusement at home and
abroad, winch Sir John had been previously forming, were
put in execution. The private balls at the Park then began ;
and parties on the water were made and accomplished as
often as a showery October would allow. In every meeting
of the kind Willoughby was included ; and the ease and fami-
liarity which naturally attended these parties were exactly
calculated to give increasing intimacy to his acquaintance
with the Dashwooda , to afford him opportunity of witnessing
the excellencies of Marianne, of marking his animated ad-
miration 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. Shs
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 whei'e
no real disgrace could attend unreBerve^ and to aim at the
restraint of sentiments which were not in themsLdves illaud-
able, appeared to her not merely an unnecessary effort, but a
disgraceful subjection of reason to commonplace and mis-
taken notions. Willoughby thought the same; and their be-
haviour, at aU times, was an illustration of their opinions.
When he was present she had no eyes for any one else.
Every thing be did was right. Every thing he said was clever.
If their evenings at the Park were concluded with card&, he
cheated himself and all the rest of the party to get her a good
hand. If dancing formed the amusement of the nighty the/
I
SENSE AJND SEKSIBILITT. 47
were partners for half the time ; and when obliged to separate
for a couple of dances, were carefdl 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 tiieir feelings with a
warmth which left her no inclination for checking this ex-
cessive display of them. To her it was but the natural con-
sequence 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 tiie 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 tiian ever. Neither Lady
Middleton nor Mrs. Jennings could supply to her the con-
versation 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 her
acquaintance, all the particulars of Mr. Jennings's last ill-
ness, 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 al-
46
8EKBE AND gfJN^miliJTr.
ways the same ; &ud thoiigli she did not oppose the parties
nrrauged by her husband, provided every thing were con-
ducted in Btyle i and her two eldest children attended her, she
never appeared to receive more enjoyment frem them than
she might have experieneed in sitting at home; and bo little
did her presence add to the pleasure of the others, by any
share in their con vers atiou, that they were sometimes only
reminded of her being amongst them by her solicitude aboat
Uer troublesome boys*
In Colonel Brandon stlone , of all her new acquaintance,
did Ehnor find a person who could , in any degree, claim the
respect of abilities, excite the interert of friendship , or give
pleasure as a companion. Willoughby was out of tlie ques-
tion. Her admiration and regard , even her sisterly regard,
was all his own; hut he was a lover; his attentions were
wholly Marianne's, and a far less agreeable man might have
been more generally pleasing. Colonel Brandon j unfor-
tunately for himaelf , had no such encouragement to tlimk
only of Marianne, and in conversing with Elinor he found the
greatest consolation for the total indifference of her sister,
Elinor^ B compassion for him inereased , as she bad reason
to suspect that the misery of disappointed love had already
been known to bim. 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 con-
sent, while the others were dancing. His eyes were fixed on
Marianne, and, after a silence of some miuutes, he said^ with
a faints mi ICf ^' Your sister , I under stand ^ does not approve
of second attachments.^^
" No," replied Elinor, " her opinioas are all romantic/*
**0r rather, as 1 believe, she considers tbem impossibla
to exist.''
^^I believe she does- But how she contrives it without
rejecting on the character of her own father ^ who had him-
self two wives J 1 know not. A few years, however^ will settle
her opiniouB on the leaeonable basis of common sense and ab-
i
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. ' 49
servation ; 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 imfortunate
tendency of setting propriety at nought; and a better ac-
quaintance 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 minntisB
of her principles. I only know tiiat I never yet heard her
admit any instance of a second attachment's being {>ardon-
able."
"This," saidiie, "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 ex-
perience. 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 un-
fortunate circumstances " Here he stopt suddenly;
appeared to think that he had said too much, and by his
countenance gave rise to conjectures which might not other-
mse have entered Elinor's head. The lady would probably
Sense and Sensibility. 4
so 3ENBE AND SENSIBILITY.
bave paeeed without auspicion had he not convinced Miai
Daihwood that what concerned her ought not to escape hii
lips. As it was ^ it required but a slight effort of fancy to
connect hiB amotion with the tender recollection of past
regard. Elinor attempted no more. But Marianne , in her
place, would not have done so little. The whole atory would
have been speedily formed under her active imagination^
and every thing established in the most melancholy order of
diflaatrous love.
CHAPTEE XIL
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 MaJpianne^s
imprudence and want of thought, surprised her by its extra-
vagant testimony of botli, Marianne told her, with the
greatest delight, that Willoiighhy had given her a horse , one
that he had bred himself on Ilia 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 iu favour of thifl
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 Id raptures^
^^Heinteada to send his groom into Somersetshire imme-
diately for it," she added, *^ and when it arrives we will ride
every day^ You shall ahare its use with me. Imagine to
yourself, my dear Elinor, the delight of a gallop on some af
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 aome time she refused to submit to them.
As to an additional serv^atit, the e^tpense would be a trifle;
mamtiia she was sure would never object to it^ and any horse
1
I
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. /^ 51
B would do for Aim ; 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 pre-
sent from a man so little , or at least so lately, known to her.
This was too much.
''Ton are mistaken, Elinor," said she, warmly, "in sup-
posing 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 your-
self and mamma. It is not time or opportunity that is to de-
termine 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 Jolm
I know very little , though we have lived together for years ;
bat 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 dis-
appointment 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
farther entreaty on his side impossible. His concern, how-
ever, was very apparent; and after expressing it with earnest-
ness, he added, in the same low voice, "But, Marianne, the
horse is still yours, though you cannot use it now. I shall
keep it only llll you can claim it. When you leave Barton to
52
SEHSE AMJ> SEKBIBILIT7.
form your own efltabli&hment in a more lasting Lome, Quel
Mab shall receive you,^^
This waB all overlieard by Miss Daahwood; and in ti
whole of the sentence, in his manner of pronouncing it, and ;
hie addressing her aiater by her Christian name alone, d
instantly aaw an intimacy bo decided, a meaning so direct, \
marked a perfect agreement between them. From that nn
aent she doubted not of their being engaged to each othej
"and the belief of it created no other surprise than that she, \
any of their friends, should be left hj tempers so frank ^
discover it by accident. i
Margaret related somethmg to her the next day , whu
I jjlaced this matter in a atill clearer light. Willougbby h|
Ispent the preceding evening with them; and Margaret, I
"being left some time in the parlour with only him ai
Marianne j had bad opportunity for observations , which , wi
1^ most important face , she communicated to her eldest sistl
Lwhen tbey were next by themselves,
'^ Oh, Elinor! " she cried, *^ I have such a secret to tell y<
about Marianne. I am sure she will be married to Mr. W3
loughby veiy soon J*
'* You have said so,*' replied EUnorj *^ almost every di
sinee they first met on High church Down; and ,tiiey had m
known each other a week , I believe , before you were certai
that Marianne wore his picture round her neck; but it timn
out to be only the miniature of our great uncle,"
^^But indeed this is quite another thing. I am sure tb|
will be married very soon, for he has got a lock of her hair,"'
"Take care , Margaret It may be only the hair of son
great uncle of Aijff*'*
^^ But, indeed , Elinor, it is Marianne's. I am almost siij
it is , for I saw him cut It off. Last night , after tea , when yt
and mamma went out of the room , they were whispering 31
talking together as fast as eon Id be, and he seemed to 1
begging something of her, and presently he took up her sci
sors and cut off a long lock of her hair , for it was all tumble
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 53
down her back ; and he kissed it, and folded it up in a piece of
white paper ; and put it into his pocket-book."
From such particulars, stated on such authority, Elinor
eoold not withhold her credit; nor was she disposed to it, for
&e circumstance was in perfect unison with what she had
keard and seen herself.
Margaret's sagacity was not always displayed in a way so
latisfactory to her sister. When Mrs. Jennings attacked her
one evening at the Park, to give the name of the young man
who was £linor's particidar 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, mayl,
Elinor?"
This of course made every body laugh ; and Elinor tried to
laugh too. But the effort was pain^. She was convinced
tiiat Margaret had fixed on a person whose name she could
not bear with composure to become a standing joke with Mrs.
Jennings.
Marianne felt for her most sincerely; but she did more
harm than good to the cause , by turning very red , and saying
in an angry manner to Margaret, —
"Kemember 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
MiB. 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
■ay."
" No, ihat he is not. He is of no profession at all."
« Margaret," said Marianne, with great warmth, "you
64 SBJiSE ANJ> SENSIBILITY.
know tbul ali tluB ii an iuTentio]! of jotir own , and t bat there
is no such person m existence.**
**Well, then J he is lately dead, MariamieT for I am sure
there was such a coan ODce, and hi£ oame begins with an F."
Most grateful did Elinor feel to Ladj Mid die ton for ob-
serving, at this moment, 'Hhat it rained very hard/' though
she believed tlie interruption to proceed less from any atten-
tion to her, than from her ladyship's great dialike of ail »ncb
likeLegant subjects of raillery as delighted her husband and
motlier. 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 I and asked Marianne to sit down to tt; andthuEs
amidst the various endeavours of different people to quit the
topic it fell to the ground. But not so easily did EUnor
recover from the alarm into which it had thrown her,
A party was formed this evening for going on the follow-
ing day to see a very fine place about twelve miles &om Bar-
ton , belonging to a brother-in-law of Colonel Brandon ^ with-
out whose interest it could not be seen, as the proprietor, who
was then abroad, bad left strict orders on that head. The
grounds were declared to be highly beautiful ; and Sir John,
who was partieularly warm in their praise , might be allowed
to be a tolerable judge, for he had formed parties to visit
tJiem, at least, twice every summer for the last ten years.
They contained a noble piece of water, — a sail on which was
to form a great part of the morning's amusement: cold provi-
sions 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, conaidering the time of year, and that it had
rained every day for the last fortnight; and Mrs, Dash wood,
who had already a cold , was persuaded by Elinor to stay at
home.
i
SSN8E AND BBNBIBILITT. 55
CHAPTER XIIL
Thxzb intended excursion to Whitwell turned out very dif-
ferently from what Elinor had expected. She was prepared
to be wet through, fatigued, and frightened; but the event
was still more unfortunate, for they did not go at all.






By ten o'clock the whole party were assembled at the
Pazky where they were to breakfast. The morning was rather
^Kvonrable , though it had rained all night, as the clouds were
tben dispersing across the sky, and the sun frequently appeared.
They were all in high spirits and goodhiunour, eager to be
happy, and determined to submit to the greatest incon-
veniences 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 tiiie 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
loon 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."
c
56 SENSE AND SENSIBELITV.
" Perhaps it is to tell yon tliat your couBin Fanny is mar-
ried? " BaidMrB. Jennings, without attending to her daughter's
reproof.
*^No, indeed, it is not/'
"Well, then , I know who it is irom j Colonel- And I hope
she is well/'
"Whom do yon 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 to-day, for
it is on hnsineBs which requires my immediate attendance in
town,"
"In town ! " cried Mrs. Jennings. " What can yon 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; bat I am the more concerned,
as I fear my presence is neeessary to gain your admittance at
Whitwell.^^
What a blow upon them all was thiat
"But if you write a note to the housekeeper, Mr. Brandon,"
said Marianne, eagerly, " will it not be sufficient? "
Ha shook his head.
*' We must go," said Sir John. "It shall not be put oft'
when we are so near it. You cannot go to town till to-morrow,
Brandon, that is alL"
"I wish it could be so easily settled. But it is not in mj
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."
"Yon would not be six hours later," said Willonghby, "if
you were to defer your journey till our return,"
"I cannot afford to lose one hour*"
Elinor then heard Willonghby say, in a low voice to
Marianne, ^Hhere are some people who cannot bear a party
of pleasure. Brandon ts one of them. He was afraid of
J
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 57
itching cold, I dare say, and invented this trick for getting
at of it. I would lay fifty guineas the letter was of his own
riting."
"I have no doubt of it," replied Marianne.
"There is no persuading you to change your mind, Bran-
)n, I know of old," said Sir John, "when once you are de-
irmined on any thing. But, however, I hope you will think
stter of it. Consider: here are the two Miss Careys come
rer from Newton, the three Miss Dashwoods walked up from
le cottage, and Mr. Willoughby got up two hours before his
jual time, on purpose to go to Whitwell."
Colonel Brandon again repeated his sorrow at being the
luse of disappointing the party; but at the same time de-
ared 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
it off the party to Whitwell till you return."
"You are very obliging. But it is so imcertain when I
ay have it in my power to return that I dare not engage for
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
m."
"Ay, so do. Sir John," cried Mrs. Jennings, "and then
srhaps you may find out what his business is."
" I do not want to pry into other men's concerns. I suppose
is something he is ashamed of."
Colonel Brandon's horses were announced.
"You do not go to town on horseback, do you?" added
ir John.
" No. Only to Honiton. I shall then go post."
"Well, as you are resolved to go, I wish you a good
•urney. But you had better change your mind."
" I assure you it is not in my power."
He then took leave of the whole party.
58 SE^NfiE AND SE>'SlElLlTy.
** Is there no chance of my eeeJBg you and your Biaters in
town th J s winter, MI bs Daabwood ? "
** I am afraidj none at all."
^* Then 1 must bid you farewell for a longer time than I
should wi&h to do."
To Marianne^ he merely bowed and said nothing.
**Coine^ Colonel T^ eaid Mrs. Jennings, "before you go^
do let us know what you are going about."
He wished her a good morning^ and, attended hy Sir John,
ieft the room.
The complaints and lamentations which politeness had
hitherto reEtraiued 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, howeyer,'^ said Mrs.
Jenaiags exultlngly.
"Can you, ma'am?" said almost every body.
^^ Yes; it is about Mlas Williams, I am sure.*'
'^ And who is Miss WilliamB?" asked Marianne.
"What! do not you know who Miss Williams is? I am
sure yon must have heard of her before. She is a relation of
the ColoneUsj my dear^ a very near relation. We will not
sayhownear, for fearof shoe king theyoungladies-" Tlien,
lowering her voice a little, she said to Elinor, ** She is his na-
tural 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, be joined most heartily in the
general regret on so unfortunate an event; concluding, how-
ever^ by observing, that as they were all got together, they
must do something by way of being happy- and after some
consultation it w^is agreed, that although happiness coutd
only be enjoyed at WhitweiU they might procure a tolerable
composure of mind by driving about the country. The car-
riages were then ordered ; Willoughby's was first, and 5Ia-
rianne oever looked happier than when she got into it. Ho
1
i
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 59
drore through the park rery fast, and they were soon out of
light; and nothing more of them was seen till their return,
rhich did not happen till after the return of all the rest. They
both seemed delighted with their drive; but said only in ge-
neral terms that they had kept in the lanes, while the others
irent 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
mnal 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-
famished it, for it wanted it very much when I was there six
years ago."
Marianne turned away in great confusion. Mrs. Jen-
nings laughed heartily; and Elinor foimd that in her resolu-
tion 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
reiy unlikely that Willoughby should propose, or Marianne
60 SENSE AND SEKSmiLlTYp
Gonsent, to enter the house white Mrs. Smith was in it, wi&
whom Marianne had not the BmalleBt acqnamtant^e.
As aoon as they left the dimng-room^ Elinor enqoired
of her about it; and great was her surprise when the found
that every circumstance related by Mrs. Jennings was per-
fectly true. Marianne was quite angry with her for doubt-
ing it.
^'Why should you imagine, Elinor, that we did not go
there, or that we did not see the house? la not it what you
have often wished to do yourself? ''
*^YeBj Mariarme, hut I would not go while Mrs, Smith
was there, and with no other companion than Mr, Wil-
loughby."
'*Mr. Wiiloughhyj however, ia the only person who can
have a right to show that house, and as he went in an open
c^riage, it was impossible to have any other companion, I
never spent a pleaaauter morning in my life.*'
*M am afrai^d,'* replied Elinor, "that the pleasantness of
an employment does not always evince lU propriety."
"On the contraryj nothing can be a stronger proof of it,
Elinor 5 for if there had been any real impropriety in what I
did, I should have been sensible of it at the time, for we al-
waya know when we are acting wrong, and with such a con-
viction I could have had no pleasure.**
** But, my dear Marianne j 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 remarka of Mrs. Jennings are to be liie
proof of impropriety in conduct, we are all offending every
moment of our lives. 1 value not her censure any more than I
should do her commendation. I am not sensible of having
done any thing wrong in walking over Mrs, Smithes grounds,
or in seeing herhouse* They will one day be Mr. Willough-
by*a, 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
I
t
SENSB AND SEKSIBILITT. 61
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 m^o^ 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 modem
fomitare it would be delightful. It is a comer room, and
has windows on two sides. On one side you look across the
howling-green, behind the house, to a beautiful hanging
tfPTOod, and on the other you have a view of the church and
Tillage, and, beyond them, of those fine bold hills that we
haye so often admired. I did not see it to advantage, for no-
thing could be more forlorn than the fomiture ; 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 intermption
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 inter-
mission, 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! lam
afraid his circumstances may be bad. The estate at Dela-
69 SBNSE AND SBNSrBIUT?.
ford was never reckoned more than two thDuaand a year, and
his brother left every thing sadly involved. I do thint he
mu!*t have been sent for about money matters, for what else
can it be? I wonder whether it ia so. I would give imy thing
to know the truth of it» Perhaps it is about Miss Williams —
and, by the hy^ I dare say it is, beeause he looked so con-
seioufi when I mentioned her. May be she is ill in town \ no-
thing 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 ia not so very likely he should be distressed in
his circumstances nowy 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 aent 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 freah conjecture, and all seeming equally
probable m they arose. Elinor, though she felt really in*
terested in the welfare of Colon el Brandon, could not bestow
all the wonder on hia going ao suddenly away, which Mrs,
Jennings was desirous of her feeling ; for besides that the
circumstance did not, in her opinion, justify aueh lasting
amazement or variety of apeculatiouj her wonder was other-
wise disposed of. It was engrossed by the extraordinary
silence of her ai&ter and Wi Ho ugh by on the subject, which
they must know to be peculiarly interesting to them aJK As
this silence continued, every day made it appear more atrange
and more incompatible with the diaposition of both. Why
tliey should not openly acknowledge to her mother and her-
self, 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 im*
mediately in their power; for though Willoughby was inde-
pendent, there was no reason to believe him rich. His eatate
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
\
SBNSE AND SENSIBILITr. 63
lardly be equal, and he had hunself often complained of his
iovert7. But for this strange kind of secrecy, maintained by
bem relative to their engagement, which, in fact, concealed
othing at all, she could not account; and it was so wholly
ontradictory to their general opinions and practice, that a
oubt sometimes entered her mind of their being really
ligaged, and this doubt was enough to prevent her making
ny enquiry of Marianne.
Nothing could be more expressive of attachment to them
Q liian Willoughby's behaviour. To Marianne it had all
le distinguishing tenderness which a lover*s heart could give,
Qd to the rest of the family it was the affectionate attention
f a son and a brother. The cottage seemed to be considered
ad loved by him as his home ; many more of his hours were
)ent there than at Allenham; and if no general engagement
>llected them at the Park, the exercise which called him out
I the morning was almost certain of ending there , where the
iBt of the day was spent by himself at the side of Marianne,
ad by his favourite pointer at her feet.
One evening in particular, about a week after Colonel
randon had left the country, his heart seemed more than
Bually open to every feeling of attachment to the objects
round him; and on Mrs. Dashwood's happening to mention
er design of improving the cottftge in the spring, he warmly
pposed every alteration of a place which affection had estab-
shed as perfect with him.
"What!" he exclaimed — "improve this dear cottage!
0. That I will never consent to. Not a stone must bo added
I its walls, not an inch to its size, if my feelings are re-
arded."
"Do not be alarmed," said MissDashwood, "notliing of
le kind will be done ; for my mother will never have money
lOugh to attempt it."
" I am heartily glad of it," he cried. " May she always be
)or, if she can employ her riches no better."
" Thank you, Willoughby. But you may be assured that
I
64 SEHBE k^D SE^gtBlLITT.
I would not sacrifice one scntinient of local attachment of
yours , or of any one whom I loved , for all tlie improvemento
in the world. Depend upon it that whatever uuem ployed
Bum may remain ^ when X make up my ac count b in the Bprlng^
1 would even rather lay it ixBelcasly by than diBpoBe of it in a
manner bo painful to you. But are you really io attached to
this place aa to see no defect in It?"
^^Tam," said he. '^Tomeit is fault leas. Nay, more, I
con aider it as the only form of huilding 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 daxk narrow stairs, and a kitchen that Bmokee, I
suppose," said Elinor. r
*^Yefl/' cried ho in the same eager tone, "with all and tZ
every thing belonging to itj --in no one convenience or m- ^
convenience about it, should the least variation be percep-
tible* Then, and then only, under such a roof^ I might
perhaps be aa happy at Combe as I have been at Barton.*^
* * I flatter my s elf / ' repli e d Elinor , ' * tliat , 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 on my affection , which no other can
possibly share."
Mrs. Dashwood looked with pleasure at Marianne , whose
fine eyes were fi3ced so expressively on Willoughby, as plainly
denoted how well she understood him.
^*How often did I wish/' added ho, " when I^was at Allen-
ham this time twelvemonth, that Barton cottage were in-
habited [ 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 1 should hear
from Mrs, Smith, when I next came into the country, would he
that Barton cottage was taken ; and I felt an immediate satis-
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 65
fcion and interest in the event, which nothing bat a kind of
science of what happiness I should experience from it can
onnt for. Must it not have been so, Marianne? " speaking
lier in a lowered voice. Then continuing his former tone,
said, "And yet this house you would spoil, Mrs. Dash-
>d? You would rob it of its simplicity by imaginary
3royement! and this dear parlour in which our ac-
iintance first began, and in which so many happy hours
re been since spent by us together, you would degrade
the condition of a common entrance, and every body
old be eager to pass through the room which has hitherto
itained within itself more real accommodation and comfort
n any other apartment of the handsomest dimensions in
world could possibly afford."
Mrs. Dashwood again assured him that no alteration of the
d should be attempted.
"You are a good woman," he warmly replied. "Your
^mise makes me easy. Extend it a little farther, and it will
ke me happy. Tell me that not only your house will re-
in the same , but that I shall ever find you and yours as un-
mged as your dwelling; and that you will always consider
with the kindness which has made every thing belonging
rou so dear to me."
The promise was readily given, and Willoughby*s be-
riour during the whole of the evening declared at once his
action and happiness.
" Shall we see you to-morrow to dinner? " said Mrs. Dash-
od, when he was leaving them. " I do not ask you to come
he morning, for we must walk to the Park, to caU on Lady
idleton."
He engaged to be with them by four o'clock.
inse and Sensibility.
SEHSE AKB SBlfSlDmiTY.
CHAPTER Xy.
Mes. Dashwooii*3 visit to Lady Middleton took place "
next dsLjy and two of her daughters went with her;
Marianne excuBed herself from being of the party, under I
aome trifling pretest of employment ; and her mother, who [
concluded that a promise had been made by WiUoughby the I
night before of calling on her while they were absent, was I
perfectly Hatisfied with, her remaining at home.
On their return from the Park they found Willoughby'fi I
curricle and servant in waiting at the cottage, and Mrs. Dash-
wood was convinced that her conjecture had been just. So I
far it waa all a a she had foreseen 5 but on entering the homie ]
she beheld what no foresight had taught her to espeet. They 1
were no sooner in the passage tliJin Marianne came hastily out j
of the parlour apparently in violent affliction, with her hand-
kerchief at her eyes, and without noticing them ran np stairs,
Surprieed and ahtrmed, they proceeded directly into the room I
she had juflt quitted, where they found only Willoughhy, who
was leaning against the mantel-piece with his back towards '
them. He turned round on their coming in ^ and his comite-
nance showed that he strongly partook of the emotion which
overpowered Marianne.
'*Ifl any thing the matter with her?" cried Mrs, Daehwood, 1
ai she entered : ^ is she ill? "
** I hope not," he replied, trying to look cheerful ; and with 1
a forced smile presently added, ** It is I who may rather expect I
to be ill — for I am now suffering under a very heavy dis-
appointment I"
* ' Disappointment I "
^* Yes , for 1 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 iny despatches, and taken my
f axe well of Allenham ; and by way of exhilaration 1 am now
come to take my farewell of yoa."
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 67
" To London ! — and are you going this morning? "
^^ Almost this moment."
'^This is very unfortunate. But Mrs. Smith must be
ibliged; and her business will not detain you from us long, I
lope."
He coloured as he replied, " You are very kind ; but I have
lo idea of returning into Devonshire immediately. My visits
x> Mrs. Smith are never repeated within the twelvemonth."
"And is Mrs. Smith your only friend? Is Allenham the
)nly bouse in the neighbourhood to which you will be wel-
come? For shame, Willoughby, can you wait for an invitation
lere?"
His colour increased; and, with his eyes fixed on the
^und, he only replied, " You are too good."
Mrs. Dashwood looked at Elinor with surprise. Elinor
:elt equal amazement. For a few moments every one was
dlent. Mrs. Dashwood first spoke.
"I have only to add, my dear Willoughby, that at Barton
^ttage 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 1
ihall be no more disposed to question your judgment than to
loubt your inclination."
"My engagements at present," replied Willoughby, con-
fusedly, "are of such a nature — that — I dare not flatter
myself—"
He stopt. Mrs. Dashwood was too much astonished to
ipeak , and another pause succeeded. This was broken by
W'illoughby, who said, with a faint smUe, "It is folly to linger
in this manner. I will not torment myself any longer by re-
maining among friends whose society it is impossible for me
aow 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
3ut of sight.
Mrs. Dashwood felt too much for speech, and instantly
5*
I
68 BK^Sn AUTD BEN&lBlLrrf .
quitted the parlour to give way in solitude to the concero and
ala^m whicli thia sudden departure occasioned.
^ Elinor's uneasiness was at least equal to her mother's.
She thought of what had just passed with anxiety and dis-
trust. Willoughby^a behaviour in taking leave of then] , his
emb arrasara ent , an d affie ctati on of ch eerfulnesB , and , ah ove
all^ his unwillingnesa to accept her mother's invitation , a
backwardnesB 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 un-
fortunate 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 tendereet 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 M
eyea were red, her countenance was not uncheerful.
** Our dear Willoughhy is now some miles from Barton,
Elinor," said she, as she sat down to work, "and with how
heavy a heart does he travel'?"
'^Itisallverystrange. Soaudd enly to be gone I 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 bebaye like himself.
You must have seen the differ ence as well as 1. What can it
be? Can they have quarrelled? Why else should he have
shown such unwillingneaa to accept your invitation here?**
''It waa not inclination that he wanted^ Elinor; I could
plainly see that. He had not the power of accepting it, X
have thought it all over, I assure you, and I can perfectly
SEKSE AXD SENSIBIUTT. 69
acconnt for every thing tibat a first seemed strange to me as
well as to yon."
''Canyon, indeed?**
''Yes. I haye explained it to myself in the most satis-
fiictory way; but yon, Elinor, who love to donbt where yon
can — it will not satisfy you, I know; but yon shall not talk
me ont of my trust in it. I am persuaded that Mrs. Smith
suspects his regard for Marianne, disapproyes of it (perhaps
because she has other views for him) , and on that account is
eager to get him away ; and that the business ^diich she sends
him off to transact is inyented as an excuse to dismiss him.
This is "what I beliere to have happened. He is, moreoyer,
aware tiiat she does disapproTe the connection; he dares not
therefore at present confess to her his engagement with Mari>
anne, and he feels himself obliged, from his dependent situa-
tion, to giye in to her schemes, and absent himself firom
Devonshire for a while. Ton 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 as 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 pro-
babilities to be accepted, merely because they are not cer-
tainties? Is nothing due to the man whom we have all so
much 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? *'
70 SENSE Aim SE^^RtBILITT.
*^ I can hardl J tell you myself. But auapicion of something
nnpleaaant is the inevitable consequence of such an alteratioii
as we have just witnessed in him. There is great truth,
however^ in what you have now urged of the allowances
wliich ought to be made for him, and it is my wish to he candid
in my judgment of every body. Willoughby may, un-
doubtedly, have very sufficient reasons for his conduct, and 1
will hope that he has. But it would have been more lite
Willoughby to acknowledge them at once. Secrecy may be
advisable; but still 1 cannot help wondering at its being
practised by him."
" Do not blame him^ however, for departing from his char-
acter, 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 concea! their engage-
ment (if they are engaged) from Mrs. Smith ; and if that is the
ca&e , it must be highly expedient for Willoughby t^o be but
little in Devonshire at present. But this h no excuse for their
concealing it from us.'-
"Concealing it from us J 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 tb em,"
*'I have not wanted syllables where actions have spoken
so plainly. Has not his behaviour to Marianne and to all of
ns , 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?
i
SESSB AXD SEXSIBIUTT. 71
[ow eonld sudi a llioiight oeeur to yon? How is it to be
opposed that Willoaghbj, penoaded as he most be of joor
ister^s love, should leave her, and leave her perhaps for
dontiuy widioat telling her of his affection, — that they
hould part without a mntnal exchange of confidence ? **
**I confess," replied Ellinor, ''that eveiy Girenmstanee,
xeept ofitf, is in fayoor of their engagement; but tiiat one is
he total sQence of both on the snbject , and with me it almost
mtweighs ereiy other."
** How strange this is ! Ton most Ihink wretchedly indeed
»f Willonghby, if, after all that has openly passed between
hem, you can doubt the nature of the terms on idiich they
ire together. Has he been acting a part in his behaTionr to
roar sister all this time? Do yon suppose him really indif-
erenttoher?"
''No, I cannot think that He must and does love her, I
unsure."
"But with a strange kind of tenderness, if he can leave
ler with such indifference , such carelessness of the future, as
rou 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, eveiy
fear of mine will be removed."
" A mighty concession indeed ! If you were to see them at
the altar, you would suppose they were going to be married.
Ungracious girl ! But /require no such proof. Nothing in my
opinion has ever passed to justify doubt; no secrecy has been
uttempted ; all has been uniformly open and unreserved. You
eannot 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
Bide to create alarm? can he be deceitful?"
"I hope not, I believe not," cried £linor. "I love Wil-
bughby, sincerely love him; and suspicion of his integrity
cannot be more painful to yourself than to me. It has been
72 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY-
involuBtarjf and i will not encourage it. I was itartkd, I
GOofeiSf by the alteration in his manners this morning: h%
did not speak like himself, and did not return your kindnew
with any cordiahtj. But all this may be explained by such «
situation of )iifl affair© 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 J 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 judg-
ment from myself, or a deviation from what I may thiiik 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 na without acknowledging J
every thing to me at once: bnt 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; anc
Elinor was then at liberty to think over the representations ol
her mother, to acknowledge the probabihty of many j aad
hope for the justice of all.
They saw nothing of Marianne till dinner-time, whesi
0he 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 dif-<
SENSB AND SBNSIBILITT. 73
Scully. She ayoided the looks of them all, could neither
sat nor speak, and after some time, on her mother's silently
[)ressing her hand with tender compassion, her small degree
>f fortitude was quite oyercome , she burst into tears , and left
he room.
This violent oppression of spirits continued the whole
evening. She was without any power, because she was
inthout any desire of command over herself. The slightest
nention of any thing relative to Willoughby overpowered her
n an instant; and though her family were most anxiously
attentive to her comfort, it was impossible for them, if they
ipoke at all, to keep clear of every subject which her feelings
^nnected with him.
CHAPTEK XVI.
Mabianne would have thought herself very inexcusable
lad she been able to sleep at all the first night after parting
orom Willoughby. She would have been ashamed to look
[ler family in the face the next morning, had she not risen
horn 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
vrhole night, and she wept the greatest part of it. She got up
inth a headach, was unable to talk, and unwilling to take any
Qourishment; giving pain every moment to her mother and
sisters , and forbidding all attempt at consolation from either.
Her sensibility was potent enough I
When breakfast was over she walked out by herself, and
wandered about the village of Allenham, indulging the re-
collection of past enjoyment, and crying over the present
reverse for the chief of the momuig.
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
n
SEKSE AXB BKXSIEmiTT.
erery line of music that lie had written out for her, till her
heart wae ao heavy tliat no farther fiaduess eould be gained^
and this nooi-ishmetit of grief was every day applied* She
epent whole hours at the piano-forte , altemateSj singing and
eiying; her voice often totally auapended hy her tears. In
bookSj too, as well as in muaie, she courted the misery which
a contrast between the past and present waa certain of
giving. She read notbing but what they had been used to
read together.
Snch violence of a^iction indeed eould 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 meditatiouB^Btill produced occasional
efifusions of Borrow as lively as ever*
No letter from Willougbby came; and none seemed ej^-
pected by Marianne, Ker mother was sni^riaed , and Elinor
again became uneasy. But Mrs. Dash wood could find ei-
planatiouE whenever she wanted them^ which at least satisfied
hertielf.
^* Remember, Ebnor/' said she, ** how very often Sir John
fetches our lettei's himeelf from the post, and carries them
to it* We have already agreed that secreey may be ne-
cessary, and we must acknowledge that it could not be
maintained if their correspondence were to pass through Sir
John^s bauds."



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 afiair, and of instantly remov-
ing 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 ia not engaged to Willougbby V From you,
her mother, and so kind, so indulgent a mother, the question
could not give often ce. It would be the natural result of your
afl'ection for her. She used to be all unreserve, and to you
more especially*"
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 76
''I would not ask such a question for thid world. Sup-
posing it possible that thej are not engaged, what distress
irould 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
nresent to be unacknowledged to any one. I know Marianne's
leart: I know that shCi dearly loves me, and that I shaU not
)e the last to whom the affair is made known, when circum-
itances make the revealment of it eligible. I would not
ittempt to force the confidence of any one; of a child much
ess; because a sense .of duty would prevent the denial which
ler wishes might direct."
Elinor thought this generosity overstrained, considering
ler sister's youth , and urged the matter farther, but in vain ;
common sense, common care, common prudence, were all
junk in Birs. Dashwood's romantic delicacy.
It was several days before Willoughby*s name was men-
tioned before jyfarianne by any of her family; Sir John and
^irs. Jennings, indeed, were not so nice; their witticisms
idded pain to many a painful hour; but one evening, Mrs.
Dashwood, accidentally taking up a volume of Shakspeare,
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 careftiUy avoided every companion in her rambles. If
her sisters intended to walk on the downs , she directly stole
fft SENBB AND SEN61BILITT*
Y^ she wai H
away towards the lanei ; if they talked of the valley
ae speedy in climbiDg the hiila, and could never he found
when the others set off. But at length she waa secured by the
exertions of Elinor, who greatly disapproved Buch continual -^
seclusion. They walked along the road through the valley ^ ^
and chiefly in silence , for Marian ne*s minfl could not be con- ■
trolled, andEhnor^ 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 thoy had travelled on
first coming to Barton lay before them \ and on reaching that
point they stopped to look aroimd 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 ridmg towards
them. In a few minutes they could distinguish him to be
a gentleman; and in a moment afterwards Marianne rap-
turously exclaimed, —
" It is he — it is indeed ; — I know it is !" and was hasten-
ing to meet him^ when Elinor cried out^ —
'^Indeed , Marianne , I think you are mistaken. It is not
WiUoughby* The person ia not tall enough for him , and baa
not his air/*
"He has, he has," cried Marianne, "I am sure be bas.
His air, his coat, his horse. 1 knew how soon he would
come."
She walked eagerly on as she spoke; and Elinor, to screen
Marianne £^m particularity , as she felt almost certain of its
notbemgWillougbbj, 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 tha
voices of both her sisters were raised to detain her; athirdf
almost as well known as Willoughbj's, joined them in begging
1
I
i
I
i
SENSE AND SENSIBILITT. ' 77
her to stop, and she turned round with surprise to see and
vrelcome Edward Ferrars.
He was the only person in the world who could at that mo-
ment be forgiven for not being Willoughby ; the only one who
ooald 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
especicdly by Marianne, who showed more warmth of regard
in her reception of him than even Elinor herself. To Ma-
rianne, 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 coimty 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.
78 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
" I was at Norland about a month ago.*'
"And how does dear, dear Norland look?" cried Ma-
rianne.
"Dear, dear Norland," said Elinor, "probably looks much
as it always does at this time of year. The woods and walks
thickly covered with dead leaves."
"Oh," cried Marianne, "with what transporting sensations
have 1 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 in-
spired ! 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 under-
stood. 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 pro>
spect, " here is Barton valley. Look up it, and be tranquil if
you can. Look at those hills. Did you ever see their equals?
To the left is Barton Park , amongst those woods and planta-
tions. You may see the end of the house. And there, be-
neath 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."
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 79
''Marianne,'* cried her sister, " how can yon 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 visiter, endeavoured to support something like dis-
course with him, by talking of their present residence, its con-
veniences, &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.
Mss. Dashwood was surprised only for a moment at seeing
him; for his coming to Barton was, in her opinion, of all
tiiingB the most natural. Her joy and expressions of re-
gard 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 re- animate towards
them all, and his interest in their welfare again became per-
ceptible. He was not in spirits, however; he praised tiieir
house, admired its prospect, was attentive and kind; but
still he was not in spirits. The whole family perceived it^
80 SENSE AJ?D SEKSIBILITY.
and Mrs, Dashwoodj attributing it to Bome want of liberal-
ity in his mother^ gat down to table indignant against aJl sel-
fish parentu.
** What are Mtb. Perrar&*B views for you at preaent, Ed-
ward?" said she , when dinner waa over^ and they had drawn
round the fire^ " are you atill to be a great orator in spite of
yourfielf?"
'* No, I hope mj mother is now convinced that I have no
more talents than inclination for a public life."
*^BQt how is your fame to be established? for famous you
must be to satisfy all jour fELraily ; and with no inclination for
expense , no affection for strangers j no profession , and no as-
suTance^ you may find it a difficult matter.' '
"I shall not attempt it. I have no wish to be distinguished j^
and 1 have every reason to hope 1 never shall. Thantr
Heaven I I cannot be forced into genius and eloquence.**
"You have no ambition, 1 well know. Your wishes are all
moderate,"
*'As moderate as those of the rest of tlie world, 1 believe.
I wish, as well as every body else, to be perfectly happy; but,
like evei^ body else, it must be in my own way. Greatness
will not make me so.**
^'Strange if It would I" cried Marianne, "What have
wealth or grandeur to do with happiness?**
"Grandeur has but little," aaid Elinor^ "but wealth has
much to do with it,"
"EUnor, for shame!'* said Marianne; "money ean onl^
give happiness where there is nothing else to give Jt, Beyond
a competence f it can afford no real satisfaction, as far as mere
self is eoncerned."
"Perhaps/* said Elinor, smiling, "we may coma to the
same point. Your competence and tnif wealth are very much
alike, 1 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 competenee?'*
i
<
J
SENSE AMD SEMSnULITT. 81
^ About eighteen hundred or two thonsand a year; not
(uxre than ikair
Elinor laughed. 'Tioo thousand a year! One is my
realth! I guessed how it would end."
^'And yet two tiiousand a year is a yeiy moderate income,"
laid Marianne. ''A family cannot well be maintained on a
mailer. I am sure I am not extravagant in my demands. A
noper establishment of servants, a carriage, perhaps two,
ind hunters, cannot be supported on less."
Elinor smiled again, to hear her sister describing so ac-
nrately their future expenses at Combe Magna.
" Hunters ! " repeated Edward — " but why must you have
ranters? Every body does not hunt."
Marianne coloured as she replied, ^'But most people do."
"I wish," said Margaret, striking out a novel thought,
'that somebody would give us all a large fortune apiece ! "
*' Oh that they would ! " cried Marianne, her eyes sparkling
vith animation, and her cheeks glowing with tiie delight of
nch imaginary happiness.
''We are all unanimous in that wish, I suppose," said
illinor, "in spite of the insuflficiency of wealth."
"Oh dear!" cried Margaret, "how happy I should be! I
ronder what I should do with it ! "
Marianne looked as if she had no doubt on that point.
^'I should be puzzled to spend a large fortune myself,"
aid Mrs. Dashwood, "if my children were all to be rich
rithout my help."
"Ton must begin your improvements on this house," ob-
erved Elinor , " and your difficulties will soon vanish."
"What magnificent orders would travel &om this family
London," said Edward, "in such an event! What a
lappy day for booksellers, music-sellers, and print-shops!
Tou, Miss Dashwood, would give a general commission for
very new print of merit to be sent you — and as for Mari-
ome , 1 know her greatness of soul , tiiere would not be music
nough in London to content her. And books! — Thomson,
3owper, Scott — she would buy them all over and over
ScMe and Sensibility* 6
82 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
again: she would buy up every copy, I believe, to prevent
their falling into unworthy hands ; and she would have eveij ^
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 im-
proving my collection of music and books."
"And the bulk of your fortune would be laid out in annui-
ties 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." i
"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 , "yow 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 o£my character."
"Nor do I think it apart 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."
SBHSB AND SENSIBILITT. 83
"I have frequently detected myself in such kind of mis-
takes ," 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 one's self 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 our 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 at-
tempted 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 wil£
greater attention; but when have I advised you to adopt
their sentiments or conform to their judgment in serious
matters?"
" You have not been able , then , to bring your sister over
to your plan of general civility," said Edward to Elinor. "Do
you gain no ground?"
" Quite the contrary," replied 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
gentiliiyl"
" Marianne has not shyness to excuse any inattention of
hers," said Elinor.
" She knows her own worth too well for false shame," re-
6*
SENSE AND BENSlBILtTT.
plied Edward. "ShyBesa is only tlie effect of a eenae of
inferiority in some waj or other. If I could persuade mj^self
that my manners were perfectly easy and graceful, I should
not be shy."
"But youwould atill hereieired," said Marianne, *'and
that is worse."
Edward started — "Reserved 1 Am I reserred, Mari-
anne?"
*^Yeflj very/'
*^I do not understand you J*' replied he, colourmg, "Ee-
scrved! — how J In what manner? What ami to teUyou?
What can you suppose? "
Elinor looked surprised at his emotion; but trying to
laugh off the subject, she said to himj **Do not you kiiow
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 b3 rapturously a^
herself?"
Edward made no answer. His gravity and thoughtinlness
retm'ued on him in their fullest extent — and he sat for some
time Bilent and dull.
I
CHAPTER XVIIL
Eliiior saw, with great uneasiness, the low spirits of her
friend. His visit afforded her but a very partial Batisfaction,
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 resen^edness of his manner towards her contradicted
one moment what a more animated look bad intimated the
preceding one.
He joined her and Marianne in the breakfast-room the
next morning before the others were down; and Mariaimej
SBNSB AND SENSIBILITY. 86
who was always eager to promote their happiness as far as
she could, soon left them to themselves. But before she
was half-way up stairs she heard the parlour door open,
and, turning round, was astonished to see Edward himself
come out.
"I am going into the village to see my horses," said he,
" as you are not yet ready for breakfast ; I shall be back again
presently."
Edward returned to them with fresh admiration of the sur-
rounding 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 ob-
jects that had particularly struck him, when Edward inter-
rupted her by saying, "You must not enquire too far, Mari-
anne: 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
irregafar 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 an-
swers my idea of a fine country , because it unites beauty with
utility — and 1 4are 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 brushwood, but these are all
lost on me. I know nothing of the picturesque."
86 ai3K3E ANB BETiTSIBlLITT.
*^I am aft'aid it is but too true, said Marianne ; **biit why
ahould you boast of it? "
'^1 flUfipect/* aaid Elinor, **thst to avoid one kind of
a^eetatJoii, Edward here falls into another. Because Le
believes manj people pretend to more admiration of the
beauties of nature thati they really feel, and is disgusted
with sucIj pretensions j he affects greater it j difference and
le&s diacriminatLon In viewing tkein himself than he pos-
sesses. He m fastidious^ and will liave au affectation of his
own.*'
"It is very true," said Marianne, *4hat admiration of
landscape scenery is become a mere jargon. Every body
pijetends to feel and triea to describe with the taste and
elegance of hLm who Hvst defined what piotuie&que beauty
was. 1 detest jargon of every kind j and sometimes 1 Lave
kept my feelings to myself ? because 1 could find no language
to describe them in but what was worn and haekueyed out of
all sense of meaning."
'^ I am convinced ," said Edward , " that you really feel all
the delight in a fine proapect which you profess to feeh But,
in return, your sister must allow me to feel no more than I
profess. I like a fine prospect, but not on picturesque prin-
ciples. I do not like crooked^ twisted, blasted trees. I
admire them much more if they are tall , straight, and flour-
ishing; I do not like ruined, tattered cottages. I am not
fond of nettles or thistles , or heath blossoms. I have more
pleasure in a snug farm-house than a watch-tower, — and a
troop of tidy , happy villagers please me better than the finest
banditti in the world."
Marianne looked with amazement at Edward, with com*
passion at her sister. Elinor only laughed.
The subject was contirmed 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.
1
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 87
" I never saw yoa 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 imknown to herself. She was not in a humour,
however, to regard it as an af&ont; and affecting to take no
notice of what passed , by instantly talking of something else,
she internally resolved henceforward to catch every oppor-
tunity of eyeing the hair and of satisfying herself, beyond all
doubt , that it was exactly the shade of her own.
Edward's embarrassment lasted sometime, and it ended
in an absence of mind still more settled. He was particularly
grave the whole morning. Marianne severely censured her-
self 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 spmng. But, as it was, she only
«0 9IJNSE AND SEJTBlBILrTT.
learned, from some Terf significant lcM:*kfl^ how far iheir
penetration J founded on Margaret's instructions, extended.
Sir Jolm never came to the D^h woods without either in- '
viting them to dine at the Park the next day , or do drink tea
with them that evening. On the present occasion, for the
better entertainment of their visiter, towards whose amuse-
ment he felt himself bound to contribute, he wished to engage
them for both.
"You 7nust drink tea with us to-night," said he, "for we
shall he quite alone; and to -morrow you must absolutely dine
with u&j for we shaJl be a large party*"
Mrs. Jennings enforced the necessity, "And who knows
but you m ay rai sa a dance ? ^ ' said she . *■ * And that will tempt
yoUf Miss Marianne,"
'^A dance!" cried Marianne, "Impossible! Who is to
dance?"
"Who! why yourselves, and the Careys, and Whi takers,
to be sure. What I you thought nobody could dance because
a certain person that shall be nameless is gone I "
"I wish with all my soul," cried Sir John, "that Wil-
loughby were among us again,"
This, and Marianne's blushing, gave new suspicions to
Edward, "And who is Willoughby ? " said he, in a low voiee^
to Miss Dash wood, by whom he was sitting.
She gave him a brief reply. Mari aimers countenance was
more communicative. Edward saw enough to comprehend,
not only the meaning of others j hut such of Marianne's
expressions as had puzzled him before j and when their
visiters left tbem he went immediately round her, and said,
in a whisper, "1 have been gueasing. Shall 1 tell you my
guess?"
"What do you mean?"
"Shall 1 tell you?'*
"Certainly,"
" Well, then; I guess that Mr. Willoughby hunts."
MarlaniLe was surprised and confused, yet she could not
SENSE AND SENSIBIUTT. 89
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
QDky on a something or a nothing between Mr. Willoughby
and herself, he would not hare ventured to mention it.
CHAPTER XIX.
Edwabd 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 Mends 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,
W) SENSE AKB SENSlBlLirr.
And vexed ae she wftB^ and EOtnetiznes displeased with hia
tmcertaiD behaviour to herseJt', she was very well disposed
on the whole to regard hiB actions with all the eandid
allowances and generous qualifications^ which had been
rather more painfully extorted from her, for Willoughby's
BRrviee, by her mother. His want of Bpirits, of openness,
and of consistency^ were most nsually attributed to hi*
want of independence, and his better knowledge of Mrs,
Eerrars's dispositions and designs. The shortness of his
visit, the steadiness of hispiurpose in leaving thetn, originated
in the same fettered inclination, the same inevitable necessity
of temporising 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, FerrBTs would be reformed, and her son be at
Uherty to bo happy » But from sueh vain wishes she was
foreed 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 fi-om him while at Barton,
and above all, to that flattering proof of it which he con*
stantly wore round his finger.
^'^I thiidt, Edward," said Mrs, Dash woo d^ as they were
at breakfast the last morning , ^^you would bo a happier man
if you had any profession to engage your time and give mi
interest to your plans and actions. Borne iuconvenienee to
your friends, indeed, might resuH 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 repUed, "that I have long thought
on this point as you think now. It has been, and is, nnd
ppob^bly will always be, a heavy misfortune to me, that I
have bad no necessaiy business to engage me, no profession
to give me employment, or afford me any thing like inde-
pendence. But uafortunately my own nicety, and the
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 91
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
yooDg men, who had chambers in the Temple, made a
Tery 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 the most ad-
?antageous 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 Calu-
mella'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 imlike 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.
^ow 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
&2
SENSE AXD gUXSlBlLITY,
are so anxious for; it is her dntj, and it will^ it mus
long become her happineaa to prevent your whole youth
being wasted in diecontent. How much may not a
months do?"
**I think," replied Edward, **that I may defy t
months to produce any good to me."
This despoading turn of mind , though it could n(
communicated to Mrs, Dash wood, gave additional pa;
them all in the parting ^ which shortly took place, and
an uncomfortable impression on Elinor^s feelings esped
which required some trouble and time to Eubdue, B{
it was her determination to subdue it, and to prevent
self from appearing to suffer more than what all her fa
Buffered ou his going away, she did not adopt the methi
judiciously employed by Marianne , on a similar occasioi
augment and fix her sorrow, by aeekiiig silence, solitude,
idleness. Their means were as different as their objeetB,
equally suited to the advancement of each.
EUnor sat down to her drawing-table as soon as he
out of the house, busily employed herself the whole
neither sought nor avoided the mention of his name,
peared to interest herself almost as much as ever in
general concerns of the family^ and if, by this conduct,
did not lessen her own grief, it was at least prevented :
uunecessarj increase, and her mother and sisters were sp
much solieitude on her accomat.
Such behaviour as this , so exactly tKe reverse of her <
appeared no more raeritoriouj to Marianne , than her own
seemed faulty to her* The business of self-command
settled very easily: — with strong affections it was imposs
with calm ones it could have no merit. That her sis
affections were calm , she dared not deny, though she blui
to acknowledge H; and of the strength of her own, she ga
very striking proof, by still loving and respecting that si
in spite of this mortifying conviction*
Without shutting herself up from her family, or lea
the house in determined solitude to avoid them, or 1;
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 93
mwake the whole night to mdulge meditation, Elinor found
every day afiFbrded her leisure enough to think of Edward,
snd 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
lythe absence of her mother and sisters, at least by the nature
of their employments, conversation was forbidden among
fliem, 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 forc6 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
wmdow , 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,
idio 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 Ihe door, and
stepping across the turf, obliged her to open the casement to
spesik 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.






94 SENSE AND BENSIBILITV.
'* Wtere is Marianne? Hub sbe nui away because
come? 1 see her inatniinent ii open,"
** She ia walking, I belie yc.'*
They were oow joined bj Mrs. Jeiixuiige, wlio had ]
patience enough to wait till the door was opened before she
told her story* Sbe come hallooing to the window, ^'How do
yon do, my dear? How does Mrs. Dashwood do? And where
are your sisters? Whiit] all alone ! jou will be glad of a little
company to ait with you. I have brought my otlier soa and
daugliter to see you. Only tliink of their coming bo suddenly!
I thought I heard a earriiige last night, while we were
drinking our tea, but it never eutercd my head that it could
be them. I thought of nothing but whether it might not bo
Colonel Brandon coma back again \ so I said to Sir John, I do
think I bear a carriage; perbapa it is Colonel Brandon oom^
back again — -^^
Elinor was obhged to turn from her, in the middle of her
atory, to receiye the rest of the party; Lady Middle ton
introduced the two straugera ; Mrs. Daabwood and Margaret
came down stairs at the same time, and they all sat down to
look at one anotlier, while Mi's, 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
Middletou , and totally unlike her in every respect. She was
short and plump, had a very pretty face, and the fin eat
expression of good humour in it that could possibly be. Her
manners were by no means ao elegant as her sister's, but the|
were much more prepossess iug> Sbe came in with a smile
smiled all the time of her visit, except when she laughed , au
smLled when she went away. Her husband was a grav
looking young man of five or six and twenty, with an air(
more faskion and sense than his wife, Imtof less willingness t
please or be pleased. He entered the room with a look i
^alf -consequence, aligbtly bowed to the ladies, withou
spenking a word , and , after bfiefly surveying them and the
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 95
apartments, took up a newspaper from the table, and con-
tinued 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
eyeiy thing in it burst forth.
"Well! what a delightful room this is! I never saw any
thing so charmiug! 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 1 "
This was quite a new idea to Mrs. Dashwood; she had
never been used to find wit in the inattention of any one , and
eould not help looking with surprise at them both.
Mrs. Jennings, in the mean time, 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 forwards 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 hei to &tvj 9k\.\iQi<a2k& vsA
f
96 SENSE ANB SENSIBILITY*
rest this morning ^ but she would eome with ub^ she longed &ck
much to see you alU "
Mrs. Palmer laughed , and aaid it would not do her 3n|
harm,
" She expects to be confined in Februajy,'^ eontinucd Mra
Jennings. I
Lad J Middleton could no longer endure such a con-
versation , and therefore exerted herself to ask Mr. Palmer ic
there was any news in the paper* ,
** No, none at all," he replied, and read on.
" Here comes Marianne," eried Sir John. **Now, Palmern
you shaU see a monstrous pretty girL"
He immediately went into the passage , opened the fronfe
dooTj and nahered her in bimaelf. Mrs. Jemiings asked her, bm
Eoon as she appeai'ed , if she had not been to Allenham ; andf
Mjts. Palmer laughed bo heartily at the question , as to ehoWi
flhe understood it. Mr, Palmer looked up on her entering the,
room, stared at her some minutes, and then returned to hii^
newspaper, Mrs. Palmer's eye was now caught by t\m\
drawings which hung round the room. She got up to examined
them. I
** Oh dear, how beantifiil these are ! WeU, how delightfuirj
Do but look, mamma, how sweet I I declare they are quitft^
charming 5 1 could look at them for ever.'* And then sittingi
down again, she very soon forgot that there were any stic]||
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 wifeyi
laughing. ,
He made her no answer; and only obflerved , after agaia
examining the room, that it was very low pitched, and that thft^
ceihng was crooked. He then made im bow, and departed!
with the rest- I
Sir John had been very urgent with them all to spend the J
next dajrjtt the Park. Mrs. Dash wood,, who did not choose t^'
I
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 97
dine with them oftener than they dined at the cottage,
absolutely refused on her own account; her daughters might
t 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, tf 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 ex-
pressed 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 to-morrow. We must go, for the
Westons come to us next week, you kno-w. It'^^a ojoaXfc^
Sense and Sensibility, 1
9S SENSE AlSiU E^miBUATY,
n
sadden tiling our coming at all; and I knew nothing of it tilil
the caiTiage was coming to the door, and then Mr. Palmf*
asked me if 1 would go with liim to Barton. He is so droll I
He never tells me any thing! I am bo sorry we eamiot
itay longer^ however we shall meet again mtowa very hooil
1 hope."
They were ohliged to put an end to such an expeo*
taction.
*'Notgo to town!'* cried Mi-s. Palmer, with a laugh; '^^
ihall be quite disappointed if you do not, I coal d get tbf
nicest house in the world for yoa, next door to ours i^
Hanover Square. Yon must come, indeed. I am sure 1
shall be very happy to chaperon you at any time till 1 &m
confined J if Mrs, Dash wood should not like to go into public/
They thanked her; but were obliged to reeiat all hm
entreaties. I
"Oh, my love/* cried IMre. Palmer to her husband, wh<
just then entered the room^ "you must help mc to persuade
the Miss Dash woods to go to town this winter."
Her love made no answer; and after slightly bowing t$
the ladies , began complaining of the weather.
"How hoiTid all thi s ia ! " said he . * * S uc h weath er maket
every tiling and every body disgusting. Dulness is aa mncj
produced within doors as without, by rain. It makes out
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 aa thf
weather/*
The rest of the company so on dropt in .
^^I am afraid, Miss Marianne t^' said Sir John, ^*-jou haf#
not been able to take your usual walk to Allenham to-day/' ,
Marianne looked very grave J and said nothing,
"Oh, don*t he HO sly before ns,'^ said ilra. Palmer; "fo*
we know all about it, I assure you; and I admire your taste
very much, for 1 think he is extremely handsome. We do no!
live a great way from him in the country, you kaow. ^ol
^bore ten milea ^ 1 dare say. ^1
J
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 99
" 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 coim-
tenance 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 ob-
served with regret that they were only eight all together.
"My dear," said he to his lady, "it is very provoking that
we should be so few. Why did not you ask the Gilberts to
come to us to-day?"
**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 tiie whip
hand of you."
Charlotte laughed heartily to think that her husband
could not get rid of her; and ezultingly 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."
I
100 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
1
Elinor wftB not ineliiied j after a little observatioii , to give
tim credit for being so genuinely and unaffectedly ill-natured i
tjr ill-bred as he wished to appear. His temper might perhap*
be a little soured by finding , like many others of his sex , that
througli aome unacountable biaa in favour of beauty^ he was
the husband of a veiy a illy woman , — but she knew that thii
kind of blunder was too common for any sensible man to b©
lastingly hurt by it. It was rather a wish of distinction , abel
believed J which produced liia eontemptuouB treatment of
every body, and his general abuse of every tiling before him-i
It was the desire of appearing superior to other people. Thoj
motive was too common to be wondered at; hut the meanS|
however they might succeed by establishing his superiority ioj
ill- breeding, were not likely to attach any one to him except
his wife^ {
*^0h, my dear Miss Dashwood," said Mrs. Palmer soon
afterwards J " I have got such a favour to ask of you and your
sister. Will you come and spend some time at Cleveland thii
Christmas? Now, pray do, — and come while the Westont
are with as. You cannot think how happy I shall be I I^
will he quite delightful 1 — My love," applying to her Itua*,
band, "don't you long to have the Miss Dash woods come tui
Cleveland?" |
"Certainly," be replied, with a sneer; "I came intoDe-i!
von shire with no other view." J
" There now," said his lady, "you see Mr. Palmer expects
you ; so jou 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 im
always going about the country canvassing against the elec-
tion; and BO many people come to dine with us that I never
saw before, it is quite charming ! But, poor fellow! it ii
kvery fatiguing to him, for he is forced to make every badjj
like kirn:' ^M
SE2S8E AND 8EK81BIUTT. 101
Elinor could hazdly keep her codnteaftnce as she assented
to the hardship of soch an obligalion.
''How chitfming it will he," said Chali^tte, ''when he is
in Parliament! — won't it? How I shall langh I It will be so
ridicolous to see all his letters directed to him with an M.P. —
Bnt do yon know, he says, he will never firank^r me? He
declares he wont Don't yon, Mr. Pahner?"
Mr. Palmer took no notice of her. .| -
'<He cannot bear writing, yon know,** she continned; "he
says it is qnite shocking."
"No," said he, "I nerer said any thing so irrataoncd.
Don't palm all your abuses of language upon me."
" There now; you see how droll he is. This is always th^
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 |y on would, he is
BO pleasant; and Mr. Palmer is excessiyely pleased with you
and your sisters , I can tell you; and you can't think how dis-
appointed 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 Ihat 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 l^ddletons' 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 inquiring if they saw much of Mr. Willoughby at
Cleveland, and whether they were intimately acquainted
with him.
^^Oh dear, yes; I know him extremeVy -w^W.^^^ xe^^^'^^*
k
109 SEN/Oi: 'llfD SENSTBTLTTT.
Palmer ; — *^iiot thict*t ever spoke to liim , indeed ; but I haTe
seen him for ever-iu-fown. Some how or other I never hap-
pened to be s|;iyipg fit Barton while he was at Alleuham.
Mamma saw ^iitfc,here once before ; but I was with my ancle
at Weymoilthl-^ However , 1 dare say we should have aeena
great deal-^of-him in Somereetshire, If it had not happened
veiy unliifiiily that we shonld never have been in the coantiy
togeth^. ■' He is veiy little at Combe j 1 beheve; but if he
were ever so much there , I do not think Mr. Palmer would
visitliimj for he is in the oppoaitionj you know, and besides
^it'b Btich a way off. I know why you enquire about liim, vei^
^W^jll 5 your sister is to marry him. I am monBtrous glad of it,
. Cprthen I ahall have her for a neighbour, you know."
*^Upon my word/' replied Elinor, "you knowmucb more
of the matter than I do , If you have any reason to expect auch
a match.'*
**Don't pretend to deny it, because you know it is what
every body talks of. 1 assure you I heard of it in my way
through town,"
"My dear Mrs. Palmer I"
" Upon my honour I did. I met Colonel Brandon Monday
morning in Bond Street , jutt before we left town , and be told
meof 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 interosted in it , even if it were
true , is not what I should expect Colonel Brandon to do."
"But I do assure you it was BO, for all that, audi 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! said to him, "So,
Colonelj there is a new family come to Barton cottage, I hear,
and mamma sends me word they are very pretty, and that one
of them is going to be married to Mr. Wlllougbby of Combe
Magna, Is it true, pray? for of course you must know, aa
you have been in Devonshire so lately.' "
" And what did the Colonel say?"
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 103
''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. Erandon 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 ex-
cellent 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 Somer-
setshire?" saidElmor.
" 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 hand-
some 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; fori think you bofii 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
Ton can't think how much I longed to see you. It is so de-
lightful 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
I
104 SEHBE AND «iENSlBlLlTT.
well married. I hope you wiU be a great deal at Combe
Magna. It is a sweet place , by all accounts.*'
"You have been long^ acquainted witli Colonel Brandon,
bavenotyeu?'^
^'Yes, a great while; ever since my sister married » ITe
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 Middle ton wished it very
much. But mamma did not tiiink the match good enough for '
me, otherwise Sir John would h^ve mentioned it to the
Colonel , and we should have been married immediately."
"Did not Colonel Brandon know of Sir John's proposal to
yoar mother before it was made? Had he never owned hta
affeetion to yourself?"
'* Oh J no ; hut if mamma had not objected to it, I dare say ,
he would have liked it of all things. He had not seen me
then above twite , for it was before 1 left school. However,
I Am much happier as I am. Mr. Palmer is just the kind of
lUke."
CHAPTBB XXL
The Palmers returned to Cleveland the ne^t day, aad the
two families at Barton were again left to entertain each other*
But this did not last long; Elinor had hardly got their last
visiters 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 ahilities, and at the strange un-
suitablenesB which often existed between husband and wife,
— before Six John's and RLrs. Jennings's active zeal in the
eause of society procured her some other new acquaintance to
see and observe.
In a moming*s excuraion to Exeter, they had met with two
young ladies, whom Mrs. Jennings had tlie 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 engage-
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 105
ments at Exeter instantly gave way before such an invitation;
and Lady Middleton was thrown into no little alarm, on the
retom of Sir John, by hearing that she was very soon to re-
ceive a visit from two girls whom she had never seen in her
life, and of whose elegance — whose tolerable 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, un-
fortunately foimded, 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 im-
possible, however, now to prevent their coming, Lady Middle^
ton 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
smarty their manners veiy 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 en-
thusiastic 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
fonn, 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 oousin to himself.
i
106 SEIS'SE ANT> SIIXSIBTLITY,
"Do come now,'* said he — *^pray come — yon muBt conai
— I declare you shall come. You can't think how you wO
like them. Lacy is moD&troaa pretty, and so good humoiire!
and agree ahle I The children arc all hanging ahout her a
readyj a& if she was an old acquaintance. And they both loTi]
to see you of all things ; for they have heard at Eieter that
you are the most heautiful creature ft in the world ; find 1 have
told them It is all very true » and a great deal more* You wiB
be delighted with them , I am sui-e. 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. Yau are my cousins, and they are
my wife*s ; so you must he related/'
But Sir John could not prevail : he could only obtaiu
promise of their calling at the Piirk within a day or two, am
then left them m amazement at their indifference, to walk
home and hoaat anew of their attractions to the Miss Steele!
as be had been already boasting of the Miss Steelea to them.
When their promised visit to the Park, and consequent in
troduetion to these young ladies, took place, they found k
the appearance of the eldest, who was nearly thirty^ with i
very plain and not a i^ensible face , nothing to admire ; but ii
the other, who was not more than two or three and twenty
they acknowledged considerable beauty r her features wen
pretty, and she had a shai'p quick eye, and a smartness of ale
which , though it did not give actual elegance or grace, gav<
distmction to her person* Their manners were particularly
civil, and Elinor soon allowed thera credit for some kind of
sense, when she saw with what constant andjudieious attend
tions they were making themselves agreeable to LadJ
Middleton. With her children they were in continual rap
tures, extolling their beauty, courting their notice, ani
humouring all their whims; aud such of their time as eouU
be spared from the importunate demands which this politci'
ness made on it was spent in admiration of whatever hai
Ladyship was doing , if she happened to be doing any thing
or in tAking pattems of some elegant new dress .^ in which hi
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 107
ippearance the day before had thrown them into unceasing
le%ht. Fortunately for those who pay their court through
neh foibles, a fond mother, though, in pursuit of praise for
ker children, the most rapacious of human beings, is likewise
file most credulous: her demands are exorbitant; but she will
nrallow any thing ; and the excessiye affection and endurance
•f &e Miss Steeles towards her offspring were viewed , there-
6fe, by Lady Middleton without the smallest surprise or
IiitBtrast. She saw with maternal complacency all the im-
pertinent encroachments and mischievous tricks to which her
eousins submitted. She saw their sashes untied, their hair
palled about their ears, their work-bags searched, and their
buves and scissors stolen away, and felt no doubt of its being
I reciprocal enjoyment. It suggested no other surprise than
that £linor and Marianne should sit so composedly by, with-
oitt claiming a share in what was passing.
'< John is in such spirits to-day!" said she, on his taking
Hiss Steele's pocket handkerchief, and throwing it out of
ifindow — " he is full of monkey tricks."
And soon afterwards , on the second boy's violently pinch-
ing one of the same lady's fingers, she fondly observed,
"How playful William is ! "
"And here is my sweet little Anna-maria," she added,
tenderly caressing a little girl of three years old, who had
not made a noise for the last two minutes; "and she is al-
ways 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 pro-
fessedly noisy. The mother's consternation was excessive;
but it could not surpass the alarm of the Miss Steeles, and
every thing was done by all three, in so critical an emergency,
which affection could suggest, as likely to assuage the
agonies of the little sufferer. She was seated in her mother's
li^^ covered with kiaaea, her wound batiiied m^\wi«^'^«t-
108 SEKSi: Asrj sensibilett.
water t by one of the Miss Steel es , who was on her kneea
attend her, and her mouth stuffed with sugar plums by
other. With such a reward for her tears , the child was tO<
wise to ce^iBe crying. She still screamed and sobbed lustily
kieked her two brothers for offering to touch her; and
their united soothings were ineffectual, till Lady Middletod
luckily remembering that in a scene of smilar distress h
week some aprieot marmalade had been successfully applii
for a bruised temple , the same remedy was eagerly propose
for this imfortunate scratchy and a slight intermission
Bcreama in the young lady on hearing it gave them reason
hope that it would not be rejected. She was carried out
the room J therefore, in her mother's arms, in quest of this mo
dicine ^ and as the two boys chose to follow, though eamestli
entreated by their mother to stay behind, the four youaj
ladies were left in a quietness which the room bad not kno
for many hours.
"Poor little creature I" said IVDss Steele , as soon asthe^
were gone ; "it might have been a very sad accident/'
^'Yet I hardly know how," cried Marianne, " unless it b
been under totally different circumstances. But this is tb
usual way of heightening a (arm , where there is nothing to bl
armed at in reality."
"What a sweet woman Lady Middle ton ist" said Liici
teele.
Marianne was silent; it was impossible for her to ea^
what she did not feel , however trivial the occasion ; and upoi
Elinor, therefore, the whole task of telling lies, when polite
ness required it^ always fell. She did her best when thui
called on, by speaking of Lady Middleton with more warmtl
than she felt, though with far less than Miss Lucy,
**And Sir John, too," cried the elder sister, "what
charming man he is I"
Here, too, Miss Dashwood's commendatdoa, being on^
simple and just, came in without any eclat. She merely oil
served that he was perfectly good hiunoured and friendly.
^And what a charming Uttle family tb©y ka^vet 1 nevB
* SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 109
Baw such fine children in my life. I declare I quite doat upon
ttiem already, and indeed I am always distractedly fond of
ddldren/'
^ *'I should guess so," said Elinor, with a smile, ^'from what
I have witnessed this morning."
I "I have a notion," said Lucy, "you think the little
uCddletons rather too much indulged; perhaps they maybe
ne outside of enough ; but it is so natural in Lady Middleton ;
•nd for my part I love to see children full of life and spirits ; I
eannot bear them if they are tame and quiet."
j "I confess," replied Elinor, '^that while I am at Barton
I Park I never think of tame and quiet children with any ab-
korrence."
A short pause succeeded this speech, which was first
hoken by Miss Steele, who seemed very much disposed for
eonversation, and who now said , rather abruptly, "And how
do you like Devonshire, Miss Dash wood? 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
ihe was.
"Norland is a prodigious beautiful place, is not it?"
adiied Miss Steele.
"We have heard Sir John admire it excessively," said
Lucy, who seemed to think some apology necessary for the
fireedom of her sister.
"I think every one must admi^ 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 sup-
pose 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. Vm sure there's a vast many smart beaux in Exeter ; but
r
110 SENSE AND 8ENSIBILITT.
you know, Low could I tell what smart beaux there mlgbtl
about Narland; and I was only afraid the Mbs Dashwooi
might find it dull at Barton^ if thej had not so many nB thi
used to have. But perhaps you yoimg ladies may not
about the beaux , and had as lief be without them as
them. For my part J I think they are vastly agreeable , pi^
vidi^d they dress smart and behave civil. But I cau't bear
aee them dirty and nasty. Now there's Mr, Rose at Exeter,
prodigious smart young man, quite a heau^ clerk to M
Simpson^ you know, and yet if you do but meet bun of a moil
ing, he is not fit to bo seen, I suppose your brother wi
quite a beau ^ Alias Dash wood, before he married, ashewj
aorich?*'
"Upon my word/' replied Elinor, "I cannot tell yoi
for I do not perfectly comprehend the meaning of the wo]
But this I can say, that if be ever was a beau before he
ried , he is one still , for there is not the imalleat alteration
him;*
^'Oh, dear I one never thinks of married men^s beia
beaux — they have something else to do."
^*Lord! Anne," cried her sister^ "youcEuatalkofnothin
but beaux; you will make Mies Dash wood believe you
of nothing else.'* And then, to turn the discourse, she begal
admiring the bouse and the furrdture.
This specimen of the Mi»s Steele^ was enough. Tb
vulgai' freedom and folly of the eldest left her no recommend*
tion; and as Elinor was not blinded by the beauty, or th
shrewd look of the youngest, to her want of real elegance ad
artlessnesa , she left the houfc without any wish of knowioi
them better.
Not flo the Miss Steeles. They came from Exeter w(
provided with admiration for the use of Sir John Middleton
his family, and all his relations; and no niggardly proportioi
was now dealt out to his fair cousins , whom they declared U
be the most beautiful, elegant^ accomplished, and agreeal
girls they bad ever beheld i a&d with whom tbey were partt^
cuiarly buxIqub to be better acquainted. And to be betta
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. Ill
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
tiiat 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 meet-
ing were effectual, he had not a doubt of their being esta-
blished friends.
To do him justice, he did every thing in his power to
promote their unreserve, by makmg the Miss Steeles ac-
quainted with whatever he knew or supposed of his cousins'
situations in the most delicate particulars ; and Elinor had not
seen them more than twice, before the eldest of them wished
her joy on her sister's having been so lucky as to make a
conquest of a very smart beau since she came to Barton.
"* 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 pro-
digious handsome. And I hope you may have as good luck
foorself soon; but, perhaps, you may have a friend in the
Bomer already."
Elinor could not suppose that Sir John would be more nice
in proclaiming his suspicions of her regard for Edward, than
tie had been with respect to Marianne; indeed it was rather
[lis favourite joke of the two, as being somewhat newer and
more conjectural; and since Edward's visit, they had never
lined together without his drinking to her best affections with
io much significancy and so many nods and winks, as to excite
^neral 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,
liad 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 theyraised a curiosity
to know the name of the gentleman alluded to, which, though
(xften impertinently expressed, was perfectly of a ^i6<ie mtk
112
SENSE AND SEKSTBItlTY.
lier general inquiBitivenesB into tbe concerns af their family J
But Sir John did not sport long with the curiosity which hi
deUgUted to raise, for he had at least as much pleasure iu tell'j
ing the name , as Mies Steele Lad in hearing it.
** HiB tiame is Ferrars/' said he , iu a very aadihle whisper d
"but pray do not tell it, for it*s a great secret,"
"Ferrars!" repeated Miss Steele; "Mr, Ferrars is th^
happy man, is he? What! your sister-in-law's brother
MissDasliwood? a very agreeable yoang man to be aure^
know him very welh^'
"How can yon say bo , Anne?" cried Lucy, who generall|
made an amendment to all her sister ^b assertions, "Thon
we have seen him once or twice at my unclo's, it is rather 1
mucb to pretend to know him very well."
Elinor heard all this with attention and surprise. ^^And
who was tbis uncle? Where did be live? How came they ac-
quaiutedV" She wished very ranch to have tbe subject con*
tinued , 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,
«he thought Mrs. Jennings detielent either in curiosity after
petty information, or In a disposition to communicate it. The
manner in which Mias 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 bis 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 KXlh
Maiuakk]?, who had never much toleration for any thing
like impertinence, vulgarity, inferiority of parta, or even
diflference of taste from herself, was at this time particularly
ill-disposed, from the state of her spirits, to be pleased witli
the Miss Steides , or to encourage their advances; and to the
he I
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 113
inyariable coldness of her behaviour towards them, which
checked eveiy 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 conmiunication of her sentiments.
Lucy was naturally clever; her remarks were often just
ind amusing; and as a companion for half an hour Elmor
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 inform-
ation 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
c<anpany of a person who joined insincerity with ignorance;
whose want of instruction prevented their meeting in convers-
ation on terms of equality, and whose conduct towards 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 horn, the
Park to the cottage; "but, pray, are you personally ac-
quainted 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 I " 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
Sense and Sensibility, 8
"J
i
114 BENSE AKD SENaTBHaTY.
af Edward's motlieTi Euad not very deairous of satisfying^
wliat SEiemed impei'tment curiosity; "I know nathing of her,"
'*! am sura jovl think me very strange ^ for enquiring about
her inauch away," said Lucy, eyeiug 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 q£
believing that I do not mean to be impertinent*"
Elinor made her a eivil reply, and they walked on for a few
minutes in silence . It was broken by Lucy , who renewed thi '
aubjeot again by saying^ with some hesitation, —
** I cannot bear to have you think me impertinently curloui*]
1 am sure I would rather do anything in the world than b§
thought so by a person whose good opinion is so well worth
baviug as yours. And I am sure 1 should not have the smallest
fear of trusting ^yu; indeed, I should be very glad of your
advice bow to manage in such an uncomfortable situation as I
am \ but, however, there is no occasion to trouble ffnu. 1 am
iorry you do not happen to know Mrs. Ferrarfi/*
**i am sorry I do nat^" said Elinor, in great astonishment,
"if it could be of any use to j/ou 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 , IconfeaiLj
at so serious an enquiry Into her character." If
"1 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
Bmrprised, Mrs. Fcrrars is certainly nothing to me at present;
but the time m«^ come — how soon it will come must depend
upon herself — when we may be very intimately connected/*
She looked down ae she said this, amiably bash^f with
only one aide glance at her companion to observe its eff(
on her.
" Good heavens I " cried Elinor, ^* what do you mean 7 A
you acquainted with Mr. Robert Ferrars I* Can you be?" Ani
she did not feel mucb delighted with the idea of such a eisi
in-law*
*^ NOj" replied Lucy, "not to Mr. Bohert Ferrara — 1 nev
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 115
saw him in my life; font/* fixing her eyes upon Elinor, "to
bis elder brother."
What felt Elinor at that moment? Astonishment, that
would have been as painful as it was strong, had not an im-
mediate 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 com-
plexion varied, she stood firm in incredulity, and felt in no
langer of an hysterical fit , or a swoon.
"You may well be surprised," continued Lucy; "for to
ye sure you could have had no idea of it before; for I dare
»ay he never dropped the smallest hint of it to you or any of
four family; because it was always meant to be a great
lecret, and I am sure has been faithfully kept so by me to this
tour. Not a soul of all my relations know of it but Anne, and
[ never should have mentioned it to you, if I had not felt the
^atest dependence in the world upon your secrecy ; and I
really thought my behaviour in asking so many questions
iboat Mrs. Ferrars must seem so odd, that it ought to be ex-
plained. And I do not think Mr. Ferrars can be displeased,
irhen he knows I have trusty you , because I know he has the
lighest opinion in the world of all your family, and looks
ipon yourself and the other Miss Dashwoods quite as his own
dsters." She paused.
Elinor for a few moments remained silent. Her astonish-
nent at what she heard was at first too great for words; but
kt length forcing herself to speak, and to speak cautiously,
dte said, with a calmness of manner which tolerably well con-
sealed her surprise and solicitude, — "May I ask if your
sngagement is of long standing? "
"We have been engaged these four years."
"Four years!"
"Yes."
Elinor, though greatly shocked, still felt unable to be-
deveit.
"I did not know," said she, "that you were even ac-
quainted till the other day."
8*
116 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
*^Oiir acquamtanee, howsTer, ia of many years' date.
He was under my uncle^s care, y^u. know, a considerable
wldle."
"YouTimcle!"
**Yea; ^£r, Pratt. Did jou never hear hinj talk of Mr,
PraU?"
"I think 1 have," replied Elinor, with an exertion of
BpiiitB, which increased with her increase of emotion.
"He was four years with my uncle, who lives at Long-
staple, near Plym ou th . It w as there our ac quai ntance h egUD ,
for my sister and me was often staying with my uncle , and it
was there our engagement waa formed , though net 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 approbaticiii of
his mother; but I was too yoimg, and loved him too well, to
be so prudent as I ought to have been- Though you do not
know iiim so well as me , Miss Dashwood, jou must have seen
enough of him to be sensible he is very capable of making a
^oman sincerely attached to him,"
** Certainly," answered Elinor, without knowing what she
said; hut, after a moment's reflection, she added, with revivetl
security of Edward's honour and love, and her companion's
falsehood, — *' Engaged to Mr, Edward Ferrara I — I confess
myself so totally surprised at what yon tell me, that really —
1 beg your pardon; but surely there must he some mistake of
person or name» We cannot mean the same Mr. FeiTara.'*
*^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 1 mean ; you must allow that /am not likely to be
deceived as to the name of the man on whom all my happiness
depends."
''It is strange f" replied KHnor, in a moat painful per-
plexity, "that I should never have heard him even mention
yonr name."
'^No; considering our situation, It was not strange. Our
m
I
(
SENSE AND SENSIBILIT7. 117
first care has been to keep the matter secret. Yon knew
nothing of me, or my family, and, therefore, there could be no
occ^uibn 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-com-
mand 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£dward! 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
tiiis 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, acknowledg-
ing 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
sit for it the very first opportunity."
"You are quite in the right," replied Elinor, calmly.
They then proceeded a few paces in silence. Lucy spoke
first.
"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
lis &ENBK AND gBNBIBlLITT.
if t express emne sui-prSse at bo unnecessary a comiTHinication.
You miiBt at least have felt that mj being acquainted witb it
could not add to ita safety."
As she said this , abc looked eai-neetly at IjUCJj hoping to
discover something in her countenance j perhaps the false-
hood of the grefttest part of what she had heen saying j but
Lucy's conntenanee suffered no change.
"I was afraid you would think I was taking a great liherty
with you," said islie, ^4n telling you all this. I have not
known you long, to be aure, personally at least, but 1 haye
known you and all your family by description a great while \
and as soon as I saw yon , I felt almost as if you was an old
acquai n tance* Besides , in the present case ^ I really thought
some explanation was due to you, after my making sneh
particular enquiries about Edward's mother; and I am so un-
fortunate, 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 perceiTe;
and I am sure I was in the greatest fright in the world toother
day, when Edward's name was mentioned by Sir John, lest
she ehonld out with it all. Yon can't think how much 1 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 un-
certainty; and seeing him so seldom — we can hardly meet
above twice a year. I am sure 1 wonder my heart, is not quite
broke."
Here she took out her handkerchief; but Elinor did nat
feel very compEUisionatc.
"Sometimes," continued Lucy, after wiping her eycu, "I
think whether it would not be bntter for us both to break off
the matter entb^ely." As she said this , she looked directly at
her companion. **But then, at other times, I have not resolu-
tion enough for it. 1 cannot bear tlie thoughts of making him
BO miserable, as I know the very mention of such a thing
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 119
would do. And on my own account too — so dear as he is to
Bie — I don*t think I could be equal to it. What would you
adyise me to do in such a case , Miss Dashwood? What would
you do yourself ? "
"Pardon me," replied Elinor, startled by the question;
''but I can give you no advice under such circumstances.
Your own judgment must direct you."
"To be sure," continued Lucy, after a few minutes' silence
on both sides, "his mother must provide for him some time
or other; but poor Edward is so cast down about it! Did not
yon think him dreadful low-spirited when he was at Barton?
He was so miserable when he left us atLongstaple, to go to
yoa, 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
yoa 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 stajdng a fortnight with some
friends near Plymouth." She remembered, too, her own
sarprise 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 80 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 mc as full as possible."
1^0 SEKBE AND BENSIBILITT.
Elinor eaw that it was hie hand, and she could doubt no
longer. The picture , she had allowed lierself to believe,
might have been accidentally obtained; it might not have
been Edward's gift; but a cotreapondeace between them by
letter could subsist only under a positive ejigagemeiit, could
be author lee d by nothing else: for a few moments she was
almost overcome — her heart sunt within her, and she could
hardly stand; but exertion was indispensably neeeasary ; aad
she 6truggled so resolutely against the oppression of her
feelings, that her sueeess wBS 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, /have one other comfort in his pietmre;
but poor Edward has not even that. If he had but my picture,
be 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 hitn ^ 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 fai'ther. After
sitting with tliem a few minutes, the Miss Steeles returned
to the Park , and Elinor was then at liberty to think and be
wretched.
CHAPTEB XXIIL
1^ However imall Elinor's general dependence on Lucy's
I veracity might be, it was impossible for her, on serious re-
m flection J to suspect it in the present case, where no temptation
f » could be answerable to the folly of inventing a falsehood of
I such a description. What Lucy bad asserted to be true ^ there-
■ fore, Elinor could not, dared not, longer doubt ^ supported m
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 121
it was, too, on every side by such probabilities and proofs,
and contradicted by nothing but her own wishes. Their op-
portunity 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 i;egard
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 remain-
ing at Norland after he first felt her ixifluence 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 im-
prudence had made her miserable for a while ; but it seemed
to have deprived himself of all chance of ever being other-
wise. 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, vrith his integrity, his delicacy, and well-in-
formed mind, be satisfied with a wife like her — illiterate,
artful, and selfish?
192 SEKBE AND BFK3IBILITT.
The y outliful Jufatuation of nineteen would naturally blind
him to every tiling but her beauty niid good nature^ but the
four sutceecliug jeara — years whiehj if ratioualij spent, glTfl
auch Improvement to tht; under Btau ding - — must have opeaied
liis eyea to ber defects of education, while the same period of
time , (spent on her aide in inferior society and more Mvoloun
pursuits J kad perhaps robbed her of that simpbcity which
might once have given an interesting character to her beauty,
If iu the supposition of bis seeking to marry herself, hk
difficulties from his mother had seemed great, how much
greater were they now likely to be when the object of hii
engagement was undoubtedly inferior in eouneetious, and
probably Inferior in fortune to herself. These difficultiei,
indeed, with a heart so aUeuated from Lucy, might not press
very hard upon his patience \ bat melancholy was the sta.te af
the person by whom the expectation of family opposition Jind
unkind nees could be felt as a relief I
As tliese considerations occurred to her iu painful succes-
sion, 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 beav'y 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 eKpeetatioua^ that when she joined them at dinner, only,
two hours after she had first sufi*ercd the extinction of all he?
dearest hopes, no one would have supposedi from the appear-
ance of the sisters, that Elinor was mourning in secret orec
obstacles which must divide her for ever from the object of
iier 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 eaniager
which tlrove near their house.
The necessity of concealing from her mother a ndMariannQf'
what had been intrusted in confidence to herself, though it
obliged her to unceasing exertion, w:is no aggravation of
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 123
Elinor's distress. On the contrary, it was a relief to her, to be
pared the communication of what would give such affliction
them, and to be saved likewise from hearing that con-
iemnation of Edward, which would probably flow from the
xcess of their partial affection for herself, and which was
acre than she felt equal to support.
From their counsel, or their conversation, she knew she
oold receive no assistsmce ; their tenderness and sorrow must
idd to her distress, while her self-command would neither
eceive encouragement from their example nor from their
)raise. She was stronger alone ; and her own good sense so
^ell supported her, that her firmness was as unshaken, her
ippearance of cheerfulness as invariable, as, with regrets so
[>oignant and so fresh, it was possible for them to be.
Much as she had suffered from her first conversation with
[iucy on the subject, she soon felt an earnest wish of renewing
t; and this for more reasons than one. She wanted to hear
nany particulars of their engagement repeated again; she
?anted more clearly to understand what Lucy really felt for
ildward, whether there were any sincerity in her declaration
»f tender regard for him ; and she particularly wanted to con-
ince Lucy, by her readiness to enter on the matter again,
md her calmness in conversing on it, that she was no other-
fise interested in it than as a friend, which she very much
eared her involuntary agitation , in their morning discourse,
nust have left at least doubtful. That Lucy was disposed to
)e jealous of her appeared very probable : it was plain that
jldward had always spoken highly in her praise , not merely
rom Lucy's assertion, but from her venturing to trust her on
\o short a personal acquaintance with a secret so confessedly
ind evidently important. And even Sir John's joking intel-
igence must have had some weight. But, indeed, while
illinor remained so well assured within herself of being really
)eloved by Edward, it required no other consideration of pro-
)abilities to make it natural that Lucy should be jealous ; and
hat she was so, her very confidence was a proof. What other
reason for the disclosure of the affair could there be , but that
124 anKSE Am* stskstbiltty.
EUnOT might be infonned by it of Lucy's superior clftinuKM
Edward, and be taught to avoid him iu future? She hsi
little difficulty in undo rstau ding thus much of lier rivare in
tentiouB^ and while she was firmly reaolved to aet by her a
every principle of honour and honesty directed, to combat hti
own affection for Edward ^ and to eee him as little as pOBsiblej
she could not deny herself the comfort of endeavouring tc
eon vine e Lucy that her heart was un wounded. And as sb
could now have nothing more painful to hettr on the subjeo
than had already been told, she did not miBtniEt her owl
ability of going through a repetition of particulars with comi
posure.
But it was not immediately that an opportunity of doin|
so could be commanded, though Luey was as well disposed a
herself to take advantage of any that occurred; for th^
weather was not often fine enough to allow of their joining ll
a walk J where they might most easily separate themselvei
from the others \ and though they met at least every othd
evening either at the Park or cottage , and chiefly at thl
former, they could not be supposed to meet for the sake Q
conversation. Such a thought would never ent«r either S^
John or Lady Middleton'a head; and therefore very littli
leisure was ever given for general chat, and none at allfol
particular discourse. They met for the sake of eating, drink^
ing, and laughing together^ playing at cards, or consequeticeii
or any other game that was sufficiently noisiy.
One or two meetings of this kind had taken place ^ witho^
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 aU dine with Lad^
Middle ton that day, aa he was obliged to attend the club fli
Exeter, and &he would otherwise be quite alone, except ha
mother and the two Miss Steelea. Elinor, who foresaw i
fairer opening for the point she had in %iew, in sach a partf
as this was likely to he, more at liberty among thcmselvei
under the tranquil and well-bred direction of Lady fitiddletoa
than when her husband united them together iu one noiij
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 125
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 per-
loaded by her mother, who could not bear to have her seclude
herself fii^m any chance of amusement, to go likewise.
The young ladies went, and Lady Middleton was happily
preserved from the frightM 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 ex-
pression; 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 impos-
sibUity of engaging Lucy's attention to attempt it. They
(joitted 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 conver-
sation 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 Anna-Maria's basket this evening;
for I am sure it must hurt your eyes to work filigree by candle-
light. 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 atthe card-table now, lam 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 to-morrow ; for though I told her it certainly
would not, I am sure she depends upon having it done."
i^
126 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY*
Lucjr directly drew her work-table aeftr her, and reaeate^
herself with an alacrity and ehearfulneBB ^ which seemed td
infer, that she could taste no greater delight than in making
a filigree basket for a spoilt child.
Lady Middleton proposed a nibl>er of Casaino to th«
otbcre. No one made any objection but Marianne^ who, with
her uffual inattention to the forms of general civility, exi
claimed, *^ Your Ladyship will have the ^odness to excnsi
m& — yoa know i detest cards, 1 shall go to the piana-fortei
I have not touched it since it was tuned. '^ And, withoul
fartkef ceremony, she turned away and walked to the inatnn
ment.
Lady Middleton looked as if she thanked Heaven that^Jk
had never made bo rude a apeech. i
** Man swine can never keep long from that instrument^
you know, ma'am," said Elinor, endeavouring to smooth awaj^
the offence ^ ** and I do not much wonder at it ; for it is the vcrj!
best toned piano -forte 1 ever heard J^ '
The remuming five were now to draw their cards. <
"Perhaps,'^ continued Elinor, *'if I ahould happen to cu|
oat, I may be of some use to Hiaa Lucy Steele ^ in rolling hec
papers for her^ and there is so much still to be done to tb§
basket, that it must be impossible, I think, for her labour^
iingEy, to linbh it this evening. 1 should Ukc the workez«
ceedingly, if she would allow me a share in it"
* indeed 1 shall be very much obliged to you for your
help," cried Lucy, ^*for I find there is more to be done toil
than I thought there was ; and it would be a shocking thing t4^
disappoint dear Ann a- Maria after alL"
*^0h, that would be terrible, indeed/' said Mtss Steele^
" Dear little soul, how I do love her \ " i
"You are very kind," suid Lady Middleton to Eliiiori
** and as you really Kfee the work , perhaps you will be as well
pleased not to cut in till another rubber, or will you take j^ouf
chance now?"
Elinor joyfully profited by the first of these proposals^ anil
thus, by a little of that address, which Marianne coaidaevef
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 127
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 piano-forte , 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.
Ik a firm, though cautious tone, Elinor thus began : —
^'I should be undeserving of the confidence yoU have
honoured we with , if I felt no desire for its continuance , or no
farther curiosity on its subject. I will not apologise , there-
fore, 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 ofiended 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 uncom-
fortable. 1 felt sure that you was angry with me; and have
been quarrelling with myself ever since , for having took such
a liberty as to trouble you with my affairs. But I am very
glad to find it was only my own fancy , and that you do not
really blame me. If you knew what a consolation it was to
r
128 ^EHSE AND I^ENBtElLlTY.
me to relieve my heart, by speaking to you of what I ai
always thinking of eveiy moment of my life, your compaasii
would make you overlook every thing ebe, I am sure/'
^* Indeed, I can easily believe that it wa^ a very gre^
relief to you^ to acknowledge your situation to me, and be
Bured that you shall never have reaBOn to repent it. Yoi
case is a veiy unfortunate one ; you seem to me to be si
rounded with difficulties ; aud you will have need of ally oi
mutual Eiffection to support you under them. Mr. Ferri
1 believe, is entirely dependent on his mother,"
"He has only two thousand pounds of his own: it wouli
be madness to marry upon that ^ though, for my own part,
could give up every prospect of more without a sigh. I have
been always used to a very small income , and could straggle
with any poverty for Mm 5 but I love him too well to be the
selfish means of robbing him, perhaps, of all that his mother
might give Lint , 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*j
affection and constancy nothing can deprive me of, 1 know,"
*^ That conviction must be every thing to you^ aud he ia,
undoubtedly j supported by the same trust in yours. If the
©trength of your reciprocal attachment had failed, as between
many people, and under many tircumstauees , it naturally
would, during a four years' engagement, your situation woaldJ
have been pitiable indeed. ^^ T
Lucy here looked up ; but Elinor was eareful in guarding
her countenance from every expression that could give her
words a suspicious tendency.
**Edward*fl love for me," said Lucy, "has been pretty wetf
put to the test, by our long, very long absence, since we were
ilrst 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 ai
sertion.
A
1
i
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 129
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 ihe truth in an instant, if there had been the slightest
alteration in his behaviour to me when we met, or any low-
ness 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 siure I could not be de-
ceived."
"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 tedious-
ness of the many years of suspense in which it may involve
70U, 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 dis-
interestedness 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 un-
like 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 favoiurite beaux, I
dare say."
Sense and Sensibility. 9
130 8BNSE AND SENSIBILITY.
" 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."
" 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 con-
cerned. I dare say you have seen enough of Edward to
know that he would prefer the church to every other profes-
sion; now my plan is, that he should take orders as soon as he
can; and then, through your interest, which I am sure you
woiUd be kind enough to use out of friendship for him , and I
hope out of some regard to me , your brother might be per-
suaded 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 be always happy," replied Elinor, "to show
any mark of my esteem and friendship for Mr. Ferrars ; but
do not you perceive that my interest on such an 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."
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 131
" Then I rather suspect that my interest would do very
ittle."
They were again silent for many minutes. At length
Liucy 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 , tibat 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
Qot. You know very well that my opinion would have no
weight with you, unless it were on the side of your wishes."
"Indeed you wrong me ," replied Lucy, with great solem-
nity; "I know nobody of whose judgment I think so highly
as I do of yours; and I do really believe, that if you was to
say to me , 'I advise you by all means to put an end to your
engagement with Edward Ferrars , it will be more for the
happiness of both of you,* I should resolve upon doing it im-
mediately."
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,
witb. some pique, and laying a particular stress on those
vrords, "that your judgment might justly have such weight
jfith me. If you could be supposed to be biassed in any
respect by your own feelings, your opinion would not be
srorth 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
9*
ia2
SS5H3B AND SEKSlBILITY.
royi
many minutes' duration, BucceedeU this speech, and Lii^
waa Btill the first to end it. i
"Shall you be in town this winter, Miss Da»hwood?J
said shCf with all her accu&tomaiy complacency.
"Certainly not."
** I am sorry for that," returned the Other ^ while her c
brightened at the information \ "it would have gave me i
pleasure to meet you there I But I dare say you will go fd
all that- To be sure , your brother and siater will ask yuul
eome to them.*' |
" It will not be in m^ power to accept their invitatioJi I
they do." j
'^How imlneky that is! I had quite depended upfll
meeting you there. Anne and me are to go the latter end i
January to some relations who have been wanting us to vi^
them these several years. But I only go for the sake 4
seeing Edward. He will be there iu February, other wii
London would have no charms for me; I have not spirii
fori!" y
Elinor was soon called to the card- table by the conclufliij
of the £a'at rubber, and the confidential diBcourse of the ti^
ladies was therefore at an end \ to which both of them su]^
mitted without any reluctance , for noUjing had been said a
either side to make theni dislike each other less than tliey h^
done before: and Elinor sat down to the card-table with thj
melanclioly persuasion that Edward waa not only wlth04
afi'ectJon for the person who was to be his wife » but that 1|
had not even the chance of being tolerably happy in ma^
riagC) which sincere ajfectiou on her side would have given
for self- interest alone could indnce a woman to keep a man|
an engagement, of which she seemed so thoroughly awal
that he was weaiy . I
From this time the subject was never revived by Elinci^
and when entered on by Lucy^ who seldom missed an oj
poi-tunity of introducing it, and was particulaily careful j
inform her confidant of her happiness whenever she reeeivii
a letter from Ed w aid ^ it waa treated by the former with calm
J
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 133
less and caution, and dismissed as soon as civility would
illow; for she felt such conversations to be an indulgence
i^hich Lucy did not deserve , and which were dangerous to
lerself.
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
mrald not hear of their going ; and in spite of their numerous
and long arranged engagements in Exeter, in spite of the ab-
solute necessity of their returning to fulfil them immediately,
which was in ftdl 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
irinter 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
rery unexpectedly by them , asked the elder Miss Dashwoods
to accompany her. Elinor, without observing the varying
complexion of her sister, and the animated look which spoke
QO 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
134 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY*
pany, for ■
on will be T
i
I
well, and I do beg you will favour me with your company^
IVe quite set m j heart upoD it. Don't fancy that you
any meouvenience to me j for I shan't put myself at all out of
my way for you. It will only be a ending Betty by the coach^
and I hope 1 can afford that. We three sliall be able to go
very well in my chaise; and when we are in town^ if you do
not like to ^o whereyer I do, welt and good , you may always
go witli 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 pereon
to have the charge of yon; and if I don't get one of yon at
least well married before I have done with yon it shall not be
my fault. 1 shall apeak a good word for you to all the young
men, you may depend upon it*"
**1 have a notion/' said Sir John, -'that Miss Marianne
would not object to such a Bcheme 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, witiiout saying a word to Miss Dashwood
about it."
"Kay/' cried Mrs. Jennings, *'l am sure I shall be
monstrous glad of Miss Marianoe's company, whether Mist
Dashwood will go or not, only the more the merrier say I,
and I thought it would be more comfortable for them to be
together; because if they got tired of me they might talk to
one another, and laugh at my odd ways behind my hack. J
But one or the other , if not both of them j I must have» Lord ■
bless me I how do you think 1 can hve poking by myself, I
who have been always used, till this wititer, to have Charlotte
with me. Come, Miss Maiianne, let us strike hands upon tbe
bargain , and if Miss Dashwood will change her mind hy and
by, why, so much the better/'
'^I thank yon, ma'am, sincerely thank you," said Ma-
rianne, with warmth: ^^your invitation has insured |eiy gra-
titude for ever; and it would give me such happiueas, yes,
^most the greatest happiness I am capable of, to be able to
i
I
J
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 185
MM^ept it. But my mother, my dearest, kindest mother — I
Eeel tihie justice of what Elinor has urged, and if she were to be
oiade less happy , less comfortable by our absence — oh , no,
nothing should tempt me to leave her. It should not, must
not be a struggle."
Mrs. Jennings repeated her assurance that Mrs. Dash-
wood could spare them perfectly well ; and Elinor, who now
understood her sister, and saw to what indifference to almost
every thing else she was carried by her eagerness to be with
liVllloughby 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 ap-
prove 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 con-
duct 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
Birs. Jennings's 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 fiill 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.
136 SBN8E AND SENSIBILITY,
"lam delighted with the plaii|" she cried; "it is eiactlj
what I could wish, Margaret and I ahall be as much henefited
by it as yourself. When you and the Middletons are gone,
we shall go on so quietly and happily together with our hooks
and our music ! You will find Margaret ao improved when you
eome back again 1 And I have a little fplan of alteration for
your bedrooms too , which may now be performed without in-
convenience to any one. It is very right that you .^huuld go to
town ; I would have eveiy young woman of your condition in
life acquainted with the manners and amusements of Loudoiip
You will be under the care of a motherly good sort of womau,
of whose kindness to you I can have no douht. And in all
probability you wilt see your brother; and whatever may be
his faults, or the faults of his wife, when I consider whose
son he is, I cannot hear to have you so wholly estranged from
each other.**
" Though with your usual anxiety for our happiness,** said
Elinor J '*you have been obviating every impediment to the
present scheme which occm*red to you, there is stiU oneob*
jection which, in my opinion, cannot be so easily removed."
Marianne's countenance sank,
** And what," said Mrs. Dash wood, "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 veiy well of Mrs,
Jenning&*8 heart, she is not a woman whose society can
afford us pleasui'e, or whose protection will give us con--
eequence/*
*'That is very true/' replied her mother; "but of hep
society, separately from that of other people, you wiUl
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 Mr«.
Jennings," said Marianne ^ "at least it need not prevent m^
accepting her invitation. I have no such scrupleB ^ and I am
J
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 137
sore I could put up with every unpleasantness of that kind
with very little effort."
£linor 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 Ed-
ward and herself, that the shock might be the 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 in-
difference 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
138
BENSE AXD 9I3NSEBXLITY*
received the mformation with a great deal of joy, and manj
asaurfinces of kmduesa 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 Middle ton too'k tbe
trouble of being delighted, which was putting berBelf rather
out of her way; and as for the Miss Steelea , eepeeially Lucy,
they had never been bo happy in their lives as this intelligence
made them.
Elinor submitted to the arrangement which counteracted
her wishes with less reluctance than &he 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 tbe cause, and
would hardly aliow herself to distrust the consequence.
Mariamie s joy was almost a degree beyond happiness, so
great was the perturbation of her spirits, and her impatience
to be gone. Her unwiUingnees to quit her mother was her
only restorative to cal Pines »; 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 abort
of eternal.
Their departure took place in the first week in January*
The Mid die tons were to follow in about a week. The Miss
Steele s kept their station at the Park , and were to quit it only
with the reat of the family.
I
I
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 139
CHAiPTEK XXVI.
EuiroB could not find herself in the carriage with Mrs.
Jennings , and beginning a journey to London under her pro-
tection, 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 cheer-
less 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 be-
haviour 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 observa-
tions 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 jomney, and Marianne's
behaviour, as they travelled, was a happy specimen of what
140 SBNSE AXD SJ'JNSIBILITT.
Ii6r fiituTC complaisance and companioDableness to Mt&.
Jenniiigs miglit be expected to be. She eat in ailence almost
all the way, wrapt in her own meditations , and scarcely ever
voluntarily apeaking^ except when any object of pictnre&que
beauty within their view drew from her an exclamation of
delight exclusively addreaaed to her sister. To atone for thia
conduct J therefore, Elinor took inimediiite possession of the
post of civility which she bad assigned herself, behaved with
the greatest attention to Mrs» Jennings, talked with her^
laughed with her^ and listened to her whenever a he could -
and Mrs. Jennings, on her side, treated them both with all
pOBBible kindnesBj was aolicitoua on every occasion for their
ease and enjoyment, and only diatm-bed that she could not
make them chooi*e 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^elock the third
day, glad to be releaaed, after such a journey, from the con-
finement 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 apartmentn It had formerly been Charlotte's;
and over the mantel-piece still hung a landscape in coloured
ailks 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 hoiu*s 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. **/ am writing home,
MariannCj" said Elinor; **had riot you better defer your letter
for a d ay or two ? " ■
*^1 am not going to write to my mother," replied Marianne, I
hastily, and as if wishing to avoid any farther enquiry* Elinor
said no more: it immediately struck her that she must then
be writing to Wi Hough by j and the conclusion which as in-
stantly followed was , that, however mysteriously they might
wish to conduct the affair , they must be engaged. This con-
\
1
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 141
Tiction, though not entirely satisfactory, gave her pleasure,
and she continued her letter with greater alacrity. Mari-
anne'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
eomplete than Marianne, ringing the bell, requested the
footman who answered it to get that letter conveyed for her
to tihe 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 scarce^ eat any dinner ; and when they after-
wards returned to the drawing-room, seemed anxiously
listening to the sound of every carriage.
It was a great satisfaction to Elmor 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 neighbouiftg 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 coiUd 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, '*0h, Elinor, it is
Willoughby, indeed it is!" and seemed almost ready to
throw herself into his arms, when Colonel Brandon ap-
peared.
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
142 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
experienced nothing but grief and disappointment in seeing i
him. She instantly saw that it was not unnoticed by him; j
that he even observed Marianne, as she quitted the room, I
with such astonishment and concern, as hardly left himtliA|
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 headachs, 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 enquiries 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, inomediately
brought back to her remembrance all the circumstances of hxs
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 par-
don, — 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
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 143
things to do after one has been away for any time ; and then
[ have had Cartwright to settle with. Lord, I have been
as biisy as a bee ever since dinner! But pray, Colonel,
how came you to conjure out that I should be in town to-
day?"
"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? 1 warrant you she is a fine size by
this time."
"Mrs. Palmer appeared quite well; and I am com-
missioned to tell you, that you will certainly see her to-
morrow."
"Ay, to be sure, I thought as much. Well, Colonel, 1
bave brought two young ladies with me, you see, — that is,
jrou 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
^oung 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 1 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 en-
quiries, but without satisfying her in any. Elinor now be-
gan to make the tea, and Marianne was obliged to appear
again.
After her entrance, Colonel Brandon became more thought-
ful and silent than he had been before, and Mrs. Jennings
could not prevail on him to stay long. No other visiter ap-
peared that evening, and the ladies were unanimous in agree-
ing to go early to bed.
Marianne rose the next morning with recovered spirits and
happy looks. The disappointment of the evening before
144 SENSE ANB SENSIBILITY.
Beamed forgotiien in the expeetatmn of wLat was to bappeU'
tiaat day. Thej had not long fiuiehed their hreakfast before
Mrs, Palmer^s barouche atopped at the dooTi and in a few
minutes she caine laughing into the room : so delighted tn see
tliem all, that it was hard to eajr whether she received moat
pleasure from meeting her mother or the Miss Dash woods
again. So surprised at their coming to town^ though it waa
what she had rather expected all along; so angry at their ac-
cepting her mother's invitation after having declined her own,
thougti at the same time she wouid never have forgtven them
if they had not come!
"Mr* Pabner will be so happy to see yon/* 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
BO droll!"
After an hour or two spent in what her mother called com-
fortable chat, or in other words^ in every variety of enquiry
concerning all their acquaintance on Mrs. Jentiings's aide,
and in laughter without cause on Mrs, Palmer's^ it was pro-
posed by the latter that they should all accompany her to
some shops were she had business that morning, to which
Mi*s. Jennings and Elinor readily consented, as haying like-
wise some purchases to make themselves; and Marianne^,
though decHniug 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 tbeir
business lay, her eyes were in constant enquiry; and iu what*
ever shop the party were engaged , her mind was equally ab*
stracted from every thing actually before them, from all that
interested and occupied the others. Kestless and dissatisfied
every where, her sister could never obtain her op in ion of any
article of purchase, however it might equally coneeni them
both: she received no pleasure from anything; was only im-
patient to he at home again, and could with diihculty govern
her vexation at the tecUousness of Mrs. Palmer, whose eye
was caught by every thing pretty, expensive, or new ^ wbo
I
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 145
was wild to buy all, could determine on none, and dawdled
awaj 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
taming &om 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?"
Baid 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, re-
garding 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 engage-
ment between a daughter so yoimg, a man so little known, to
be carried on in so doubtful, so mysterious a manner ! / long
to enquire ; but how will my interference be borne ? "
She determined, after some consideration, that if appear-
ances 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 fdlfil 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,
Sie evening was by no means more productive of pleasure to
Sense and Sensibility, 10
146 m:y%E AND 8E??6IBII4TTY.
her than ta Elmor^ for it was spent m all the anxiety of ex- 1
pectation and the pain of dmappointment. She sometimeil
endeavoured for a few minutes to read { but tUe book waa sooa |
thrown aside ; and she returned to the more interesting em-
ployment of walking backwards and forwards acro&s tUe]
room, paufling for a moment whenever she came to the win-l
dow, in hopei of distinguishing the long expected rap.
CHAPTER XXVIL
"Ir this open weather liolds much longer," said Mrs* Jtn^l
ninga ^ when they met at breakfast the following morning, ]
*' Sir John wJLl not like leaving Barton next week; 'tis a &a4
thing for spoii;smen to lose a day's pleasure. Poor souls t I
always pity them when they do; they seem to take it so muc
to heart."
"That is true," cried Marianne, in a cheerful voice,
walking to the window as ahe spoke^ to examine the day, '
had not thought of thaL This weather will keep many spor
men in the country,"
It waa a lucky recollection j all her good spirits were re-
stored by it. **lt is charming weather for tJietn indeed/' she
continued^ as she sat down to the breakfast table with a
happy countenance. '^How much they must enjoy it! But"
(with a littte return of anxiety) *^ it cannot be expected to lant
long. At this time of the year^ and after such a series of raiii,
we shall certainly have very little more of it. Frosts irill
soon set in^ and in all probability with severity. In another
day or two, perhaps; this extreme mildness can hard Ly last
longer — nay, perhaps it may freeze to-night 1"
'^At any rate/^ said Elinor^ wisljing to prevent Mrs, Jen*
ning^ from seeing her sister's thoughts as clearly as she did,
'^I dare say we shall have Sir John and Lady Mlddleton in
town by the end of next week."
'^ Ay, my dear, I'll warrant you we do. Mary always has
her own way/*
J
8BHSE AND SENSIBILITY. 147
^'And now/' edlently conjectured Elinor, ''she will write
to Combe by this day's post."
But if the did^ the letter was written and sent away with
apriyacy which eluded all her watchfulness to ascertain the
faet Whaterer 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 uncom-
fortable 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
housoB of Mrs. Jennings's acquaintance, to inform them of her
being in town; and Marianne was all the time busy in ob-
serving the direction of the wind, watching the variations of
&e 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
nm will be out in a moment, and we shall have a clear after-
noon."
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 dis-
latisfied with Mrs. Jennings's style of living, and set of ac-
^piaintance, than with her behaviour to themselves, which
was invariably kind. Every thing in her household arrange-
mente 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 introduc-
tion could at all discompose the feelings of her young com-
panions. 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
10*
148 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
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 satis-
faction fromi 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 thai
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 to-morrow." But Marianne seemed hardly to hear her,
and, on Mrs. Jennings's entrance, escaped with the preciout
card.
This event, while it raised the spirits of Elinor, restored tc
those of her sister all, and more than all, their former agita-
tion. From this moment her mind was never quiet; the ex-
pectation of seeing him every hour of the day made her unfi<
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 I " 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.
r
SENSE ANB SEXStBILITY* 149
Yes, a little — not much."
After a abort pause, "You have no confidence in me,
Marianne/'
**Nay, Elinor, tliis reproacli from ^ou — you who have
confidence inno one!"
**Me]" returned Elinor, in some confusion; "indeed,
Marianne, I have nothing to tell/'
^* Nor I/' answered Marianne, with energy; "our sitnationB
then are alike. We have neither of uaany thing to tell;
you, heeause you communicate, and 1, because I conceal
nothing/*
Elinor, distressed by this charge of reserve In herself,
which she was not a liberty to do away, knew not bow^
under such circumstances , to preis for greater openness in
Marianne,
Mrs* Jennings soon appeared ^ aad the note being given
W, abe read it aloud. It was from Lady Middleton, anouncing
their arrival in Conduit Street the night before^ and request-
ing the company of her mother and cousins the following
evening. Business on StxJobn^s part, and a violent cold on
her own J prevented their calling in Berkeley Street, The in-
vitation was accepted; but when the hour of appointment
drew near, necessary as it was, in common civility, to Mrs,
leanings that they should both attend her on such a visit,
Elinor had some dlliicult^' in persuading Uer sister to go , for
itlUshe had seen nothing of WUloughby ; and therefore was
iiot 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
flc«u*cely settled in town, Sir John had contrived to collect
aiound 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 unpreme-
ditated dance was very allowable ; but in London, where the
feputation of elegance was more important^ and less easily
omalned, it was risking too much for the gratification of a
4
4
g
150 SEN SB AND SENSIBILITY*
few girls ^ to Imve it known ^ that Ladj Middletou had giv^n t^
amali dance ^ of eight or nine couple, witli two yioUns^ and Ak
mere sideboard collation. I
Mr. ftnd Mre. Palmer were of tbe partj ; from the former,'
whom they had not seen before since their arriral in town ^ ai^
he was careful to avoid the appearance of any attention to hii'
mother-in-law, and therefore never came near her, they r^
ceived no mark of reeognition on their entrance. He looked
at them slightly, without seeming to know who they wer^
and merely nodded to AIr&. Jennings from the otlier side ol
the room. Marianne gave one glance round the apartment mi
she entered ; it was enough , h& was not there — and she sal
down, equally 111 -disposed to receive or communicati
pleas ure> After they had been assembled about an boni^
Mr. Palmer sauntered towards the Miss Dash woods to expreiri
bis surprise on seeing them in town, though Colonel Brandool
had been firat informed of their arrival at his houJie , and h$
bad himself said sometblog very droll on hearing that thfl|
were to come. 4
" 1 thought you were both in Devonshire," said be,
" 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 liH
as abe was that evening, and never so much fatigued by the
exercise « She complained of it as they returned to Berkeley
Street-
"Ay, ay," said Mrs. Jennings, ** we know the reasoti of all
that very well : if a certain person, who sball be nameless, had
been there, you would not have been a bit tired \ and, to aay
the truth, it was not very pretty of him not to give yantlM
meeting wbea he was invited*" I
*'Invit<id ! " cried Marianne.
" So my daugbter Middle ten told me; for it seems Sir Jobij
met him somewhere in the street this morning." Marianne
said no more^ but looked exceedingly hurt. Impatient in thia
situation to be doing something that might lead to her sister'a
4
8SN8B AND SENSIBILITY.
151
relief^ Elinor reBolved to write the next morning to her
mother, and hoped , by awakening her fears for tlie health
frf Marianne , to procure those enqiimeB which had been
no long delayed i and ^he waa still more eagerly bent on
flik measure, by perceiving, jkfber breakfast on the morrow,
tliat Marianne was again writing to Willoughhyj for she
eould not suppose it to be to any other person.
About the middle of the day Mrs. Jennings went out by
self on basin ess J and Ehnor began her letter direetlyf
"" I Marianne , too restless for employment, too ajoxioas for
Fersation, walked from one window to the other, or sat
down by the fire in melancholy meditation. Elinor was very
earnest in her apphoation to her mother, relating all that had
passed, her suspicious of Willoughby's inconstancy, urging
ber, by every plea of duty aud affection, to demand from
Afarianne an account of her real situation with respect to
him.
Her letter waa scarcely finished, when a rap foretold a
Tifiiter, and Colonel Brandon was announced. Marianne,
who bad seen bim from the window, and who hated company
<tf any kind , left the room before he entered it. He looked
more than usually grave \ and though expressing satisfaction
at finding Miss Dash wood alone, as if he had somewhat in
particular to teJl 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
C^pening. It was not the first time of her feeUng the same kind
of conviction; for more than once before , beginning with the
observation of, ** Your sister looks unwell to-day/* or, ^* Your i
sister seema out of spirits," he had appeared on tlie pointy I
either of disclosing, or of enquiring, something particular]
about her. After a pause of several minutes their silence waa f
broken, by his asking her, in a voice of some agitation ^ when 1
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
152 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
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 enquiry has been impertinent; but I had not sup-
posed 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 be-
lieved it , for where the mind is , perhaps , ratiier unwilling to
be convinced, it will always find something to support its
doubts, if I had not, when the servant let me in to-day, ac-
cidentally seen a letter in his hand, directed to Mr. Wil-
loughby, in your sister's writing. I came to enquire, 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 ab-
solutely resolved on, that any attempt, that in short conceal-
ment, if concealment be possible, is all that remains."
These words, which conveyed to Elinor a direct avowal of
his love for her sister, affected her very much. She was not
immediately able to say any thing; and even when her spirits
were recovered , she debated for a short time on the answer it
would be most proper to give. The real state of things
between Willoughby and her sister was so little knowii 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
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 153
conduct from censure , she thought it most prudent and kind,
after some consideration, to say more than she really knew or
beh'eved. 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
eeasing to speak, rose directly from his seat, and after saying,
in a voice of emotion, "To your sister I wish all imaginable
liappiness; to Willoughby that ;he may endeavour to deserve
her," — took leave, and went away.
Elinor derived no comfortable feelings from this conversa-
tion to lessen the uneasiness of her mind on other points ; she
W2LB left, on the contrary, with a melancholy impression of
Dolonel Brandon's unhappiness, and was prevented even
from wishing it removed, by her anxiety for the very event
that must confirm it.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
NoTHiMa occured during the next three or four days to
make Elinor regret what she had done, in applying to her
mother ; for Willoughby neither came nor wrote. They were
engaged about the end of that time to attend Lady Middleton
to a party, from which Mrs. Jennings was kept away by the
indisposition of her youngest daughter; and for this party
Marianne, wholly dispirited, careless of her appearance , and
seeming equally indifferent whether she went or stayed,
prepared, without one look of hope, or one expression of
pleasure. She sat by the drawing-room fire after tea till the
moment of Lady Middleton's arrival, 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.
154 SENSE AN*rj SEKSIBILITY.
The J arrived in duo time at the place of destination^ aad
ha Boon as the string of carriages before them would allow,
alighted} aBceudcd the stairs, he^ird 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
itiiufferably hot. When they had paid their tribute of polite-
ness hj com'teflying to the lady of the house, they were per-
mitted to mingle in the crowd^ aad take their share of the heat
and mconvenienee to which their arrival must necessarily add.
After some time spent in saying little and doing less , Lady
Middleton sat down to Cassino \ and as Marianne was not in
spirits for moving about, she and Elinor luckily succeeding
to chairs placed themselvea at no great distance from the
table.
They had not remained in this manner long, before Elinor
perceived Willoughby, Btaoding with in a few yards of them,
in earnest eonveraation with a very fashionable looking young
woman. She soon caught his eye, and he immediately bowed,
but without attempting to Bpcak to her^ or to approach
Marianne, though he could not hut Bee her^ and then con-
tinued his discourse with the same lady, Elinor turned in-
voluntarily 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
bold of her.
**Good heavens!" she exclaimed, "he is there — he is
there J — Oh, why does he not look at me? Why cannot I
speak to him?"
'^Pray, pray be composed," cried Elinor, *^and do nol
betray what you feel to every body present. Perhaps he baa
not observed you yet."
This J 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 iter wish. She sat in an
agony of impatience which afi'ected every feature.
Atlaathe turned round again, and regarded them both^
I
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 155
she started up, and pronouncing his name in a tone of affec-
tion, held out her hand to him. He approached; and ad-
dieBsing himself rather to Elinor than Marianne, as if wishing
to avoid her eye, and determined not to observe her attitude,
enquired, in a hurried manner, after Mrs. Dashwood, and
asked how long they had been Ln town. Elinor was robbed of
ail presence of mind by such an address, and was unable to
say a word. But the feelings of her sister were instantly ex-
pressed. Her face was crimsoned over, and she exclaimed, in
a voice of the greatest emotion, "Good Grod! 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.
£linor watched his countenance and saw its expression be-
coming more tranquil. After a moment's pause, he spoke
with calmness.
"I did myself the honour of calling in Berkeley Street
last Tuesday, and very much regretted that I was not for-
tunate enough to find yourselves and Mrs. Jennings at home.
My card was not lost, I hope."
"But have you not received my notes?" cried Marianne
in the wildest anxiety. "Here is some mistake, I am sure —
some dreadful mistake. What can be the meaning of it?
Tell me, Willoughby; for Heaven's sake tell me ; what is the
matter?"
He made no reply: his complexion changed, and all his
embarrassment returned; but as if, on catching the eye of
the young lady with whom he had been previously talking,
he felt the necessity of instant exertion, he recovered 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 botr ,
and joined his friend.
Marianne, now looking dreadfully white, and unable to
stand, sunk into her chair; and Elinor, expecting trery
156 SEXSE AXD SENSIBILITY.
moment to see her faint , tried to screen ber from the obaerva-
tian of others, wliile reviviiig her with lavender water,
^^Go to him, Elinor/' she cried, as soon as ahe eoiild
speak J ^^and force him to come to me. Tell him I must see
him again — mix^t speak to him instantly. I eannot rest
^ I shall not have a moment's peace till this is ea^plained —
some dreadful misapprehension or other. Oh ^ go to him thift
moment."
^*How can that be done? Ko, my dearest Marianne, you
must wait. This is not a place for e;Kplanatious. Wait only
till to-morrow."
With difBculty, however, could she prevent her from fol-
lowing him herself; and to persuade her to check her agita-
tion , 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 inceBsantly to give
way in a low voice to the misery of her feelings , by exclamji-
tions of wretchedness. In a short time Elinor saw WillougHby
quit tlie rootn by the door towards the staircase; and teiling
Marianne that he was gone , urged the impossibility of speak-
ing to him again that evening, as a fresh argument for her to
he 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 Mai'ianne 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 car-
riage could be found. Scarcely a word was spoken durtng
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 hai^:ahorn restored her a little to
herself. She was soon undi'eBsed and in bed; and ai she
seemed dealrous of being alone ^ her sister then left her, and
while she waited the return of Mrs. Jenniugs, had leisnre
enough for thinking over the past.
I
<
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 157
That some kind of engagement had subsisted between
Willooghby and Marianne she could not doubt, and that
Wflloughbywaswearyofit, seemed equally clear; for how-
ever Marianne might still feed her own wishes , she could not
attribute such behaviour to mistake or misapprehension of
any kind. Nothing but a thorough change of sentiment could
account for it. Her indignation would have been still stronger
than it was , had she not witnessed that 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 meet-
ing 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
etteem 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
nniting to heighten the misery of Marianne in a final separa-
tion from WiUoughby — in an immediate and irreconcilable
mptore with him.
CHAPTER XXIX.
Bbfobe 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 ^e windowrseats 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,
158 SEKSE AND SENSIBILITY.
roused ^oni sleep by her agitatton and iiaba, first perceived
her; end after observing ber for » few momentfl with ailent
aiuietj J said, in a tone of the most considerate gentleness, -
"Mariannej may I ask ?"
"No, Elinor/* she replied j **a&k nothing; yon will soon
know alh*'
The sort of desperate calmneaa with which this was said 1
lasted no longer than while sbe spoke , and was immediately
followed by a return of the same exceaBive affliction. It wa^
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 tbat she was writing for the iast time to j
Willoughby. ■
Elinor paid her every quiet and unobtrusive attention in m
her power J and she would have tried to soothe and trau-
quilUse her still more, had not Marianne entreated her, with
all the eageme^e of the most nervous irritability, not to speak
to her for the world. In such cireurajitaiices 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 re-
maining in the room a moment after she was dressed ^ but
requiring at onee 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
things and Elinor's attention was tben all employed , not m
urging her, not in pitying her, nor in appearing to regard her,
but in end eayo luring to engage Mrs. Jennings's notice entirely
to herself.
As this was a favourite meal with Mra. Jennings it lasted a
considerable time^ and ihey were just setting themselves
after it round the common working table , when a letter wat
delivered to Marianne^ which ahe 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^
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 159
felt immediately such a sickness at heart as made her hardly
able to hold up her head, and sat in such a general tremour as
made her fear it impossible to escape Mrs. Jennings's notice.
That good lady, however, saw only that Marianne had re-
eeiyed a letter from Willoughby, which appeared to her a
very good joke, and which she treated accordingly, by
liopiiig , with a laugh , that she would find it to her liking. Of
Elinor's distress she was too busily employed in measuring
iengthfl of worsted for her rug to see any thing at all; and
eahnly continuing her talk as soon as Marianne disappeared,
she said, —
"Upon my word, I never saw a young woman so desper-
ately in love in my life! My girls were nothing to her, and
yet they used to be foolish enough; but as for Miss Marianne
she is quite an altered creature. I hope , from the bottom of
my heart, he won't keep her waiting much longer, for it is
quite grievous to see her look so ill and forlorn. Pray, when
are they to be married? "
Elinor, though never less disposed to speak than at that
moment, obb'ged herself to answer such an attack as this, and,
tiierefore, 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
t}uin to hear of their being going to be married."
"For shame, for shame. Miss Dash wood! how can you
talk so? Don't we all know that it must be a match , — tiiat
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
Aat 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
160 SENSE A>T3 SENSIBILITY.
known all o¥er town this ever so long, I tell eveiy body of it,
and »o does Charlotte,"
*^ indeed, ma'am," said Elinor very aeriouBly, ^*jroti ane
miHtaken. 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."
Mra. Jennings laughed again, but Elinor had not spiritB
to say more J and eager, at ail events, to know what Wtl-
loughby had wntten , hurried away to their room , where, on
opening the door, she saw Marianne stretched on the bed,
almost ehoked by grief, one letter in her hand , and two or
three others lying by her. Elinor drew near, but without
saying a word ; and seating herself on the hed, took her hand,
kissed her affectionately Beveral times , and then gave way to
a burst of tears, which at first was scarcely Ices violent than
Marianne's. The latter, though unable to speak, seemed to
fee! 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 hajid-
kerchief, almost screamed with agony. Elinor , who knew
that such grief, shocking as it was to witness it, must have iti
course, watched by her till this excess of sufferiiighad some-
what spent itself, and then turning eagerly to WiUoughby'S
letter, read as follows : —
"Bond Struti Jfranuy*
'*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 any thing in my behaviour
last night that did not meet your approbation; and though I
am quit« 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 yon to have been perfectly nnintentional.
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 mis-
apprehension of my actions^ My esteem for your whole family
8ENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 161
is very sincere; bat if I have been so nnfortxinate 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 else-
where , and it will not be many weeks , I beb'eve , before this
engagement is fulfilled. It is with great regret that I obey
your commands of 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
hy 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
rach 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
i^ch proclaimed its writer to be deep in hardened villany.
She paused over it for some time with indignant astonish-
ment; 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 un-
Sense and Sensibility, 11
k
1G2 B11N8£ AKD SEKSIBILITIT. 1
priiieipled man , as a deliverance the most real i a bleaa:
most unportant^
In her earnest meditations on tlie contents of tlie
on the depravity of that mind which conld dictate il
probably, on the very ditferent mi ad of a very different
who had BO other connection whatever with the affa:
what her heart gave him with every thing that passed ^
forgot the immediate disti^efls of her Bister, forgot tl
had three letters on her lap yet unready and so entirely
how long ehe had been in the room, that when , on hei
carnage drive up to the door, she went to the window
who could be coming so unreason ably early ^ ahe i
astonisbment to perceive Mrs. Jennings's chariot, wh;
knew bad not been ordered till one. Determined not
Marianne, though hopelesa of contributing, at present,
ease, she hurried away to excuse herself £rom attendii
Jennings, on aeconnt of her sister being indisposed.
Jennings, with a thoroughly good-humoured concert
cause, admitted the excuse moat readily; and Elinor
eeeing her safe off, returned to Mariatme, whom ehi
attempting to rise from the bed , and whom ahe react
in time to prevent her from falling on the fioor, fa-
giddy from a long want of proper rest aud food j foi
many daya since ahe had any appetite, and many
aince she had really slept; and now, when her mind
longer eupported by the fever of suspense, the conaei
of all this was felt in an aching head, a weakened at
and a general nervous faintnesa. A glass of wine,
Elinor procured for her directly ^ made her more comfc
and she was at last able to e;xpress some sense nf he
ness, by aaying, ** Poor Elinor ! how imbappy I make ;
"I only wish," replied her sister, **there were any
couid do, which might be of comfort to yon,"
This ^ as every thing else would have heeu , was to
for Marianne, who could only oiclaim, intheanguisl
be art, *^ Oh, Elinor, I am miaerable indeed j" before h<
was entirely lost in sobs.
! SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 163
I
t Elinor could no longer witness this torrent of unresisted
grief in silence.
"Exert yourself, dear Marianne," she cried, "if yon would
not kill yourself and all who love you. Think of your mother ;
fiiink of her misery while you si^er; 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
lores 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 com-
forts? no friends? Is your loss such as leaves no opening for
consolation? Much as you suffer now, think of what you
would have suffered, if the discovery of his character had
been delayed to a later period ; — if your engagement had
been carried on for months and months, as it might have been,
before he chose to put an end to it. Every 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 ! "
11*
i
164 SEKBE AND BENSIBILITY.
"No, he is not BO unworthy as you believe Uim,
broken no faitli with me-"
"But he told you that he loved you."
" Yes — no — never absolutely. It waa every day implied
but never professedly declared, Satnetunes I thought it ha(
been, but it never was."
** Yet you wrote to him ? "
"Yes: eonld that be wrongs after all that had pasBe4(
But I cannot talk/' i
Elinor said no more, and turning again to the three latteil
which now raiaed a much stronger curiosity than beforfl
directly ran over the contents of all. The &:«t, which w»
what her sister had sent liim on their arrival in town , waa ll
this effect i —
** Berkeley Stredt^ Jimiury. |
**How surprUed you will be, Willoughby^ on receivii^
this; and I think you will feel sometlilng more than surpriie
when you know that I am in town. An opportmiity of comiB|
hither, though with Mrs. Jennings, was a temptation iH
could not reiist. I wish you may receive this in time to comi
here to-night, but I will not depend on it. At any rate I shal
eipect you to-morrow. For the present, adieu.
Her second note, which had been written on the moinii]}
after the dance at the Middletons', was in these words : —
"I cannot express my disapp ointment in having misial
you the day before yesterday, uor my aatoniehment at'nd
having reeeived any answer to a note which I sent you aboi)
a week ago, 1 have been eipeeting to hear fi-om you , anl
still more to see you j every hour of the day. Pray call agaa
as soon as possible, and explain the reason of my having
expected this in vain. Yon had better come earlier anoth^
time, because we are generally out by one. We were lii
night at Lady Middleton*s, where there was a dance* I baf*
been told that you were asked to be of the party^ But couM
J
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 165
it be 80? You most 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
poBsession.
"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
166 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
been written at all; and she was silently grieving over the
imprudence which had hazarded such unsolicited proofs of
tenderness , not warranted by any thing preceding , and most
severely condemned by the event, when Marianne, perceiving
that she had finished the letters , observed to her that they
contained nothing but what any one would have written in the
same situation.
^^I felt myself," she added, ''to be as soleinnly 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 supplica-
tion. 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
tool When he told me that it might be many weeks before
we met again — his distress — can I ever forget his distress?"
For a moment or two she could say no more ; but when
this emotion had passed away, she added, in a firmer
tone, —
"Elinor, I have been cruelly used; but not by Wil-
loughby."
" Dearest Marianne , who but himself? By whom can he
have been instigated?"
" By all the world , rather than by his own heart I could
rather believe every creature of my acquaintance leagued to- -
gether to ruin me in his opinion, than believe his nature
capable of such cruelty. This woman of whom he writes —
whoever she be — or any one, in short, but your own dear
self, mamma, and Edward, may have been so barbarous to
belie me. Beyond you three , is there a creature in the world
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 167
whom I would not rather suspect of evil than Willoughby,
wkoae heart I know so weJl? "
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, 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 Wil-
loughby '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 80 obligingly bestowed on me' — that is unpardonable.
Willoughby, where was your heart when you wrote those
words? oik J barbarously insolent! — Elinor, can he be
justified?"
168 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
"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 at-
tractive among his female acquaintance? — Oh, no one, no
one : — he talked to me only of myself."
Another pause ensued; Marianne was greatly agitated,
and it ended thus : —
"Elinor, I must go home. I must go and comfort mamma.
Cannot we be gone to-morrow? "
"To-morrow, Marianne!"
"Yes; why should I stay here? I came only for Will-
oughby'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 com-
monest 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. These Middletons and Palmers
— how am I to bear tiieir pity? The pity of sttch a woman as
LadyMiddleton! Oh, what would ^ say to that?"
Elinor advised her to lie down again, and for a momentshe
did so; but no attitude could give her ease; and in restless
pain of mind and body she moved from one posture to an-
other, 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.
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 169
CHAPTER XXX.
Mb8. Jennings came immediately to their ropm on her
return, and without waiting to have her request of admit-
tance 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 Dash wood? Poor thing! she looks
?ery 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
igo, and she was told it by a particular friend of Miss Grey
berself , 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
lay is, that if it is true, he has used a young lady of my
icquaintance abominably ill, and I wish with all my soul his
^e may plague his heart out. And so I shall always say,
ny dear, you may depend on it. I have no notion of men's
^ing on in this way; and if ever I meet him again, I will
^ve 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
he only young man in the world worth having; and with
^our pretty face you will never want admirers. Well, poor
thing! I won't disturb her any longer, for she had better
iiave her cry out at once and have done with it. The Parrys
EuidSandersonsluckily are coming to-night, you know, and
that will amuse her."
She then went away, walking on tiptoe out of the room,
as if she supposed her young friend's affliction could be in-
creased by noise.
Marianne, to the surprise of her sister, determined on
dining with tiiem. Elinor even advised her against it. But
*'no, she would go down; she could bear it very well, and
170 SENSE AKD SEHStBlLITT.
the bustle about her would be less." EHdot, pleased to hsi^
her governed for a moment by sueh a motive , though beliei
ing it hardly possible that she could sit out the dinner, sai4
no more; and adjusting her dress for her as well as she could,
while Marianne still remained on the bed , was readj to ftesist
her iuto the dining room as booq as they were summoned
to it.
When there, though looking most wretchedly j she ate
more, aud was cahner than her sister had ejcpected. Had
she tried to speak ^ or had she been conscious of half Mrs.
Jennings's well meant but ill-judged attentions to her, thia
calmness could not have been maintained; but not a syl-
lable escaped her lips ; autl 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 fonduessof a parent towards a favourite
child ou the last day of its holidays. Marianne was to have
the beat 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 diB-
appointment in love, by a variety of sweetmeats and olives^
and a good fire. As soon, however, as the consciousness of
aU 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 souir' cried Mrs. Jenninge, as aoon as she wafl
gone , ^^ how it grieves me to see her 1 And I dedare if she ia
1
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 171
not gone away without finishing her wine ! And the dried
eherriee too ! Lord ! nothing seems to do her any good. I am
sore if I knew of any thing she would like, I would send all
orer 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 I ''
"The lady, then, — Miss Grey , I think you called her, —
IB very rich?"
"Fifty thousand pounds, my dear. Did you ever see her?
I smart, stylish girl, they say, but not handsome. I re-
member her aunt yery well, Biddy Henshawe; she married
ft rery wealthy man. But the family are all rich together.
Pifty thousand pounds I and by all accounts it won't come
before it*s wanted ; for they say he is all to pieces. No won-
der! dashing about with fais curricle and hunters ! Well, it
don't signify talking; but when a young man, be he who he
will, comes and makes love to a pretty girl, and promises
marriage, he has no business to fly off from his word, only
because he grows poor, and a richer girl is ready to'have him.
Why don't he , in such a case , sell his horses, let his house,
torn off his servants, and make a thorough reform at once? I
warrant you. Miss Marianne would have been ready to wait
tQl matters came round. But that won't do now-a-days; no-
thing in the way of pleasure can ever be given up by the
yoimg men of this age."
"Do you know what kind of a girl Miss Grrey 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
Bioming, that one day Miss Walker hinted to her, that she
believed Mr. and Mrs. Ellison would not be sorry to have
Miss G-rey married, for she and Mrs. Ellison could never
"And who are the Ellisons?"
"fier guardians, my dear. But now she is of age, and
may choose for herself; and a pretty choice she has made I —
172
SENSE AKD BENSIBIIilTr.
What now/' after paufl mg a momeBt, "your poor bij
gone to her own room, I suppose, to moan by herse
there nothing one can get to comfort her? Poor dt
Beems quite cruel to let her be alone. Well, by~and-
shall have a few friends, and that will amuse her a
What shall we play at? She hates whist, I know;
there no round game she earee for?"
"Dear ma'am , this kindness is quite unnecessary*
anue, I dare &ay, will not leave her room again this ev
I shall persuade her, if I can, to go early to bed, foi
sure she wants rest."
"Ay, I belieye that will be best for her. Let her
her own supper, and go to bed. Lord ! no wonder si
been looking so bad and so cast down this last week c
for this matter I suppose has been hanging over her h
long as that. And so the letter that came to-day finis]
Poor &oul ! I am sure if I had had a notion of it, 1 woi:
have joked her about it for all my money. But thet
know, how should I guess such a thing? I made sun
being noHling but a commou love letter, and you know
people like to be laughed at about them. Lord I hoi
ccmed Sir John and my daughters will he when they h
If I had had my eensea about me I might have called ii
duit Street in my way home , and told them of it. But
see them to-morrow*"
"it would be unnecessary, I am sm-e, for you to ci
Mrs. Palmer and Sir John against ever naming Bfr,
loughby , or making the slightest allusion to what has p
before my sister. Their own good-nature must point
them the real cruelty of appearing to know jmy thing al
when she is present; and the less that may ever be said 1
self on the subject, the more my feelings will be spart
you, my dear madam, will easily believe*"
"Oh, Lord! yes, that 1 do indeed. It must be ti
for you to hear it talked of; and as for your sister,
sure I would not mention a word about it to her f<
world. You saw 1 did not all dinner time. No more
J
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 173
Sir John nor my daughters, for they axe all very thoughtful
and considerate; especially if I give them a hint, as I
eertainly will. For my part, I think the less that is said
about such things the better, the sooner 'tis blown over
and forgot. And what good does talking ever do, you
know?"
''In this afiPair it can only do harm; more so, perhaps,
dian in many cases of a similar kind ; for it has been attended
by drcumstances, which, for the sake of every one concerned
in it, make it imfit to become the public conversation. I must
io this justice to Mr. Willoughby — he has broken no positive
sngagement with my sister."
**Law, my dear! Don't pretend to defend him. Nopo-
ntive 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
Willonghby's; since, though Marianne might lose much, he
could gain very little by the enforcement of the real truth.
After a short silence on both sides, Mrs. Jennings, with all
her natural hilarity, burst forth again.
"Well, my dear, 'tis a true saying about an ill wind,
for it will be all the better for Colonel Brandon. He will
have her at last; ay, that he will. Mind me, now, if they
an't married by Midsummer. Lord ! how he'll chuckle over
this news! I hope he will come tornight. It will be all
to one a better match for your sister. Two thousand a
year without debt or drawback — except the little love-
child, indeed; ay, I had forgot her; but she maybe 'pren-
tieed out at small cost, and then what does it signify?
Delaford is a nice place, I can tell you; exactly what I call
a nice old fashioned place , full of comforts and conveniences ;
quite shut in with great garden walls that are covered with
^e best fruit-trees in the country; and such a mulberry
tree in one comer! Lord! how Charlotte and I did stuff
the only time we were there! Then, there is a dovecote,
r
174 SENSE AND BEKBIBILITY.
some delightful Btewponds, and a very pretty canal;
every tiling, in sbort, that one could wish for^ and, mon
over, it is close to the cburcli, and only a quarter of a mill
from the turnpike-road, so *tifl never dull, for if you only '
go and sit up in an old yew arbour behind the house, you maj J
see nil the CiLrriages that pass along. Oh, ^tla a nice placitj
A butcher hard by in the village , and the parBonage-iiOu
within a stone^a throw. To my fancy, a thouHand tin
prettier than Barton Park, where they are forced to ma
three miles for their meat, and have not a neighbour near
than your mother. Well, I shall spirit up the Colonel
soon as I can. One shoulder of mutton, you know, drive
another down. If we can but put Willoughby out of li6i
head I '*
^'Ay, if we can but do that, ma'am," said Elinor, "^
shall do very well with or without Colonel Brandon.'* And]
then rising^ ahe went away to join Marianne » whom &he
found, ag she expected, in her own room , leaning, in sOept
misery, over the small remains of a fire, which tiU Elinor's
entrance , had been her ouly light,
"You had bett^ir ieave me," was all the notice that het.
sister received from her.
*^I wiM leave you," said Elinor, "if you will go to bed,"
But this, from the momentary perverseness of impatient suf-
fering , she at first refused to do. Her sister's earnest, though
gentle persuasion, however, aoon softened her to compliance i
and EUnoT saw her lay her aching head on the pillow ^ and
saw her, as she hoped , in a way to get some quiet rest before
she left her*
In the drawing-room, whither she then repairied, ahewa*
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! When-
ever he had a touch of his old colicky gout, he said it did him
J
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 175
more good i^an any thing else in the world. Do take it to
your sister."
**Dear ma'am," replied Elinor, smiling at the difference
of the complaints for which it was recommended , "how good
you are ! But I have just left Marianne in bed , and , I hope,
almost asleep; and as I think nothing will be of so much
service to her as rest, if you will give me leave, I will drink the
wine myself."
Mrs. Jennings, though regretting that she had not been
five minutes earlier, was satisfied with the compromise ; and
Elinor, as she swallowed the chief of it, reflected, that though
its good effects on a colicky gout were, at present, of littie
importance to her, its healing powers, on a disappointed
heart, might be as reasonably tried on herself as on her
sbter.
Ck>lonel Brandon came in while the party were at tea ; and
by his manner of looking round the room for Marianne,
Elinor immediately fancied that he neither expected nor
wished to see her there, and, in short, that he was already
aware of what occasioned her absence. Mrs. Jennings was
not struck by the same thought; for, soon after his entrance,
she walked across the room to the tea-table where Elinor
presided, and whispered, "The Colonel looks as grave
as ever, you see; he knows nothing of it; do tell him, my
dear."
He shortly afterwards drew a chair close to hers, and, with
a look which perfectly assured her of his good information,
enquired after her sister.
"Marianne is not well," said she. "She has been in-
disposed all day, and we have persuaded her to go to bed."
" Perhaps , then ," he hesitatingly replied , " what I heard
this morning may be — there may be more Iruth in it than I
eoold 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
176
SENSE AKD SENSIBILITY.
shall I tell you? If you know it already, as auiely you mi
I may be spated."
** you mesDj" answered Elinar, with forced calmness, ** Mr,
Willoughhj^s marriage with Miss Grey, Yea , we do know it
all. Thb aeems to have been a day of general elucidation^
this very morning first unfolded it to u&* Mr. Willonghby
unfathomable ! Where did you hear it? "
*'In a fltationer'a shop in Pall Mall , where 1 had busineea.
Two ladies were waiting for their carriage , and one of them
was giving the other an accouut of the intended match ^ In aj
voice so little attempting concealment, that it was impossible
for me not to hear all. The name of Willonghby, John '
Willoughby, frequently repeated, fii^at caught my attention;
and what followed was a positive assertion that every tiling -
was now finally settled respecting his marriage with JVlies "-
Grey — it was no longer to be a secret — it would take place
even within a few weeks, with many particulars of pr©p J
parations and other matters. One thing, especiatly, ifl
remember, because it served to identify the man still more r —
as soon as the ceremony wa^ over, they were to go to Combe
Magna, his seat in Somersetabire. My astonishment i — but
it would be impossible to deecribe what I felt. The com-
municative lady I learnt , on enquiry , — for I stayed in the
shop till they were gone , — was a Mrs. EUison , and that^ as
I have been since informed, is the name of Mi»s Grey'i
guardian."
^^Itis* But have you likewise heard that MiasGrey has
fifty thonaand pounds? In that, if in any thing, we may find
an explanation,^'
^^It may be bo; but Willoughby is capable — at leait I
think " He stopped a moment; then added, in a voice
which seemed to djstruat itself, "And your sister , - — how did
she "
" Her sufferlnga have been very severe, I have only to
hope that they may be pioportionably short. It ha^ been , it
ifl a most cruel affliction. Till yesterday^ I believe, she never _j
doubted bis regard; and even now, perhaps — but / ai
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 177
almost conTinced that he never was really attached to her.
He has been very deceitfal ! 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
it quite as you do?"
^^ You know her disposition , and may believe how eagerly
she would still justify him if she could."
He made no answer; and soon afterwards, by the 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 com-
mimication, 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, Ma-
rianne awoke the next morning to the same consciousness of
misery in which she had closed her eyes.
EUnor encouraged her as much as possible to talk of what
she felt; and- before breakfast was ready they had gone
through the subject again and again ; with the same steady
conviction and affectionate counsel on Elinor's side , the same
impetuous feelings and varying opinions on Marianne's, as
before. Sometimes she could believe 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 tibe point, in
Sensp and Sensibility. 12
<
173 BBNBE AND BEKSIBILTTY>
avoiding, wii ere it waj po&siblejthe presence of Mrs. Jennlngai
and in a determined Bilence when oblig-ed to endure it* Her
heart was hardened against the belief of Mra. Jennings'i
entering into her aorrowe with any compassion. Jj
"No J no, no, it cannot be/* she cried 5 " ehe cannot feel 'ft
Her kindness is not sympathy \ her good -n a tare is not tender-
ne^. All that she wants is gossip ; and she only Hkea me
now because I supply it,'*
Elinor had not needed this to be assured of the injuitice ixi
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 satne opinions and feelings as lier 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 t^ herself, though Mrs.
Jennings was governed in it by an impulse of the utmost
good-wilh
With a letter in her out-stretched hand, and countenance
gaily itniling, from the persuasion of bringing comfort, flhft
entered their room, saying, —
"How, my dear, I bring you something that I am sure wOl
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, satis-
factory, convincing; and instantly followed by Willoughby
himself, rushing eagerly into the room to enforce, at her feet^
by the eloquence of his eyes, the assnrances of his letter. The
work of one moment was destroyed by the next. The hand«
i
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 179
mting of her mother, never till then unwelcome , was before
ler; and, in the acuteness of the disappointment which
bllowed sach an ecstasy of more than hope , she felt as if, till
hat instant, she had never suffered.
The cruelty of Mrs. Jennings no language, within her
each in her moments of happiest eloquence, could have
xpressed; and now she could reproach her only by the tears
rbich streamed from her eyes with passionate violence; — a
eproach, however, so entirely lost on its object, that, after
nan J expressions of pity , she withdrew , still referring her to
he letter for comfort. But the letter, when she was calm
nongh to read it, brought little comfort. Willoughby filled
(very page . Her mother, still confident of their engagement,
ind relying as warmly as ever on his constancy, had only
)een roused by Elinor's application, to entreat from Marianne
greater openness towards them both; and this, with such
endemess towards her, such affection for Willoughby, and
meh a conviction of their future happiness in each other, that
ihe 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
sxcess of her mistaken confidence in Willoughby, and she
iras 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 du'ections for the future; while
12*
180 SENSE AND SEKSIBILITT-
Marianna^wbo came into thedrawiiig-room onMrs. Jennings'i
goitjg away, remained fixed at the tabic where Elinor wroti^
watehiDg the advancement of her pen, grieving over her fof
the hardship of sueh a task, and grieving still more fond^
over ite effect on her mother.
In this manner they had continued about a quarter of
hour^ when Marianne^ whose nerves eonld not then bear imf
Budden noise J was startled by a rap at the door.
**Wba can this be?" cried Elinor. '*So early too! I
thought we had been safe,"
Marianne moved to the window.
** It is Colonel Brandon I " said the , with veiation, *' W»
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 coii>
science in hia intrusion on that of othera."
The event proved her conjecture right, though it wii
founded on injustice and error; for Colonel Brandon did eoma
in; and Elinor, who was convinced that solicitude /or
Marianne brought him thither, and who saw that solicitude in
his disturbed and melancholy look, and in his anxious though
brief enquiiy 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 ^he encouraged me to come on; and I
was the more easily encouraged , because I thought it pro-
bable that I might find you aloae , which I was very desiroui
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 , 1 must not say comfort — not present comfort
— but conviction, lasting eonviction to your sister^s mind.
My regard for her, foryonrself, for your mother — wili^ou
allow me to prove it, by relating some circumstances which
nothing but a vetif sincere regard — nothing but an eameBt
desire of being useful — I think I am justified — though
where so many hours have been spent in conyincing myself
iJ
SKN8B AND SENSIBILITY. 181
^at I am right, is there not eome reaion to fear I may be
wroDg? '* He stopped.
*M understand ji?ou/' said Elinor. ''YouhaTeeomething
lo tell me of Mr. WiUoughby^ that will open hi^ character
farther. Your telling it will be the greatest act of friendahip
Ihat can be shown Marianne* ^fy gratitude will be ensured
immediately by any information tending to that end , and hers
must be gained by it in time. Pray, pray let me hear it.^^
'^ You shall; and, to be brief, when I quitted Barton la&t
October, — but this will give you no idea — I must go fai*tlier
back. You will find me a very awkward niurrator, Miss Dmk-
.wood; I hardly know where to begin. A short account of
myself, I believe, will be necessary, and it shall be a short
' one. Ou such a subject," sighing heavily, **I can have littlB
temptation to be difiuse."
He stopt a moment for recollection, and then, with an-
; other sigh, went on.
j! " You have probably entirely forgotten a conversation —
'I (it is not to be supposed that it could make any iinpreisiou
,1 un you) — a conversation between us one evening at Barton
I Park — it waB the evening of a dance — in which I alluded to
j a lady I had once known, as resembling, in somemeasurep
iyour &ister Marianne/'
"Indeed," answered Elinor, "I have not forgotten it," He
looked pleased by this remerabrancej and added, —
**If I am not deceived by the uncertainty, the partiality
I of tender recollection, there is a very strong resemblance be-
1 tween them , as well in mind as person. The same warmth of
' heart, the same eagerness of fancy and apirits. This lady
was one of my nearest relations, an orphan from her infancy,
' And under the guardianship of my father. Our ages were
nearly tlie same , and from our earliest yeara we were play-
» fellows and friends, I cannot remember the time when I did
mot love Eliza 5 and my affection for her, as we grew up , was
iucb^ as, perhaps, judging from my present forlorn and cheer-
ieafi gi*avity, you might think me incapable of having ever felt
I Hers, for me, was, I believe, fervent as the attachment of your
•
18^ BEREE AND S^StSlBILITT. ^
Higter to Mr. WiUoughby, ftnd it was, though from st di
cause , oo less iinfoitimate. At seventeen ahe waa loff
for ever. She was married — married againJt her incli
to my brolher* Her fortuoD was large j and our family
much eac umbered. Aud this, I fear, is all that can 1
for the conduct of one, who was at onee her uncle anc
dian. My brother did not de&erre her; ha did no
love her, I had hoped that ber regard for me would s
her under auy diiiiculty, andforaome time it did; but
the misery of ber eituatioDj for she experienced great u
ness , overcame alt her resolution ^ and though she he
mised me that nothing — but how blindly I relate! J
never told you how this was brought on. We were ii^
few hours of eloping together for Scotland. The trea
or the follyt of my cousin's maid betrayed ua. 1 waa ba
to the house of a relation far distant, and she was alloi
liberty, no society, no amusement, till my fa therms poi
gained. 1 bad depended on her fortitude too far, aj
blow was a severe onej — but had her marriage been 1
so young as I then was^ a few months must have reconci
to it, or at least I should not have now to lament it. This
ever, was not the case* My brother had no regard fc
bis pleasures were not what they ought to have beer
from the first he treated her unkindly. The consequt
this, upon a mind so young, so lively, so ineiperieuced &
Brandon's, was but too natural. She resigned herself ;
to all the misery of her situation \ and happy had it b
she had not lived to overcome those regrets which t
me mbrance of m e occasione d . But can we wo nd er thai
auch a hosband to provoke inconstaucy, and without a
to advise or restrain her, (for my father lived only
months after their marriage, and I was with my regiB
the East Indies,) she should fall? Had I remained ir
land, perhaps, — but I meant to promote the happir
both by removing from her for years, and for that pi
had procured my exchauge. The shock which her ma
had given me,'' he continued, in a voice of great agil
J
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 183
**was of trifling weight — was nothing to what I felt when I
beard, about two years afterwards, of her divorce. It was
ftot 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.
**Jt was nearly three years after this unhappy period be-
fore 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 re-
moved 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 <pver 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. Eegard 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 ap-
pearance, 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 abetter preparation
184
SENSE AKD SBNglBlLlTr-
for death ; ftnd that was given. I sair her placed ia o<
fortable lodgings, and under proper attendants; 1 visited
every day during the rest of her abort life: I wae witli he;
her last momenta*"
Again he stopped to recover himself; and Elinor epi
her feelings in an exclamation of tender concern at the fafa
his unfortunate friend.
'*Youraiater, I hope, cannot be offended ,'^ said he, ^^
the resembiauce I bare fancied between her and my p
disgraced relation. Their fates, then- fortunes^ cannot be
same J and had the natnral sweet dispoailion of the onebi
guarded by a firmer mind , or a happier marriage , she mi
have been all that you will live to see the other be, Dti
what does all this leadV 1 seem to have been distressing i
for nothing* Ah ! Mia a Dash wood — a subject such as 1
— untouched for fourteen years — it is dangerous to hmndl
fit all I \ v^ill be more collected — more concise. She lef
my care her only child , a little girl, the offspring of her i
guilty counection , who was then about three years old* \
loved the child , and bad always kept it with her. It wa
valued , a precious truat to me ; and gladly would I have i
charged it in the atricteat aense , by watching over her edn
tion myself, had the nature of our situations allowed it; bi
had no family, no home; and my little Eliza was, theref<
placed at achooL I saw her there whenever J could; j
after the death of my brother (which happened about ]
years ago , and which left to me the possession of the fan
propertyj) she frequexitly viaited me at Delaford. I caJ
her a distant relation; but I am well aware that 1 hav^
general been suspected of a much nearer connection with 1
It is now three years ago (she had just reached her fourtee
year) that I removed her from school , to place her under
eare of a very respectable woman, residing in Doraetah
who had the charge of four or five other girl a of about
same time of Ufe; and for two years I had every reaeon t<]
pleased with her situation. But last February, alinoi
twelvem oath back , she aadd enly d Laappe ared . I had alio v
SEX8E AXD SEXSIBILITT. 185
toy (impradenflj, as it has mee tamed oat,) at her earnest
ieiAre, togoto^tiiwitfaoiieof her joong friends, who was
•HBuding her lather tiiere for his healdb. I knew him to be a
Toy good sort of man, and I tfaoogfat weO of his dan^ter —
better than she deserred; for, with a most obstinate and ill-
jadged secreej, she would tell nothing, would gire no due,
tiKNigh die oerteinlj knew alL He, her ladier. a weU-mean-
iagy but nofta qm^-og^bted man, covld reattf, 1 beliere, gire
DO infonnation; for 1^ had been generallj confined to the
house, while the girls were ranging orer die town, and making
idiat acqaaintance thej chose; and he tried to conrince me,
18 tiioroi^g^ily' as he was convinced himself, of his dangfater's
being entire^ nneoncenied in die bosiness. In short. 1 coold
learn nothing but that she was gone; all die rest, for eig^
kmg months, was left to conjeetare. What 1 thought, what I
feared, maj be imagined; and what I snifored too."
<'Good heaxens!'' cried Elinor, '^conld it be — could
iraioo^byr—
^The fost news diat reached me of her,"^ he continned,
^eame in a letter from herself, last October, It was for-
warded to me from Delaford, and I reeeired it on the rerj
■MRningof onr intended partj to WhitweU: and this was the
reason of mj leaving Barton so soddenlj, which I am sore
BBst at the time lunre s^ipeared strange to ererj bodj. and
which I beliere gaxe offence to lome. Litde did Mr-
Willoo^bbj inngine, Istqipose, when his hM^ES censored me
for inenrilitf in breaking op the partj, that I was called awaj
to die refirf of one whom he had made poor and miserable;
brt And he known it, what would it haT«awled? Wooldhe
hare been less ga J or less luqipjinthe miles of jo«r sister?
No, he had afaudf done that, whidi no man who €«m f eel for
another woold do. He had left die gzri whose joaA, satd
innoeenee he had sednced in a situation of Ae ntmost distzeas,
with no creditable home, no help, no friends, ignorant of has
address! He had left her, pronusmg to retnm; he
retuncd, nor wrote, norielie?ed her.'^
186 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
" This is beyond every thing ! " exclaimed Elinor.
"His character is now before you, — expensiye, dissi-
pated, and worse than both. Knowing all this, as I have now
known it many weeks, guess what I must have felt on seeing
your sister as fond of him as ever, and on being assured that
she was to marry him : guess what I must have felt for all
your sakes. When I came to you last week and found you
alone, I came determined to know the truth; though irresolute
what to do when it was known. My behaviour must have
seemed strange to you then ; but now you will comprehend it.
To suffer you all to be so deceived; to see your sister — but
what could I do? I had no hope of interfering with success;
and sometimes I thought your sister's influence might yet
reclaim him. But now, after such dishonourable usage, who
can tell what were his designs on her? Whatever they maj
have been, however, she may now, and hereafter doubtless
toill, 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 as strong,
still as strong as her own , and with a mind tormented by seff-
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 Mend
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, how-
ever, in communicating to her what 1 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 auctions, — 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 earnest-
ness; attended, too, with the assurance of her expecting
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 187
material advantage to Marianne from the communication of
what had passed.
"I have been more pained," said she, "by her endeavours
to acquit him than by all the rest; for it irritates her mind
more than the most perfect conviction of his un worthiness can
do. Now , though at first she will sufPer 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 in 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, there-
fore, 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 apaupe, "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."



Eecollecting, soon afterwards, that he was probably divid-
ing 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.
188 SENSE AND SESSIBU^ITY,
CHAPTBE XKXIL
Wh£n the particulars of tltia converaatioa were repeated
by Miss Dash wood to her Bister, as they very Boon were , the
effect OD her was not entirely sneh as the former had hoped to
»ee. Not that Marianne appeared to dietrust the trutli of any
part of it J for sbe listened to it all with the most steady and
submifisive attention, made neither ohjection nor remark,
attempted no vindication of WHloughby , and seemed to show
by her tears that she felt it to be itn possible. But though this
behaviour aseured Elinor that the conviction of this guilt wa^
carried home to her mind, though she saw with satisfaction
the effect of it, in her no longer avoiding Colonel Braudou
when he called, in her speftkiug 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 Wil-
loughby^s character yet more heavily than she had felt the
loss of his heart; his sednction and desertion of Miss Wil-
Uams, the misery of that poor girl, and the doubt of what his
designs might imce have been on herseU", preyed altogether so
much on her spirits, that she could not bring herself to speak,
of what she felt even to Ehnor ; 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 oouiession
of them.
To give the feelings or the language of Mr«. Dashwood on
receiving and answering Elinor's letter would be only to give
a repetition of what her daughters had already felt and said f
of a disappointment hardly less painful than Marianne^s , and
an indignation even greater than Elinor's* Long letters ironi
her, quickly succeeding each other, arrived to tell all that she
suffered and thought ^ to express her anxious solicitude for
Marianne, and entreat ihe would bear up with fortitude under
<
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 189
this misfortune. Bad , indeed , must the nature of Marianne's
affliction be, when her mother could talk of fortitude ! morti-
fying 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
tiling within her view would be bringing back the past in the
strongest and most afflicting manner, by constantly placing
Willou^by 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 ex-
pected by all to comprise at least ^vq or six weeks. A variety
of occupations, of objects, and of company, which could not
be procured at Barton, would be inevitable there, and might
yet, she hoped, cheat Marianne, at times, into some interest
beyond herself , and even into some amusement, much as the
idea of botii might now be spume(l 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 fore-
seeing 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 tiie middle
of February, and she judged it right that they should some-
times see their brother.
Marianne had promised to be guided by her mother's opi-
nion, and she submitted to it, therefore, without opposition,
190 SI^AB Ajm SE^^SIBILITT.
tfaongb it proved perfectlj different from what she wiebed And
expected , though she felt it to be entirely wrong , formed cm
nustaken grotindi; and that^ hj requiring her longer con-
thmance in London ^ it deprived her of the only possible alle-
gation of her wretcbedness, the personal sympathy of her
mother, and doomed her to auch society and mch seenes as
mn8t 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 hersetf by
thinking, that though their longer stay would therefore militate
against her own happiness, it wonld be better for Marianne
than an immediate return into Devonshire.
Her carefulness in guarding her sister B^m erer beanug
Willongliby's name mentioned was not thrown away.
Marianne, though without knowing itheraelf, reaped all its
advantage ; for neither ilrs. Jennings, nor Sir John , nor even
Mra, Palmer herself, ever spoke of him before her, Elinor
wished that the same forbearance could have extended to-
wardi herself , butthat 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 sueh reason to think welt ! Such a
good-natured fellow 1 He did not believe there was a bolder
rider in England! It was an unaccountable huaiuess. He
wished him at the devil with all his heart* He would not
speak another word to him, meet him where he might, for aH
the world ! No , not if it were to be by the side of Barton
covert, and they were kept waiting for two hours together.
Such a scoundrel of a felJow! 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 I"
Mrs, Palmer, in her way, was equally angry. ** She was de-
termined to drop his acquaintance immediately, and she was
very thankful that she had never been acquainted with him at
^1* She wished with all her heart Combe Magna was not so
1
I
I
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 191
near Cleyeland ; bat it did not signify, for it was a great deal
too far off to visit ; she hated him so much that she was resolved
never to mention his name again, and she should tell every
body she saw, how good-for-nothing he was."
The rest of Mrs. Palmer's sympathy was shown in pro-
curing all the particulars in her power of the approaching
marriage, and conmiunicating them to Elinor. She could
Boon tell at what coachmaker's the new carriage was building,
by what painter Mr. Willoughby's portrait was drawn, and at
what warehouse Miss Grey's clothes might be seen.
The calm and polite unconcern of Lady Middleton on the
occasion was a happy relief to Elinor's spirits, oppressed as
they often were by the clamorous kindness of the others. It
was a great comfort to her to be sure of exciting no interest in
one person at least among their circle of friends ; a great com-
fort to know that there was one who would meet her without
feeling any curiosity after particulars , or any anxiety for her
Bister's health.
Every qualification is raised at times, by the circumstances
of the moment, to more than its real value ; and she was some-
times 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 for-
tune, 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
192 &EKBE AND SEN3IBILITT.
earned the privilege of intimate diacussion of hen
appointment, hy the triendlj zeal with which he had endea
voured to soften itjandtliey always conversed with confidence
His chief reward for the painful exertion of dia closing pas
Borrows and present humiliations was gEven in the pitying ej<
with which Marianne aometimes observed him, and the gentle
ness of her voice, whenever (though it did not often happen
she was obliged, or could oblige herself to speak to him
Tliese assured him that his exertion had produced an increaii
of good- will towards himself, and ^Ae,?e gave Elinor hopes o
its being farther augmented hereafter^ but Mrs. Jennmga
who knew nothing of all this , who knew only that the Col one
continued as grave as ever, and that she could neither prevai
on Lim to make the offer himself ^ nor commission her to mai|
it for him, began, at the end of two days, to think that, ins teal
of Midsummer, they would not be mamed till Michaelmas
and by the end of a week that it would iiot be a match at all
The good understanding b etwee a the Colonel and Miss Dash
wood seemed rather to declare that the hoaoura of the mul
berry -tree, the canal , and the yew arbour, would all be nmdn
over to her ; and Mrs, Jemiinga had , for some time, cea^edi
think at all of Mr. Ferrars. J
Early in February , withia a fortnight from the receipt ff
Willoughby's letter, Elinor had the painful office of informm|
her sister that he was married. She had taken care to havi
the inteliigeuce conveyed to herself^ as soon as It was kuowi
that the ceremony was over^ as she was desirous that Marl amii
should not receive the first notice of it from the public papers
which she saw her eagerly examining every morning, d
She received the news witli resolute composure ; made ■
observation on it^ and at £r5t shed no te^^rs ; hut after a ahlfl
time they would burst out, and for the rest of the day she im
in a state hardly lesa pitiable than when she firat learnt ■
expeet the event. i|
The Willonghbya left town as ooon as they were married
and Elinor now hoped , afl there could be no danger of hei
Bceing cither of them ^ to prevail on her siater, who had tie
J
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 193
yet left the house Bince 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, Holbom, presented
themselyes again before their more grand relations in Conduit
and Berkeley Street; and were welcomed by them all with
great cordiality.
Elinor only was sorry to see them. Their presence always
gave her pain, and she hardly knew how to make a very
gracious return to the overpowering delight of Lucy in find-
ing 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
Hire you would not leave London yet awhile ; though you told
me, you know, at Barton, that you should not stay above a
numth. But 1 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 be-
haved very genteelly, and paid ten or twelve shillings more
tiian 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, aflfectedly simpering,
"every body laughs at me so about the Doctor, and I cannot
tiiink why. My cousins say they are sure I have made a
Sense and SejisibUUy* 13
194 SENSE AMD SENSIBILITY.
conquest; but for my part I declare I never think about him
from one hour's end to another. 'Lord! here comes your
beau, Nancy/ my cousin said t'other day, when she saw him
crossing the street to the house. My beau, indeed! said I
— I cannot think who you mean. The Doctor is no beau of
mine."
"Ay, ay, that is very pretty talking — but it won't do —
the Doctor is the man, I see."
"No, indeed!" replied her cousin, with affected earnest-
ness, "and I beg you will contradict it, if you ever hear it
talked of."
Mrs. Jennings directly gave her the gratifying assurance
that she certainly would notj and Miss Steele was made com-
pletely happy.
"I suppose you will go and stay with your brother a&d
sister. Miss Dashwood, when they come to town," said
Lucy, returning, after a cessation of hostile hints, to the
charge.
" No, 1 do not think we shall."
" Oh, yes, I dare say you will."
Elinor would not humour her by farther opposition.
"What a charming thing it is that Mrs. Dashwood can
spare you both for so long a time together ! "
" Long a time, indeed ! " interposed Mrs. Jennings. " Why,
their visit is but just begun ! "
Lucy was silenced.
"I am sorry we cannot see your sister, Miss Dashwood,"
said Miss Steele. " I am sorry she is not well ; " for Marianne
had left the room on their amval.
"You are very good. My sister will be equally sonyto
miss the pleasure of seeing you; but she has been very much
plagued lately with nervous headachs, which make her unfit
for company or conversation."
" Oh, dear, that is a great pity ! but such old friends as
Lucy and me! — I think she might see tis; and I am sure we
would not speak a word."
Elinor, with great civility, declined the proposal. Her
SENSE AND SEKSIBILITY. 195
sister was, pejrhaps, laid down upon the bed, or in her dressing
g^wn, and ^ercfore not able to come to them.
" Oh, if that's all," cried Miss Steele, "we can just as well
go and see her.''
£linor began to find this Impertinence too much for her
tepiper; 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
Nster, 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,
Ikowever, for paying no visits, and would do no more than ac-
company them to Gray's in Sackville Street, where Elinor
iras carrying on a negotiation for the exchange of a few old-
Guhioned 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
ihe ought to call; and as she had no business at Gray's, it
was resolved that while her young friends transacted theirs,
she should pay her visit, and return for them.
On ascending the stairs, the Miss Dash woods found so
many people before them in the room, that there was not a
person at liberty to attend to their orders; and they were
obliged to wait. All that could be done was, to sit down at
that end of the counter which seemed to promise the quickest
mecession; one gentleman only was standing there, and it is
probable IJiat 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 de-
Imnined, all of whi^, alter examining and debating for a
13*
196 SENSE AND SEKBIBILITY,
quarter of an hour over every toothpick-case in the shop, were I
finally arraoged by bis own mventive fancy ^ he had no leisure
to bestow any other attention on the two ladies than what waa '
comprised in three or four very broad stares ; a kind of notice
which served to imprint on Elinor the remembrance of a per-
son and face of strongf natural ^ sterling insigni£eance, though
adorned in the first style of fashion,
Marianne was spared from the troublesome feelings of
contempt and rcseutmeitt, on this impertment escaminatioa
of their features ^ and on the puppyism of his manner in
deciding on all the difierent horrors of the different tooth-
pick- cases presented to his inspection, by remaining uncon*
scioufl of it alii ^^^ ^t^ ^^^ *^ ^^^^ ^^^^ to collect lier
thoughts within herself, and be as ignorant of what was
passing aronnd her, in i!^. Gray's shop^ as in her own bed-
room.
At last the a£Fair was decided. The ivoiy, 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 thetoothpick-caae, drew
on his gloves with leisurely eare, and bestowing ajiother
glance on the Miss Dash woods, but such a one as seemed rather
to demand than express admiration, walked off with a happy
air of ceal conceit and affected indifference^
Elinor lost no time in bringing her business forward, and
was on the point of concluding it, when another gentleman
presented himself at her side. Bhe turned her eyes to-
wards his face, and found Mm, with some surpriaCi to be her \
brother.
Their affection and pleasure in meeting was just enough
to make a very creditable appearance in Mr. Gray's sbo{i.
John Dash wood was really far from being sorry to see hia
sisters again; it rather gave them satisfaction; and his en-
quiries after UieJr 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,**
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 197
he, "but it was impossible, for we were obliged to take
Haiiy to see the wild beasls 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
ao much to do on first coming to town. I am come here to
bespeak Fanny a seal. But to-morrow I think I shall cer-
tah^ be able to call in Berkeley Street, and be introduced to
your £riend Mrs. Jennings. I understand she is a woman of
Teiy good fortune. And the Middletons, too, you must in-
troduce 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; ex-
tremely glad indeed. But so it ought to be ; they are people
of large fortune; they are related to you; and every civility
md 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
fat nothing! Edward brought us a most charming account
of the place: the most complete thing of its kind, he said,
ftat ever was, and you all seemed to enjoy it beyond any
lUng. It was a great satisfaction to us to hear it, I assure
yoa."
Elinor did feel a little ashamed of her brother; and was
•ot sorry to be spared the necessity of answering him, by the
ttrival of Mrs. Jennings's servant, who came to tell her that
liii 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
Us hope of being able to call on them the next day, took
ieave.
His visit was duly paid. He came with a pretence at an
apology from their sister-in-law, for not coming too; "but
^ was so much engaged with her mother, that really she
198 SENSE AND SENSTBTXTTV.
had no Ifiimrre for going any where." Mrs. Jentiiiige, how*
ever, asBiured him directly, that she should not stand upon
ceremony, for they were all cousm«> or somethiDg like it^ and
she ihould certainly wait ou Mrs. John Doahwood i^ery BOon^
and bring her siaters to see her. His manners to fltem^ though J
calm, wore perfectly kind; to Mrs* Jennings, most at^
tentively civ^il; and on Colonel Brandon's coming in flOoti
after himself, he eyed him with a cnrioaity wliich seemed to
say, that he only wanted to know him to he rJch, to be equally
civil to Jiim,
After staying witli them half an hour, he asked Elinor W
walk with him to Conduit Street, and introduce him to Sir
John and Lady Middleton. The weather was remarkably
fine J and she readily consented. As soon as they were out of
the honsej his enquiries began.
* * Who is Colone 1 Bran don ? la be a man of fortune ? "
"Yes 5 he has very good pi-operty iu Dorsetshire."
" I am glad of IL He seems a most gentlemanlike man i
and 1 think, Elinor^ 1 may congratulate you on the prospect
of a very reepeetable eatablisbment in life."
"Me, brother! what do you mean?"
**He likes you. I observed him narrowly, and am con-
vince d f it. Wh at is the amount of his fortune ? "
"I believe about two thousand a year.'*
"Two thousand a year I" and theu working himself up to
a pitch of enthusiastic generoaity, 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 mer-
rying meJ^
" You are mistaken, Elinor; you are very much mistakeup
A very little trouble on your side secures bim. Perhaps juil
at present he may be undecided^ the smallness of your
fortune may make him hang back; bis friendi may all adviit
him against it. But some of those little attentions and en-
couragements which ladies can so easily give will fix him, in
spite of himself. And there can be no reason why yon should
^ENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 199
not fry f<nr him. It is not to be supposed that anT* prior attach-
Ddent on your side ; — in short, you know, as to an attachment
of that kiUtil, it is quite out of the question, the objections are
insurmountable — you have too much sense not to see all that;
Dolonel Brandon must be the man; and no civility shall be
iranting on my putt to make him pleased with you and your
family. It id a match that must give Universal satisfaction.
Im. short, it is a kind of thing that," lowering his voixse to
m important whisper, "will be exceedingly welcome to all
parties.^ Recollecting himself, however, he added, "That
is, I mean to say — your Mends are all truly anxious to
Bee 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
Bister settling at the same time. And yet it is not very un-
likely."
"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 Mor-
ton, with thirty thousand pounds. Avery 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 molher 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
200 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
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, howeyer; it is undoubtedly a com-
fortable 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 Eangham 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 7ms 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 pur-
chase-money, I might have been very unfortunate indeed; for
the stocks were, at that time, so low, that if I had not hap-
pened 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 yon
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 un-
doubted 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
waB 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."
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 201
" Certainly," said £liiior ; " 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 wabiut 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."
£linor 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
cheerfiiller 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 wiU 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 in-
come. Few people of conmion prudence will do that; and what-
ever 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?"
t
202 SENSE "ANB SE^rSIBrLITY.
*'Her dangMera are both exceedingly well married, and
therefore I cannot perceive the neeessity of her rememberiiig
them farther* Whereas ^ m my op miotic by her taking bo mnch
notice of you, and treating yon in thia kind of way, she haa
given yon a sort of claim on her future con aider ati on ^ whieh a
conacientjous woman would not disregard. NotMng can he
kinder than her behaviour; and she can hardly do all this,
without being awfire of the espectation she raiaes."
"But she raises none In thoae most concerned, ludeedf
brother, your anxiety for our welfare and prosperity carriea
yon too far.**
"Why, to be sure,'* said he, seeming to recollect hlmaelf^
"people have little , have very little in their power. But, mj^
dear Elinor, what ia the matter with Marianne? — she looka
very nnweD , has loet 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 I Hers has been a very
short one ! She was as handsome a girl last September as any
I ever saw, — and as likely to attract the men. There was
something in her style of beauty to please them particularly.
I romemher Fanny used to say, that she would marry sooner
and hotter than you did; not but what she is exceedingly
fond of y/iH , but so it happened to strike her. She will be
mistaken, however. T question whether Mariannej nrjw, will
maiTy a man worth more than five or six hundred a year at
the utmost, and I am very much deceived if ^o« 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 1 think I can answer for your having Fanny and
my self among the earliest and bestpleaaedof your visiter»/*
Elinor tried very seriously to convince him that there wai
no likelihood of her marrying Colonel Brandon; but it wa*
an expectation of too much pleasure to himself to be relin-
quished, aiid he was really resolved on seeking an intimacy
(
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 203
witii that gentleman, and promoting the marriage hy every
possible attention. He had just compunction enough for
having done nothing for his sisters himself, to be exceedingly
anxious that every body else should do a great deal; and an
oflFer 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 any
body ; 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 ex-
ceeding 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. Jen-
ningB 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.
Mbs. John Dashwood had so much confidence in her hus-
band'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 of
notice ; and as for Lady Middleton, she found her one of the
most charming women in the world !
t
204 SEKSE AND SENSFBILTTY.
Lady Middle ton was equally pleased with Mrs, DaBbwood.
There was a kind of cold-hearted aelti^hneee on both sidei,
which mutually attracted them; and they sympathiaed with
each other in an insipid propriety of demeanour , and a
general want of uudeTstan ding.
The same manners, however, which reeommeiided Mrs*
John Dash wood to the good opinion of Lady Middle ton did
not suit the fancy of Mia. Jennings, and to Aer ahe appeared
nothing more than a little proud- looking woman, of un cordial
addreBs, who met be r busband^a aiaters without any affection »
and almost without having any thing to say to them; for of
the quarter of an hour bestowed on Berkeley Street, she ant
at least seven minutes and a half in ailence.
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 hia marriage with Miaa
Mort'On was reaolved on, or till her husband^ expectations on
Colonel Brandon were answered \ because she believed them
still so vei*y 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*a compassion on being unable to see Edward,
though he had arrived in town with Mr. and Mrs. Da&hwood«
He dared not come to Bartlett*a Buildings for fear of de*
tection; 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 irom
their morning's engagements, Elinor was pleased that he
had called; and still more pleased that she had missed him.
The Daahwoods were so prodigiously dehghted with the
Middletons, that^ though not much in the habit of giving any j
thing, they detennined to give them — a dinner; and soon
after their acquaintance began ^ invited them to dine in '
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 205
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 leam whether her sons were to be of the
party. » The expectation of seeing A^r, however, was enough
to make her interested in the engagement; for though she
coald now meet Edward's mother without that strong anxiety
wkdeh had once promised to attend such an introduction,
tiioogh 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 poweriPully than plea-
santly, 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 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 hap-
pened to be particularly convenient to the Miss Steeles, as
soon as the Dashwoods' invitation was known , that their visii
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.
t
20t)
^EHSE AHD BBNBIBILITY.
On Eliwor Its effeet was very differeat, SLe began im-
mediately to detennme, that Edward, who lived with hii
mother, must he asked ^ ob hiB mother was, to a partj' given bj
his sister; and to see him, for the fii*sl time, alter all that
passed , in the company of Lucy i — she hardly knew how ahe
could hear itl
These apprehensions J perhaps, were not founded entirely
on reason , and certainly not at all on truth. They were re-
lieved , however, not by her own recollection , hut by the goo4
will of Lucy, who believed herself to be iufiictiug a seyere
disappointment, when she told her, that Edward certainly
would not be in Harley Street on Tuesday, and even hoped to
be canying the pain still farther^ by persuading her that he
was kept away by that extreme aflfection for herself, which lie
could not conceal when they were together.



The important Tuesday came that was to introduce tlia two
young ladies to this foimidable mother-in-law.
"Pity me, dear MiiB Dashwood!" said Lucy, as they
walked up the staire 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 lean hardly stand. Good
gracious I In a moment I shall see the person that all my
happiness depends on — that is to be my mother I"
Elinor could have given her immediate relief, by suggest-
ing the poesibility of its being Miss Morton's mother, ratbet
thaii her own, whom they were about to behold ; but instead of
doing that, she aasured her, and wittj great sincerity, tliat 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
formality, in her figure, and serious, even to sourness, in ber
aspect. Her complexion was sallow; and herteatarea small,
without beauty, and naturally without expression; but a lucky
contraction of tbe brow had rescued her eountenanec ixnm tbe
disgrace of insipidity , by giving it the strong ch^nct^rs ^f
I
I
er I
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY, 207
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 MissDashwood, whom she
eyed with the spirited determination of disliking her at all
e?ent8.
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's power to distress her by it now ; and
the difference of her manners to the Miss Steeles , a difference
idiich 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 com-
paratively 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
tprong, 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 honourably distin-
guished ; and Miss Steele wanted only to be teazed about Dr.
Davis 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 improve-
Qients and additions which were making to the Norland estate,
and in spiteof its owner having once been within some thousand
pounds of being obliged to sell out at a loss, nothing gave any
fiymptom 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 visiters,
iil
208
SEKSE AND SEKSIBILirr.
who almost all laliQured UDder one or other of these diequJ
£catioBS for being agreeable — want of sense , either natui
or improved — want of elegance — want of spirits — or wa
of temper. j
When the ladies withdrew to the drawing-room m
dinner , this poverty was particularly evident , for the gf
tlemen had supplied tlie discoui'se with some variety — ^
variety of politici| encloaing land, and breaking horses — H
then it was all over; and one stibjeet only engaged the ladl
till coffee came in, whlchwas the comparative heights of Hafl
Dashwood, and Lady Midd!eton*s second son William , "wl
[ were nearly of the aame age. j
r Had both the children been there, the affair might hm
Ijbeen detei^mined too easily by measuring them at onee; bun
rHarry only was preaeut, it was all conjectural assertion!
bath sides ; and every body had a right to be equally poait^
in their opinion, and to repeat it over and over again as oft^
as they hked, (
The parties stood thua : — «|
The two mothers J though each really convinced that li
own son was the tallest, politely decided in favour of the othj
The two grandmothers, with not less partiality, butmq
sincerity, were equally earnest in support of their own
scendant.
Lucy, who was hardly less anxious to please one pa
than the other, thought the boys were both remarkably ti
for their age , and could not conceive that there could be tl
smallest difference in the world between them \ and Miss Steel
with yet greater address, gave it, as fast as she could^ infavtol
of each* i
Elinor } having once delivered her opinion on WilUaiq
aide, by which ahe offended Mrs. Ferrars and Fiiuuy at^
more, did not ace thenecesaity of enforcing it by anyfarthl
assertion; and Marianne, when called on for hers, offend
them all, by declaring that she had no opinion to give, i
had never thought about it.
Before her removing from Norland, Elinor had paiiiti
imq
m d
parij
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 209
yery pretty pair df 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
Dashwoodon 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 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 con-
noisseurship, warmly admired the screens, as he would have
done any thing painted by Miss Dashwood ; and the curiosity
of the otiiers being of course excited, they were handed roimd
fSn* general inspection. Mrs. Ferrars, not aware of their being
Elinor's work, particularly requested to look at them; and
after they had received the gratifying testimony of Lady
Middleton*s approbation, Fanny presented them to hermother,
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, colourmg a little, she imme-
diately said, —
"They are very pretty, ma*am — an*t they?" But then
again the dread of having been too civil, too encouraging
I 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 beautiftdly 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
Seine and Sensibility, 1^
210 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
of what was principally meant by it, provoked her imme-
diately 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 ad-
mired.
Mrs. Ferrars looked exceedingly angry, and drawing her-
self 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 Ib
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 Ma-
rianne , declared that he noticed only what was amiable in it,
the affectionate heart which could not bear to see a sister
Blighted 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 everybody
was concerned. Colonel Brandon rose up and went to them
without knowing what he did. Mrs. Jennings, with a Tcry
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
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 211
one dose 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 tro^ 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
ftfther connection between the families undesirable. She
had seen enough of her pride, her meanness, and her de-
termined 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 &ee; and she bad seen almost enough to be thank-
ful , 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
Bolicitude 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 Iiucy 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
ber vanity should so very much blind her as to make the
14*
212 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
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, be-
cause 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
any thing 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 I — 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 treat-
ment 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
SENSB AND SENSIBILITY. 213
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 at-
tempt any.
"Are you ill, Miss Dashwood? — you seem low — you
don't spea^; — 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 so sorry to have you ill; you, that
have been the greatest comfort to me in the world ! — Heaven
knows what I should have done without your friendship."
Elinor tried to make a civil answer, though doubting her
own success. But it seemed to satisfy Lucy , for she 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. Perrarp
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."
S14
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
Elinor waa prevented horn tnaking any tv\Ay to
civil triumpL, by the door' a being thrown open j the sorva
announcing Mr. Ferrars^ and Edward's immediately w(
ing in.
It was a very awkward moment; and the countena
of each allowed that it was so. They all looked exeeediu
foolish 5 and Edward seemed to have ae great an irvclinal
to walk out of the room again bm to advance fartiier int<
The very circumstance , in its tmpleasantcst form, which t
would each have been most anxious to nvord, had fallen
them. They were not only all three together, but ^
together without the relief of any other person* The \m
recovered themselveB first* It waa not Lucy's business to
berseif forward, and the appearance of secrecy must atil
kept up. She could therefore only looJckBT tendemesa, i
after slightly addressing him, said no more.
But Elinor had more to do? and eo anxious waa she,
bis sake and her own, to do it well, that Bhe forced heri
after a momenfs recollection , to welcome him, with a I
and manner that were almost easy, and almost open; j
another struggle^ another effort still improved them* 1
would not allow the pi^esence of Lucy, nor the eonseioufil
of some injuBtice towai^da herself, to deter Uer from saj
that she was happy to see him, and that she had i^
much regretted being from home , when he called be fori
Berkeley Street. She would not ho frightened from pay
him tho&e attentions which , as a friend and almost a relati
were his duo, by the oba enfant eyes of Lucy, though ahe a
perceived thera to be narrowly watching her.
Her mannefB gave some re-aaaurance to Edward, $mi
had courage enough to sit down ; but his embarrassment \
exceeded that of the ladies in a proportion which the «
rendered reasonable, though his sex might make it rare;
his heart had not the indifinrcnce of Lucy*s, nor could
conscience have quite the ease of Elinor's »
Lucy J with a demure mid settled air, seemed determii
to make no eontribution to the comfort of the others , i
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 215
would not say a word; and almost every thing that wcls
said proceeded from Elinor, who was obliged to volunteer
all the information about her mother's health, their coming
to town, &c. which Edward ought to have enquired about,
but never did.
Her exertions did not stop here ; for she soon afterwards
felt herself so heroically disposed as to determine, under
pretence of fetching Marianne, to leave the others by them-
Belves; 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 plea-
sure 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 a£Pection of a
fdster.
"Dear Edward!" she cried, "this is a moment of great
happiness! This would almost make amends for every
thmg!"
Edward tried to return her kindness as it deserved, but be-
fore 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
216 SENSB AND SENSIBILITY.
looked up at Marianne with no very benignant expres-
sion.
"Do you like London? " said Edward, willing to say anj
thing that might introduce another subj ect.
"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 afiPorded; and, thank Heaven! you are what you al-
ways were I"
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 imwilling to accept tiie 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 yester-
day! 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 as-
surance of her finding their mutual relatives more dis-
agreeable than ever, and of her being particularly disgusted
with his mother, till they were more in private.
"But why were you not there, Edward? Why did you
not come?"
"1 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 in-
sensible of the sting; for she calmly replied, —
"Not so, indeed; for, seriously speaking I am very sure
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY, 217
that conscience only kept Edward from Harley Street. And
I really believe he Tias the most delicate conscience in the
world ; the most scrupulous in performing every engagement,
however minute, and however it may make against his in-
terest 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 com-
mendation.**
The nature of her commendation, in the present case,
however, happened to be particularly ill suited to the feel-
ings of two thirds of her auditors, and was so very unez-
hilarating to Edward, that he very soon got up to go away.
" Going so soon ! " said Marianne ; "my dear Edward, this
must not be.'*
And drawing him a little aside, she whispered her per-
suasion that Lucy could not stay much longer. But even
this encouragement failed, for he would go; and Lucy, who
would have outstayed him had his visit lasted two hours , soon
afterwards went away.
"What can bring her here so often?** said Marianne, on
her leaving them. "Could she not see that we wanted her
gone ! — how teazing to Edward I **
"Why so? we were all his friends, and Lucy has been the
longest l^own 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 wasbyherpromiseof secrecy to
Lucy, she could give no information that would convince
218 3EN$B AKD SENSIBILITY, f
Munamie ; and parnf al as the conaeqiienceB of ber @t
titjuiiig in iui error might be , she was obliged to Buhm
All tbat she could hope was, that Edward would notoi
poBc her or lilmself to the diatreas of hearing Mtu
mistaken warmth, nor to tlit repetition of finyotheri>ar
pain that had attended their recent meeting — and t
had every reason to expect*
CHAPTER XXXVL
W J THIN a few days after this meeting ^ the newi
announeed to the world, that the lady of Thomas I
Esq. was safely delivered of a sou and heir; a very inte
and satiafactoiy paragraph , at least to all thoae intima
nections who knew it before.
This event J highly important to Mrs. JenningB*e
nesfl , produced a temporary alteration in the diaposa
time , and inflaenced ^ in a like degree , the engagenc
her young friende [ for m^ she wished to be as much
eible with Charlotte^ she went thitber every morning;
as she was dressed , and did not return till late jn the ei
and the Miss Dasliwoodfi, at the partiealaj- rcqtieet
Middletons , spent the whole of every day in Conduit
For tlieir own comfort, they would much rather hj
ma mod, at least all the mornings in Mrs. Jeimlnga's
hut it was not a thing to be urged against the wishes o
body. Their hours were therefore made over to
Middle ton and the two Miss Steelea, by whom their co
was, in fact, as little valued as it was professedly sough
They had too nmch sense to be desirable compan
the former; and by the latter they were considered
jealous eye, as intniding on their ground, and sbari
kkidtKisa which they wanted to monopoliae. Though t
could be more polite than Lady Middleton'a bohav
Elinor and Marianne, ahe did not really like them
Because they neither flattered herself nor her ehildre
J
SJBNSB AND SENSIBILITY. 219
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.
iw 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 ad-
minister 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 re-
warded 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 offcen threw out expressions
of pit]^ for her sister to Elinor, and more than once dropt a
reflection on the inconstancy of beaux before Marianne; no
effect was produced, but a look of indifference from the
former, or of disgust in the latter. An effort even yet lighter
might have made her their friend : — would they only have
laughed at her about the Doctor ! But so little were they,
any more than the others, inclined to oblige her, that if Sir
John dined from home she might spend a whole day without
hearing any other raillery on the subject than what she was
kind enough to bestow on herself.
All these jealousies and discontents, however, were so
totally unsuspected by Mrs. Jennings, that she thought it a
delightful thing for ihe 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, and sometimes at her
own house ; but wherever it was, she always came in excellent
spirits, full of delight and importance, attributing Charlotte's
well doing to her own care, and ready to give so exact, so
minute a detail of her situation, as only Miss Steele had
220 SENSE AXD SENSIBILrTT,
1
her; ad
coriositj enougK to desire. One thing did diaturb her;
of th at Bhe made h er da [iy c ompl aint * Mr , Palmer m aintained
the common^ but unfatberlj opinion among bis scsc, of aE
infants being alike \ and thougli she could plaiulj perceit!
at difFereat times, the tiioat striking resemblance between th
baby and every one of hie relations on both sides, there wi
no convincing liis father of it; no persuading him to belieil
that it wa.g not exactly hke every other baby of the same ag|
nor could he even be brouglit to acknowledge the simple pri
position of its being the finest child in the world. ^
1 come now to the relation of a misfortune which aboi
thii time befell Mrs, John Dashwood. It so happened tbi
while her two sisters with Mrs. Jeanings were first calling fl
her inHarley Street, another of her aequaiutance had dr&
in — a circumstance in itself not apparently likely to prodtK
evil to her. But while the imaginations of other people wi
eaiTj them away t^ forni wrong judgments of our condnfl
and to decide on it by slight appearances, one's happinei
must In Bome measure be always at the mercy of chance. J
the present instance , this last- arrived lady allowed her fani
so far to outrmi truth and probability , that on merely hearts
the name of the Miss Dash woods and understanding them i
be Mr. Dashwood's sisters, she immediately concluded the(
to be staying in Harlej Street; and this miseonstructioti pwi
duced, within a day or two afterwards, cards of invitation fi
them, as well as for tbeir brother and sister, to a small musia
party at her house; the consequence of which was, thatftifl
John Dash wood was obliged to submit not only to the 63
ceedingly great inconvenience of sending her carriage for tl
Miss Dash woods, but, what was still worse, must be iabjectf
all the unpleasantness of appearing to treat them with attei
tion [ and who could tell that they might not expect to go oi
with her a second time? The power of disappointing then
it was true, must always be hers. But that was not enough
for when people are determined on a mode of coaduct whi^
they know to be wrong, they feel injured by the eipectatiQ
of any thing better &om them.
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 221
' 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 pre-
pared quietly and mechanically for every evening's engage-
ment, though without expecting the smallest amusement from
any, and very often witiiout 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 £Ye minutes of their being together , when it
iraB finished. Nothing escaped her minute observation and
general curiosity; she saw every thing, and asked every
Sling; was never easy till she knew the price of every part of
Ifarianne's dress; could have guessed the number of her
yowns altogether with better judgment than Marianne her-
lelf ; and was not without hopes of finding out, before they
[Murted , 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
vritii 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 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 £.ye 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 incon-
venience eitiier herself or her coachman.
The events of the evening were not very remarkable. The
party, like other musical parties, comprehended a great many
people who had real taste for the performance , and a great
222
SEKSE AND SENSIBILITY.
man^ more who hitd none at e.11^ and tte performers thi
lelYCB were, as ufiual, in their own eBtimation, and 1
of thoir immediate friends^ the first private performeil
England.
Ab Elinor was neither mnakal, nor affecting to be so j i
made no acruple of turning away lier eyes from tlie gn
piano-forte whenever it suited her, and luireatrained evei^
the presence of a haip , and a yioloncello , would fix theil
pleasure on any other object in the room. In one of H
excuraivo glances she perceived , among a group of yoi
men ^ the very lie who had given them a lecture on toothpf
cases at Gray*s- She perceived him soon afterwards loo^
at herself, and speaking familiarly to her brother; and ]
just determined to find out his name from the latter, wj
they both came towards her, and Mr.Dashwood introdql
him to her as Mr* Hohert Ferrars- j
He addressed her with easy civility, and twisted Mm h|
into a bow, which assured her, as plainly as words could hi
done , that he was exactly the coxcomb she had beard him j
scribed to be hj Lucy. Happy had it been for her, if 1
regard for Edward had depended less on his owu merit ti
OH the merit of his nearest relations! For then hiabrothf
bow must have given the finishing stroke to what the
humour of his mother and sister would have begun- ]
while she wondered at the difference of the two young mi
she did not find tliat the emptiness and conceit of the one j
her at all out of charity with the modesty and woiiih of 1
other. Why they wert different, Robert explained to 1
I himself, in the course of a quarter of an hour's converaatil
[for, talking of his brother, and lamenting the extrij
erie which he really believed kept him from mixing
per society, he candidly and generously attributed it ml
lesa to any natural deficiency than to the misfortune of a p
vute education i while he himflelf, though probably withdl
any particular, any material superiority by nature , meH
from t>he advantage of a public echoel, wa^ as wf
mix in the world as any other man.
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 223
"Upon my soul ," he added , " I believe it is nothing more ;
md so I often tell my mother, when she is grieving about it.
My dear madam/ I always say to her, * you must make your-
ieU easy. The evil is now irremediable, and it has been
sttirely your own doing. Why would you be persuaded by
ay uncle, Sir Robert, against your own judgment, to place
ildward under private tuition, at the most critical time of his
ife? If you had only sent him to Westminster as well as
nyself , instead of sending him to Mr. Pratt's, all this would
lave been prevented.' This is the way in which I always
insider the matter , and my mother is perfectly convinced of
ler error."
£linor would not oppose his opinion, because, whatever
night be her general estimation of the advantage of a public
chool, she could not think of Edward's abode in Mr. Pratt's
amily with any satisfaction.
"You reside in Devonshire, I think ," was his next obser-
vation, " in a cottage near Dawlish."
Elinor set him right as to its situation; and it seemed
ather surprising to him that any body could live in Devon-
ihire without living near Dawlish. He bestowed his hearty
ipprobation, however on their species of house.
"For my own part ," said he , " I am excessively fond of a
iottage; there is always so much comfort, so much elegance
iboutthem. And I protest, if I had any money to spare, I
ihould buy a little land and build one myself, within a short
listance of London, where I might drive myself down at any
ime, and collect a few friends about me, and be happy. I
Eulvise 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
iear Courtland,' said I, immediately throwing them all into
the fire, *do not adopt either of them, but by all means build a
20ttage.' And that, I fancy, will be the end of it.
"Some people imagine that there can be no accommo-
iations, no space in a cottage; but this is all a mistake. I
SENSE A>'D SEN81BLLJTY,
was last month at mj friend EUiott^B, near Dartford. Lai
Elliott wished to give a dance. * But how can it be done'
said she t 'mj dear Ferrare, do tell me how it is to be managei
There is Dot a room in this cottage that will bold ten eoupl^
and where can the supper be?* /kumediately saw that theri^
could he no difficulty in it, so I said, 'My dear Ladj Elliott^ do
not he uneasy. The dining -parlour will admit eigbteett
couple with ease \ card- tables may be placed in the drawing^
room; the library may be open for tea and other refresll!
meats; and let the supper be set out in the Baloon.* Lad||
Elhott was delighted with the thought. We measured tbl
dining-room, and found it would bold exactly eighteen couple
— and the affair was arranged precisely after my plan. So
that J in fact, you see, if people do hut know how to set about
it, every comfort may be as well enjoyed in a cottage as in tb^
moet spacious dwelling."
Elinor agreed to it all, for she did not think he deservi
the compliment of rational opposition.
As John Dashwood bad no more pleasure In music than
his eldest sister, his mind was equally at liberty to fix on voMy
thing else; and a thought struck bitn, during the eyetLmJI
which he communicated to bis wife, for her approbation,
when tbey got home. The consideration of Mrs* Denniaon'i
mistake , in supposing his sisters their guests, bad suggested
the propriety of their being really invited to become HuchJ
while Mi's. Jennings's engagements kept her from home. The
expense would benotbing; the inconvenience not more ; aud
it was altogether an attention which the delicacy of bis coifc
science pointed out to be requisite to its complete enfrancbiM
ment from his promise to bis father. Fanny was startled 11
the proposal. J
*^I do not see how it can be done," said she, "without
aflEronting Lady Middleton j for they spend every day with
her^ otherwise T should be exceedingly glad to do it. You
know 1 am always ready to pay them any attention in my
power^ as my taking them out this evening shows. But'
ktbfli
SENBB AND SENSIBILITY. 225
are Lady Middleton*s visiters. How can I ask them away
from her?**
Her husband, but with great humility, did not see the
force of her objection. " They had already spent a week in
this manner in Conduit Street, and Lady Middleton could not
be displeased at their giving the same number of days to such
near relations.*'



Faimy paused a moment, and then, with fresh vigour,
said, —
** My love , I would ask them with all my heart, if it was in
my power. But I had just settled within myself to ask the
IGsfl 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 ifaem, 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
ahready, and so does my mother; and they are such favourites
with Harry!"
Mr. Dashwood was convinced. He saw the necessity of
inviting the Miss Steeles immediately; and his conscience was
pacified by the resolution of inviting his sisters another year;
at the same time, however, slily suspecting that another year
would make the invitation needless, by bringing Elinor to
town as Colonel Brandon's wife, and Marianne as their
visiter.
Fanny, rejoicing in her escape, and proud of the ready wit
that had procured it , wrote the next morning to Lucy, to re-
quest 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; cherish-
ing all her hopes, and promoting all her views! Such an op-
portunity 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 ad-
vantage that could not be too gratefully acknowledged, nor
Sense and SeitsibUUy. 15
226 SEIN&E AKD SEKBIBILITr*
1
i
too speedily made use of; sixid the visit to Lfkdj Middleton^
which had not before had any precise limits , was mstatitly
discoTered to have been always meaitt to end in two days^
time.
When the note was shown to Elinor, as it was within ten
minutes after its arrival , itga^e her, for the first time, some
share in the eipeetations of Lucy; for such a mark of uncom-
mon kmdnesB, vouchsafed on so short an acquaintauce,
seemed to declare that the good will towards hex arose from
something more than merely malice against herself^ ani)
might be brought, by time and address, to do every thing thai
Lucy wished. Her flattery had alreatiy subdued the pride
Lady Middle ton, and made an entry into the close heart
Mrs. John Dash wood ; and these were effects that laid apei»
the probality of greater*
The Miss Steeles removed to Harley Street; and aU that'
reached Elinor of their influence there strengthened her ex-
pectation of the event. Sir Johuj who eaUed on them more
than once J brought home such accouata of the favour they ■
were in as must be universally striking. Mrs. Dash wood had I
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 Cliristian
name; and did not know whether she should ever be able to
part with them.
CHAPTER XXXVIL
Mbs. Palmkb was so well at the end of a fortnight that her|
mother felt it no longer neceissary to give up the whole of ha
time to her; and , contenting herself with visiting her once <
twice a day , returned from that period to her own home , and
her own habits ^ in which she found the Miss Dash woods vety
ready to re-assume their former share.
About the third or fourth mo ruing after their being thu
resettled In Berkeley Street, Mrs, Jennings, on returning fron
SBNSE AND SENSIBILITY. 227
her ordinary visit to Mrs. Palmer, entered the drawing-room,
where Elinor was sitting by herself, with an air of such hurry-
ing 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 I my dear Miss DashwoodI have you heard the
aewB?"
" No, ma*am. What is it ? "
" Something so strange ! But you shall hear it all. When
I got to Mr. Paimer*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 I my dear,* says I, *it is nothing in the world but the red
gum ;* and nurse said just the same. But Charlotte, she would
not be satisfied , so Mr. Donavan was sent for; and luckily he
happened to be just come in from Harley Street, so he
stepped over directly, and as soon as ever he saw the child he
said just as we did, that it was nothing in the world but the
red gum, and then Charlotte was easy. And so, just as he
was going away 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 you care as to their sister's indisposition , I think it ad-
visable to say, that I believe there is no great reason for
alarm ; I hope Mrs. Dashwood will do very well."
"What! is Fanny ill?"
"That is exactly what I said, my dear. 'Lord I* 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 ab^t, (but, however, as it turns out, I am monshrous
glad there never was any thing in it,) Mr. Edward Ferrars, it
seems, has been engaged above this twelvemonth to my cousin
Lucy ! There's for you, my dear I And not a creature knowing
15*
938
SENSE AKD SENSIBILITW
Br syllable of the matter except Nancy! Could you have
lieved Buch ^ thing possible? There is no great wondei
their liking one another; but that matters sbould be bron
80 forward between them, and nobody suspect itl Tha
strange ! I never happened to see them together^ or I am &
I should have found it out directly. Well, and so this '
kept a great secret, for fear of Mrs. Perrars, and neither
nor yom- brother or sister suspected a word of the matter;
this very morning, poor Nancy, who, you know, is a t*
meaning creature, but no conjurer, p opt it all out. *IjOi
thinks she to herself, 4hey arc all so fond of Lucy, to be t
they will make no difficulty about it 5' and so away she >i
to your sister, who was sitting all alone at her carpet- w(
litUe suspecting what was to come — for she had just b
saymg to your brother, only five minutes before, that
thought to make a match between Edward and some Lo
daughter or other, 1 forget who. So you may think wbi
blow it was to all her vanity and pride. She fell into viol
bysterics immediately, with such screams as reached j
"brother's ears, as be was sitting m his own dressing-r^
down stairs, thinking about writing a letter to his stewan
the country. So up he flew directly, and a terrible scene t
place, for Lucy was come to them by that time, little dreaa
what was going on. Poor soul ! I pity her. And I must t
I think she was used very hardly ; for your sister scolded ',
any fury, and soon drove her into a fainting fit. Nancy,
kfell upon her knees, and cried bitterly; and your brother.
^ talked about the room , and said he did not know what to
Mrs. Dashwood declared they should not stay a minute Ion
in the houae; and your brother was forced to go down upoi
knees, too, to persuade her to let them stay till they
packed up their clothes* Then she fell into hysterics ag
and he was so frightened that he would send for Mr.Donai
and Mr. Donavmi found the house id all this uproar, '
carriage waa at the door ready to take my poor con sins a^w
and they were just stepping in as be came oflF; poor Luc
such a condition, be saye, she could hardly walk; and Kaj
SENSE AND SENSIBtLITY. 229
8he 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
ia 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
ihould not wonder, if he was to be in the greatest of a 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 Barley 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;
aod 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 aflPair without embarrass-
ment, and to give her judgment, as she believed, with impar-
tiality on the conduct of every one concerned in it.
She could hardly determine what her own expectation of
250 BEN3E A^ND SENSIBILITY.
its event really wa«; though she earaeatly ti'ied to drive away
tiie BOtian of iti being: possible to ead otherwise at last^ than
in the marriage of Edward and Lucy. Wliat Mrs* Ferrari
would say aod do , though there could not be a doubt of its
nature, she was anxious to bear; and etiU more anxious to
know how Edward would conduct himself. For Mm she felt
much compassion ; — for Lucy very little — and it cost her
some pains to procure that Uttle; — for the rest of the pa^ |
none at aLl.
As Mrs, Jennings could talk on no other subject, Elinor 1
soon saw the necessity of preparing Marianne for its discus- j
fliou. No time was to be lost in undeceiving her, in making I
her acquainted with the real truth , and in endeavouring to [
bring her to hear it talked of by others, without betraying I
that she felt any uneasiness for her sister, or any reB^ntment
against Edward,
Elinor's office was a painful one. She was going to retnove
wbat she really believed to he her sbter's chief coniolation, —
to give such particulars of Edward as she feared would nun
him for ever in her good opinion^ — and to make Marianne,
by a resemblance in their situations, which to km- fancy would
seem strong, feel all her own disappointment over again. But
unwelcome a,s 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 feel-
ings , or to represent herself as Buffering 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 wa^ 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 he
the comforter of others in her own distresses, no lets than in
theirs ; and all the comfort that could be given by assurances
of her own composure of oiind, and a verj earnest vindication
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 231
of Edward from every charge but of imprudence , was readily
offered.
But Mariamie for some time would give credit to neitiier.
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 tolMly 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 astonish-
ment which her lips could not utter. After a pause of wonder,
she exclaimed, —
" Four months ! Have you known of this four months? "
Elinor confirmed it.
"What! while attending me in all my misery, has this
been on your heart? and I have reproached you for being
happy!"
"It was not fit that you should then know how much I was
the reverse." i
"Four months!" cried Marianne again. "So calm! so
cheerful ! How have you been supported ? "
2S2 SB3^^SE AND SENSfBILTTY,
"Bj feeling that I was doing m^ duty. My promise to
Lncy obliged me to be secret. I owed it to her ^ therefore, t»
avoid giving any hint of the truth; and I awed it to my family
and irlends, not to create in them a sohcitude about me, which
it could not be in my power to satisfy/*
Marianne seemed much struck.
'*! have veiy often wished to undeceive yourself and my
mother/* added Elinor; **and once or twice 1 have attempted
it; hut without betraying my tinat, I never could bave con-
vinced you.
"Four months [ and yet you loved him 1 "
"Yes, But 1 did not love only him; and while the comfort
of others was dear to me, I was glad to spare them from
knowing how much I felt. Now^ I can think and speak of it
with little emotion, I would not have you suffer on my
account; for I assure you I no longer suffer materially myself.
I have many things to support me. I am not conscious of
having provoked the disappointment by any imprudence of
my own, and I have borne it as much as possible without
spreading it farther. I aoquit Edward of all essential ml^^
conduct. 1 wish him very happy; and I am so sure of hk
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 fouudatiou 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 attaehment,
and all that can be said of one's happiness depending entirely
on any particular person , it is not meant — it is not tit — it if
not possible that it should be so. Edward will marry Luey;
he will marry a woman superior in person :^d understanding
to half her sez ; and time and habit will teach him to forget
that be ever thought another superior to her.'^
* * If su ch i B y o nr way o f thinking, " a aid Mar J ann e , * * if the
loHB of what is most valued is so easily to be made up by
something else, your resolution^ your self- command^ are, per*
haps, a little less to be wondered at. They are brought more
within my comprehension/*
d
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 233
'' I understand you. You do not suppose that I have ever
b much. For four months, Marianne, I have had all this
iging on my mind, without being at liberty to speak of
a single creature ; knowing that it would make you and
motiier most unhappy whenever it were explained to you,
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,
386 prior engagement ruined all my prospects; and told
, as I thought, with triumph. This person's suspicions,
refore, I have had to oppose, by endeavouring to appear
ifPerent were I have been most deeply interested; and it
; not been only once ; I have had her hopes and exultation
listen to again and again. I have known myself to be
Lded from Edward for ever, without hearing one circum-
ace that could make me less desire the connection. Nothing
1 proved him unworthy; nor has any thing declared him in-
herent to me. I have had to contend against the unkindness
his sister, and the insolence of his mother; and have
Fered the punishment of an attachment, without enjoying
advantages. And all this has been going on at a time,
en, as you too well know, it has not been my only un-
ppiness. If you can think me capable of ever feeling,
ely you may suppose that I have suffered now. The com-
lure of mind with which I have brought myself at present
consider the matter, the consolation that I have been
ling to admit, have been the effect of constant and painful
nrtion; they did not spring up of themselves; they did not
tur to relieve my spirits at first. No, Marianne. Then^
'. had not been bound to silence, perhaps nothing could
^e kept me entirely — not even what I owed to my dearest
mds — from openly showing that I was very unhappy."
Marianne was quite subdued.
"Oh, Elinor," she cried, "you have made me hate myself
ever. How barbarous have I been to you I — you, who
re been my only comfort, who have borne with me in all
' misery, who have seemed to be only suffering for me ! Is
B my gratitude? Is this the only return I can make you?
234 SENSE AND ??E>;S1BILITT.
Because yom* merit cries out upon myself , 1 Jiave been tryinf
to do it away."
The t^n detest caresaea followed this eonfesaioii. In aueh
a frame of mind as she wns now in, Elhior had do difficulty in
obtrtining from her whatever proniiae she required 5 and, at
her request, Marianne engaged never to speak of the aft*airt0
any one with the least appearance of hitterness; to meet Lucy
without betraying the smallest inerease of dishke to her; and
even to see Edward himself, if ehanee should hring them
together, without any dinunution of her usual cordiality.
These were great concessions; but where Marianne felt that
she had injured, no reparation could be too much for her ta
make.
She performed her proraise of being discreet, to admir-
ation. She attended to ail that Mrs. Jennings had to say
upon the subject, with an unehangLug eompleiion, dissented
from her in nothing, and was heard three times to say, " Yes»
ma'am." She listened to her praise of Lucy witii 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. 8uch 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 hring them news of bk
wife.
**You have heard, I suppose," said he, with great
solemnity, as soon an he was seated, "of the very shocking
discovery that took place under our roof yesterday."
They all looked their assent; it seemed too awfial a
moment for speech.
"Your sister," he continued, "has suffered dreadfully;
Mrs. Ferrara too — - in short it has been a scene of such
complicated distress — but 1 will hope that the storm may
he 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 tliere is nothing
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 235
materiallj 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
ttdnk well of any body again; and one cannot wonder at it,
after being so deceived ! — meeting with such ingratitude,
where so much kindness had been shown , so much confidence
had been placed ! It was quite out of the benevolence of her
heart, that she had asked these young women to her house;
merely because she thought they deserved some attention,
were harmless, well-behaved girls, and would be pleasant
eompanions ; 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 a£Pectionate 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 pre-
possession 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.
AU 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
£dward so stubborn, so unfeeling before. His mother ex-
plained to him her liberal designs, in case of his marrying
Mm Morton; told him she would settle on him the Norfolk
estate, which, clear of land-tax, brings in a good thousand a
236 SENSE AKD SENSlBlXTTr,
year; offered even , when matters grew desperate , to make
twelve hundred; and in opposition to this, if he still pereisi
in this low connection, represented to him the certain peni
that must attend the match. His own two thousand poimdi j
she protested should be his all; she would never see him ^
again; and so far would she be from affording him tbt i^
smallest asal stance, that if he were to enter into any profesBien ^
with a view of better support^ she would do all in her power W ^
prevent his advancing in it*"
Here Marianue^ in an ecstasy of indignation, clapped befj
hands together ^ and cried , ** Gracious God I can this be pfl*-^
sible?"
'* Well may you wonder, Mariaime," replied her brothei^l
'^at the obstinacy which could resist isuch 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 vaia.
Edward said very little; but what he did say was in the most
determined manner* Nothing should prevail on him to giffi
up his engagement. He would stand to it, cost him wh&lit
might,"
"Then," cried Mrs. Jennings with blunt sincerity, no
longer able to he silent ^ *^ he has acted like an honest maul
I beg your pardon , Mr, Bash wood , but if he had done oUier*
wise , I should have thought him a rascaL I have some little
concern in the business, as weU as yourself, for Lucy SteeJe ii
ray cousin; and 1 believe there it not a better kind of girl in
the world, nor one who more deserves a good husband,"
John Daehwood was greatly astonished; but his nature
was calm, not open to provocation; and he never wished to
offend any body, especially any body of good fortune. He
therefore replied without any resentment, —
"I would by no means speak disrespectfully of any
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 ta have
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 237
ntered into a secret engagement with a young man under
ter tmcle's care, the son of a woman especially of siich
ery large fortune as Mrs. Ferrars, is, perhaps, altogether a
title extraordinary. In short, I do not mean to reflect
ipon ihe behaviour of any person whom you have a regard
or, Mrs. Jennings. We all wish her extremely happy;
ind Mrs. Ferrars's conduct throughout the whole has been
uch as every conscientious, good mothei> in like circum-
tances, would adopt. It has been dignified and liberal.
Sdward has drawn his own lot, and I fear it will be a bad
me.
Marianne sighed out her similar apprehension; and
Blinor's heart wrung for the feeUngs of Edward, while brav-
ing his mother's threats, for a woman who could not reward
bim.
" 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
enquiry."
"Poor young man ! and what is to become of him? "
" What, indeed, ma'am ! It is a melancholy consideration.
Bom to the /prospect of such affluence ! I cannot conceive a
ntaation more deplorable. The interest of two thousand
pounds — how can a man live on it ! And when to that is
added the recoUection 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 con-
dition. 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
diould 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
flbould be living about at his own charge now, at lodgings and
tavemB."
^
238 S1H3E AND SENSIBILtTY.
Elinox^s heart tkanked her far such kindness tow&rdi
Edward^ though she oonld not forheai* smiling at the foni|
of it.
"If lie would only have done as well by himHelf/* aaidj
John Daahwood, "as all hia friends were disposed to do l>|j
him, he might now have been Id his proper situation, nnl
wonld have wanted for nothing; but as it is, it must be oi
of any body*9 power to asabt him. Aad there is one thiog
more preparing against him, which must be worse than
all, — his mother has determined^ with a very natural kind
of spirit, to settle ihal estate upon Itobert immediately,
whieb might have been Edward's, on proper conditions. I
left her this morning with her lawyer, talking over thi.
business J'
"Weill" said Mrs, JenmngB, "that is her revi
Every body has a way of their own. But 1 don't think
would be y to make one son independent because another ba<
plagued me.*'
Marianne got up and walked about the room,
*^Can any thing be more galling to the spirit of a man,''
continued John, "than to see his younger brother in posseaaiofl
of an estate which might have heeu his own? Poor Edward I
I feel for him sincerely.'*
A few minutes more^ spent in the same kind of effuaio%
coneluded his visit; and with repeated assurances to hit
sisters that he really believed there was no material datiger
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, Fen'ar's conduct , the Dashwoodi',
and Edward's. M
Mariaune's Indignation burst forth as soon as he quitte4l
the room; and as her vehemence made reserve unpossiblein
Elinor, and unnecessary in Mrs. Jennings, they ali joined In %
very spirited critique upon the party.
i
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 239
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
AIss. JfiNNiNas was very warm in her praise of Edward's
conduct, but only Elinor and Marianne understood its true
nerlt. They only knew how little he had had to tempt him
o be disobedient, and how small was the consolation, beyond
^e consciousness of doing right, that could remain to him
in the loss of friends and fortune. Elinor gloried in his in-
tegrity; and Marianne forgave all his offences in compassion
for his punishment. But though confidence between them
iras, 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 amend-
ment. Her mind was so much weakened, that she still fancied
present exertion impossible, and therefore it only dispirited
lermore.
Nothing new was heard by them, for a day or two after-
•vards, of affairs in Harley Street or Bartlett's Buildings. But
:hough so much of the matter was known to them already,
:hat Mrs. Jennings might have had enough to do in spreading
^at knowledge farther, without seeking after more , she had
resolved from the first to pay a visit of comfort and enquiry to
*
k
240 SBHBE AND SENSIBILITT,
her cQUBmB aa soon ns bIic could; and no thing but tb^
hinderance of more visiterB than usual ha.d prerentcd h
going- to them within that time.
Tha third daj succeeding their knowledge of the par*
ticulars was ao fine, so beautiful a Sundaj, as to draw manj
to Kensington Gardens ^ though it was onlj the second we<
in Mareh. Mra. Jennings and Elinor were of the number; hitf
Marianne , who knew that the Willoughbyg were again i
town, and had a constant dread of meeting them, choi
rather to stay at home, than venture into so public a place. *
An intimate acquaintance of Mrs. Jennings joined thei
soon after they entered the Graj^ens; and Elinor wa* n<
BOny that hj her continuing with them , and engaging ^
Mrs. Jeimiugs's eonversation^ she was herself left to quiet i
flection. She saw nothing of the Willoughbjs, nothing
Edward J and for some time nothing of any body who conW
by any elianee, whether grave or gay, be iuteresting tok
But at last she found herself, with some surprise, accosti
by Miss Steele, who, though looking rather shy, expresiei
great satisfaction in meeting them; and on receiving ew
courage ment fi'om the particular kindnesB of Afrs. Jenningi^
left her own party for a short time, to join theirs. MrtJ
Jennings immediately whispered to Elinor, —
*'Get it all out of her, my dear* She will tell you waf
thing, if you aak. Yon see I cannot leave Mrs. Clarke."
It was lucky, however, for Mra. Jennings's curiosity
Elinor^s too, that she would toil anything wilhottt being aBkecl
for nothing would otherwise have been learnt.
^4 am 80 glad to meet you ," said Miss Steele, taking h
familiarly by the arm — *'for I wanted to see you of all thln|
i n the world, ' ' And then lo werin g h er voic e , * ' 1 suppose Mi
Jennings has heard all about it. Is she angry?**
"Not at all, 1 believe, with you."
"That is a good thing. And Lady Middleton, is a
angry? '*
** I cannot suppose it possible that she should/*
"I am monsbrous glad of it. Good graeioufi I I have
SEXSE Ain> SENSIBILITY. 241
inch a time of it ! I never saw Lucy in such a rage in my life.
5he vowed at first she would never trim me up a new bonnet,
lor do any thing else for me again, so long as she lived; but
low she is quite come to, and we are as good friends as ever.
Liook, she made me this bow to my hat, and put in the feather
ZBt night. There now, you are going to laugh at me too. But
why should not I wear pink ribands? I do not care if it w the
doctor's favourite colour. I am sure, for my part, I should
lever have known he did like it better than any other colour,
f he had not happened to say so. My cousins have been so
)laguingme! I declare, Sometimes I do not know whidh way
x> look before them."
She had wandered away to a subject on which Elinor had .
lothing so say, and therefore soon judged it expedient to find
ler way back again to the first.
"Well, but Miss Dashwood," speaking triumphantly,
* people may say what they v choose about Mr. Ferrars's de-
daiing he would not have Lucy, for it*s no such thing, I can
;ell you ; and it*s quite a shame for such ill-natured reports to
»e spread abroad. Whatever Lucy might think about it her-
lelf, you know, it was no business of other people to set it
iown for certain."
"I never heard anything of the kind hinted at before, I
issure you," said Elinor.
"Oh, did not you? But it was said, I know, very well,
ind by more than one ; forMissGodby told Miss Sparks, that
lobody in their senses could expect Mr. Ferrars to give up a
roman like Miss Morton, with thirty thousand pounds to her
brtune, for Lucy Steele , that had nothing at all; and I had
t from Miss Sparks myself. And besides that, my cousin
Gtichard said himself, that when it came to the point, he was
ifiraid Mr. Ferrars would be off; and when Edward did not
iome near us for three days , I could not tell what to think
nyself ; and I believe in my heart Lucy gave it up all for lost ;
br we came away from your brother's Wednesday, and we
jaw nothing of him not all Thursday, Friday, and Saturday,
ind did not know what was become with him. Once Lucy
Sense and Sensibility, 16
242 SENSE A^^ BIlNSlBILmr.
thought to write to him, but then her spirit ro&e against that
However, this morning he came juet as we came home from
chnrch; and then it all came out, how ke had been aentfoT
Wednesday to Harley Street, and been talked to hyhis mothei
and all of them, and how lie had declared before them all
that he loved nobody but Lucy, and nobody but Lucy woul4
he have. And how he had been so worried by what passed^
that as soon as ho had went away from his mother's house, h.9
had got upon hia liorse, and rid into the coantry, some wheif
or other ; and how he had stayed about at an inn all Tiiui'sdaf
and Friday J on purpose to get the better of it. And ^im
thinking it all over and over again, he said, it seemed to him
if, now he had no fortune, and no uothing at all^ it would bt
quite unkind to keep her on to the engagement, bceaaae it
must be for her loss, for he had nothing but two thousand
pounds^ and no hope of any thing else; and if he was to go
into orders, a^ be had some thoughts, he eonld get nothing
but a curacj; and how was they to live upon tliat? He could
not bear to think of her doing no better, and so he begged,
if she had the least mind for it, to put an end to the matter
directly ^ and leave him to shift for himself 1 heard him say
all t^is as plain as could posaiblj he. And it was entirely ii>r
her sake, and upon her aeconnt, that he said a word aboiii
being oft\ and not upon his own. I will take my oath
never dropt a syllable of bemg tired of her, or of wishing if
marry Miss Morton, or ujiy thing hke il. But, to be
Lucy would not give ear to such kind of talking; so she
him directly (with a great deal about sweet and love, yc
know, and all that — Ob, In! one can't repeat such kin
of things you know) ^^ she told him directlyi she had not tl
least mind in the world to be ofi", for she could live wil
him upon a trifle, and how little soever be might have, al
should be very glad to have it all , you know, or something i
the kind. So then he was monstrous happy, and talked i
some time about what they should do , and they agreed I
should take orders direcOy, and they must wait to be marrxQ
till he got a living. And just then I could not hear any iii<
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 243
'or TDj cousin called from below to tell me Mrs. Richardson
WBB come in her coach, and would take one of us to Ken-
tington Gardens; so I was forced to go into the room and
ntermpt them, to ask Lucy if she would like to go, but
»he did not care to leave Edward; so I just run up stairs
ind put on a pair of silk stockings, and came off with the
EtichardBons."
^'I do not understand what you mean by interrupting
lihem," said Elinor; ''you were all in the same room together,
irerenotyou?"
''No, indeed, not us. La! Miss Dashwood, do you
think people make love when anybody else is by? Oh for
shame! To be sure you must know better than that. (Laugh-
ing affectedly.) No, no; they were shut up in the drawing-
loom togeliier, and all I heard was only by listening at the
door."
"How!" cried Elinor; "have you been repeating to me
wkat you only learnt yourself by listening at the door? I am
Sony I did not know it before ; for I certainly would not have
suffered you to give me particulars of a conversation which
you ought not to have known yourself. How could you
behave so unfairly by your sister?"
"Oh, la! there is nothing in iJuU. I only stood at the
door, and heard what I could. And I am sure Lucy would
have done just the same by me; for a year or two back , when
Hartha Sharpe and I had so many secrets together, she never
made any bones of hiding in a closet, or behind a chimney-
board, on purpose to hear what we said."



Elhior tried to talk of something else; but Miss Steele
eoald not be kept beyond a couple of minutes , from what was
uppermost in her mind.
"Edward talks of going to Oxford soon," said she; "but
now he is lodging at No. — , Pall Mall. What an ill-natured
woman his mother is , an't she? And your brother and sister
were not very kind! However, I shan't say any thing against
tiiem to you; and to be sure they did send us home in their
own chariot, which was more than I looked for. And for my
16*
244 SENSE AND SBNSIBILITT.
part, I was all in a fright for fear your sister should ask i
for the huswifes she had! gave us a daj or two before;
however, nothing was said about them, and I took caret
keep mine out of sight. Edward have got some business il^
Oxford, he sajs; so he must go there for a time; and after
that, as soon as he can light upon a bishop, he will be
ordained. I wonder what curacy he will get! Good graciooBl
(giggling as she spoke) I'd lay my life I know what my cousins
will say, when they hear of it. They will tell me I should
write to the Doctor, to get Edward the curacy of his new
living. I know they will ; but I am sure I would not do such
a thing for all the world. * La ! ' I shall say directly, * I wonder
how you could think of such a thing, /write to the Doct(Hr,
indeed!'"
"Well," said Elinor, "it is a comfort to be prepared
against the worst. You have got your answer ready."
Miss Steele was going to reply on the same subject, but
the approach of her own party made another more necessaiy.
"Oh, la! here come the Richardsons. I had avast deal
more to say to you, but I must not stay away from them not
any longer. I assure you they are very genteel people. He
makes a monstrous deal of money, and they keep their own
coach. I have not time to speak to Mrs. Jennings about it
myself, but pray tell her I am quite happy to hear she is not
in anger against us, and Lady Middleton the same; and if
any thing should happen to take you and your sister away,
and Mrs. Jennings should want company, I am sure we should
be very glad to come and stay with her for as long a time as
she likes. I suppose Lady Middleton won't ask us any more
this bout. Good by ; I am sorry Miss Marianne was not here.
Remember me kindly to her. La! if you have not got youi
spotted muslin on! I wonder you was not afraid of its being
torn."
Such was her parting concern; for after this she had time
only to pay her farewell cbmpliments to Mrs. Jennings, before
her company was claimed by Mrs. Richardson; and Elinor
was left in possession of knowledge which might feed her
SBNSB AKD SENSIBILITY. 245
powers of reflection some time, though she had learnt very
litde more than what had been abready foreseen and fore-
planned in her own mind. Edward's marriage with Lucy was
as firmly determined on, and the time of its taking place
Temained as absolutely uncertain, as she had concluded it
woiild be: — every thing depended, exactly after her ex-
pectation, on his getting that preferment, of which, at pre-
sent, there seemed not l£e smallest chance.
As soon as they returned to the carriage, Mrs. Jennings
was eager for information ; but as Elinor wished to spread as
little as possible intelligence that had in the first place been
so unfairly obtained, she confined herself to the brief repeti-
tion <tf such simple particulars , as she felt assured that Lucy,
for the sake of her own consequence , would choose to have
known. The continuance of their engagement, and the
means that were to be taken for promoting its end, was all her
communication; and this produced from Mrs. Jennings the
following natural remark: —
"Wait for his having a living! — ay, we all know how that
will end: — they will wait a twelvemonth, and finding no
good comes of it , will set down upon a curacy of fifty pounds
a year, with the interest of his two thousand pounds, and
what little matter Mr. Steele and Mr. Pratt can give her. Then
they will have a child every year! and. Lord help *em! how
poor they will be ! I must see what I can give them towards
fiimishing their house. Two maids and two men, indeed!
as I talked of f other day. No, no, they must get a stout
girl of all works. Betty's sister would never do for them
The next morning brought Elinor a letter by the twopenny
post from Lucy herself. It was as follows : —
"Bartlett'sBaildings, March.
"I hope my dear Miss Dashwood will excuse the liberty I
take of writing to her ; but I know your friendship for me will
make yon pleased to hear such a good account of myself and
my dear Edward , after all the troubles we have went through
246 SENSE AND SBKSIBILITY.
lately, fh'.refore will make no more apologies, but proceed
to say that, thank OodI though we have iuif^ered dreadfiillj'^
we are both quite well now , and as happj as we must alwap
be in one another*a love. We have kad great trials, and great
peraecntions^ hut, however, at the same time, gratefully
acknowledge manj friends, yourself not the least amonf
them , whose great kindness I ahall always thankfully fe-
rn ember, as will Edward too, who I have told of it. I am
sure you will be glad t^ hear , as likewise dear Mrs. Jenning^t
I spent two happy hours with him yesterday afternoon : he
would not liear of our parting, though earnestly did I, as I
thought my duty required , urge him to it for prudence sski,
and would have parted for ever on the spot, would he conseut
to it*, hut he said it should never be, he did not regard his
mother's anger, while be could have myaffeetiona; our pro-
spects are not very bright, to be sure, but we must wait , aud
hope for the best; he will be ordained shortly; and should it
ever be in your power to recommend him to any body that has
a living to bestow , am very sure you will not forget us^ and
dear Mrs* Jennings too , trust she wiU speak a good word for
US to Sir John, or Mr. Palmer, or any friend that may be able
to assist us. — Poor Anne was much to blame for what ahft
did, but she did it for the best, so I say nothing , hope Mrs*
Jennings won*t think it too much tix>ub]e to give ua a call,,
should she come this way any morning , *t would be a great
kindness, and my cousins would be proud to know her. —
My paper reminds me to conclude; and begging to be moit
gratefully and respectfully remembered to her, and to 8fr
John, and Lady Middleton, and the dear children, wh^n
you chance to see them^ and love to Miss Marianne,
<'I am, a^.&c.'' I
As soon as Elinor had finished it, she performed what she
concluded to be its writer^s real design, by placing it in the
hands of Mrs. Jennings ^ who read it aloud with many oma^ i
mente of satisfaction and praise^
"Va7 well, indeed I — how prettily she writes! — ay,"
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 247
bhat was quite proper to let him be off if he would. That was
juftt like Lucy. Poor soul ! I wish I could get him a living,
irith all my heart. She calls me dear Mrs. Jennings, you see.
3he is a good-hearted girl as ever lived. Very well , upon my
irord. That sentence is very prettily turned. Yes, yes, I
wHl go and see her, sure enough. How attentive she is, to
ihink of everybody! -— Thank you, my dear, for showing it
ne. It is as pretty a letter as ever I saw, and does Lucy's
lead and heart great credit."
CHAPTER XXXIX.
The Miss Dashwoods had now been rather more than two
months in town , and Marianne's impatience to be gone in-
creased every day. She sighed for ike air, the liberty, the
]aiet of the country ; and fancied, that if any place could give
ber ease, Barton must do it. Elinor was hardly less anxious
than herself for their removal , and only so much less bent on
its being effected immediately, as that she was conscious of
the difficulties of so long a journey, which Marianne could not
t)e brought to acknowledge. She began, however, seriously
to turn her thoughts towards its accomplishment; and had
ilready mentioned their wishes to their kind hostess, who
resisted them with all the eloquence of her good- will, when a
}lan was suggested, which, though detaining them from home
^et a few weeks longer, appeared to Elioor altogether much
nore eligible than any other. The Palmers were to remove
'4> Cleveland, about the end of March, for the Easter holidays ;
md Mrs. Jennings, with both her friends, received a very
irarm invitation from Charlotte to go with them. This would
lot, in itself, have been sufficient for the delicacy of Miss
Dashwood ; but it was enforced with so much real politeness
jy Mr. Palmer himself, as, joined to the very great amend-
nent of his manners towards them since her sister had been
mown to be unhappy, induced her to accept it with pleasure.
When she told Marianne what she had done, however, her
first reply was not very auspicious.
24B BENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
** Cleveland I" she cried, with great agitation. **No, I
eanuot go to Cleveland/^
"You forget/' eaid Elinor, gently j "tbat its eitmation h
not — that it is not in the neighbourhood of — "
^^But it ig in SamerBetshire. I eannot go into Somerset-
shire . There, wkere I looked forward to going ; — do, Elinor,
you cannot expect me to go there.*'
Elinor would not argue upon the propriety of overcoming
Buch feelings; she only endettvom^ed to counteract them by
working on others \ and represented it, therefore, ae a measure
which would fij[ the time of her returning to that dear mother,
whom she so much wished to see, in a more eligible , more
comfortable manner, than any other plan could do, and per-
haps without any gr e ater del ay , Fro m Clevel an d , which wai
within a few miles of Bristol , the distance to Barton was not
beyond one day, thougli a long day's journey^ and their
mother's servant might easily come there to attend them,
down; and aa there could be no occasion for their stayitig
above a week at Cleveland, they might now be at home in
little more than three weeks' time. As Marianne's affectioa
for her mother was sincere, it must trimnph, with little difli'^
culty, over the imaginary evils she had a tar ted,
Mrs, Jennings was so far from being weary of her guesta^
that she pressed them very earnestly to return with her agaiit<
from Cleveland. Elinor was grateful for the attention , but il
could not alter their design; and their mother's concmrenct
being readily gained , every thing relative to their retum wi
arranged as far as it could be ; and Marianne found ftoa
relief in drawing up a statement of the hours that were yet to'
divide her from Barton^
^^Ahi Colonel, I do not know what you and I shall do!
without the Miss Daah woods/' was Mrs. Jennings's address t*l
him when he first called on her, after their leaving her wi
settled; ^'for they are quite resolved upon going home&oni
the Palmers; and how forlorn we shall be when 1 c<mi#
back t Lord! we shall sit and gape at one another as du llni
two cata,"
J
SENSE AND SENSIBILILT. 249
Perhaps Mrs. Jennings was in hopes, by this vigorous
iketch of their future ennui , to provoke him to make that
)ffer, which might give himself an escape from it; and if so,
she had soon afterwards good reason to think her object
gained; for, on Elinor's moving to the window to take more
expeditiously the dimensions of a print, which she was going
to copy for her friend, he followed her to it with a look of
particular meaning, and conversed with her there for several
minutes. The effect of his discourse on the lady, too, could
not escape her observation; for though she was too honourable
to listen, and had even changed her seat, on purpose that she
might not hear, to one close by the piano-forte on which
Marianne was playing, she could not keep herself from seeing
that Elinor changed colour, attended with agitation, and was
too intent on what he said to pursue her employment. Still
farther in confirmation of her hopes, in the interval of
Marianne's turning from one lesson to another, some words of
the Colonel's inevitably reached her ear , in which he seemed
to be apologising for the badness of his house. This set the
matter beyond a doubt. She wondered, indeed, at his think-
ing it necessary to do so ; but supposed it to be the proper
etiquette. WhatElinor said in reply she could not distinguish,
but judged, from the motion of her lips, that she did not think
that any material objection; and Mrs. Jennings commended
her in her heart for being so honest. They then talked on for
a few minutes longer without her catching a syllable, when
another lucky stop in Marianne's performance brought her
these words in the Colonel's calm voice, —
"I am afraid it cannot take place very soon."
Astonished and shocked at so unlover-like a speech,
she was almost ready to cry out, ''Lord ! what should hinder
it?" but checking her desire, confined herself to this silent
ejaculation, —
"This is very strange! — sure he need not wait to be
older."
This delay on the Colonel's side, however, did not seem
to offend or mortify his fair companion in the least; for
250 flSNSE AJSat SESBIBIMTT* ^
on their breakiDg up tha conference soon afterwards , and
moving different ways, Mrs. Jennings very plainly hemnd
Elinor say, and with a voice whit;h showed her to feel what
she Baid, —
** I filiall always think my&e!f very much obliged to you-
Mrs* Jennings was delighted with her gratitude, and only
wondered, that, after hearing such a sentence, the Colonel^
shonld be able to take leave of them , as he immediately didy
with the utmost gang-froid^ and go away without making hei
any reply { She had not thought her old friend could ban
made so indifferent a suitor*
What had really passed between tliem waa to this effett
** I have heard," said he, with great compassion , ^'ofthl
injuBtiee your friend Mr. Ferrars has suffered from hts famdlT]
for, if I understand the matter rigbtj be has been entirel3
east off by them for persevering in his engagement with S^
very deserving young woman. Have I been rightly infonnedf,
la it so?"
Elinor told him that it was.
'*The cruelty, the impolitic cruelty," he replied, wii
great feeling, ^'of dividitig, or atteoapting to divide 5 ti
young people long attached to each other, is temble,
Ferrars does not know what she may be doing — what s]
may dri^^e her sou to. I have seen Mr. Ferrars two or
times in Harley Street, and am much pleased with Mm. Hi
is not a young man with whom one can be intimately ai
f|uainted in a short time , but I have seen enough of kun
msb him well for hia own sake, and as a friend of youis,
wish it still more, I underetand that he intends to take ord<
Will you be so good as to tell him that the living of Delafoi
now jtist vacantj as I am informed by this day's post, is his,,
he think it worth hia acceptance; but Maf, perhaps, so
fortunately circumstanced aaiieisnowjitmaybe nonsense
appear to doubt; I only wish it were more valuable. It 11
rectory, bntasmanonc; the late incumbent, I believe,
not make more than W^L per aimum ; and though it is t\
tainly capable of improvetneut, I fear not to such an amoi
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 251
as ta a£P6rd him a very comfortable income. Such as it is,
however, mj pleasure in presenting him to it will be verj
great. Pray assure him of it."
Elinor's astonishment at this commission could hardly
have been greater had the Colonel been really making her an
offer of his hand. The preferment, which only two days be-
fore she had considered as hopeless for Edward , was already
provided to enable him to marry ; and she^ of all people in the
world, was fixed on to bestow it! Her emotion was such as
Mrs. Jennings had attributed to a very different cause ; but
whatever minor feelings less pure, less pleasing, mi^ht have a
share in that emotion, her esteem for the general benevolence,
and her gratitude for the particular friendship, which together
prompted Colonel Brandon to this act, were strongly felt, and
warmly expressed. She thanked him for it with all her heart,
spoke of Edward's principles and disposition with that praise
which she knew them to deserve ; and promised to undertake
the commission with pleasure , if it were really his wish to put
off 80 agreeable an office to another. But at the same time
she could not help thinking that no one could so well perform
it as himself. It was an office, in short, from which, unwilling
to give Edward the pain of receiving an obligation from %er,
she would have been very glad to be spared herself; but
Colonel Brandon, on motives of equal delicacy, declining it
likewise, still seemed so desirous of its being given through
her means, that sh6 would not, on any account, make farther
opposition. Edward, she believed, was still in town, and
fortunately she had heard his address from Miss Steele. She
could undertake therefore to inform him of it, in the course of
the day. After this had been settled. Colonel Brandon began
to talk of his own advantage in securing so respectable and
agreeable a neighbour, and then it was that he mentioned,
with regfet, that the house was small and indifferent; an evil
which Elinor, as Mrs. Jennings had supposed her to do, made
very light of, at least as far as regarded its size.
<<The smallness of the house,*' said she, '^I cannot
252 SENSE AND SENSiemTTY.
imagine any ineonTenience to them; for it will be in propor-
tion to their familj and ineome/^
By which the Colonel was surprised to find that sM wai
eonsidcringMr.Fen^ara's marriage as the eertain consequence
of the preBentatlon ; for he did not suppose it possible that
Delaford living could supply such an income as any body in
his style of life would ventui'e to settle on, and he said so.
"This little rectory cun do no more than make Mr. FerrarH
comfortable as a bachelor; it cannot enable him to marry. I
am sorry to say that my patronage ends with this; and niy
interest is hardly more extensive. If, however , by lui un-
foreseen chance it should be in my power to serve him farther,
I must think very differently of him from what 1 now do , if I
am not as ready to be useful to him then as I sincerely wish I
could be at present. What I am now doings indeed ^ seems
nothing at all, since it can advance him so Little towards what
must be his principal, his only object of happiness* His mar-
riage must still bo a distant good; at least , I am afraid it
cannot take place very aoon,"
Such was the sentence which j when misunderstood, m
justly offended the delicate feelings of Mrs. Jennings; but,
after this narration of what really passed between Colonel
Branton and Elinor, while they stood at the window, the
gratitude expressed by the latter on their parting may per-
haps appear, in general, not leis reasonably excited, nor
less properly worded, than if it bad arisen from an offer of
marriage.
CHAPTER XL*
4
^'Weix, Miss Dashwood,^^ said I^Irs. Jennings, sa^^
cionsly smiling ^ as soon as the gentleman bad withdrawn, ^^I
do not ask you what the Colonel has been saying to you; for
though, upon my honour, I tried to keep out of hearing, I
could not help catching enough to understand his business;
and I assure you I never was better pleased in my life, and 1
wish you joy of it with all my heart*"
6BNSE AND SENSIBILILY. 253
''Thank you, ma* am," said Elinor. ''It is a matter of
great joy to me , and I feel the goodness of Colonel Brandon
most sensibly. There are not many men who would act as he
has done. Few people who have so compassionate a heart!
I never was more astonished in my life."
"Lord! my dear, you are very modest. I an*t the least
astonished at it in the world; for I have often thought, of late,
there was nothing more likely to happen."
"You judged from your knowledge of the Coloners
general benevolence; but at least you could not foresee that
the opportunity would so very soon occur."
"Opportunity!" repeated Mrs. Jennings. "Oh, as to
that, when a man has once made up his mind to such a thing,
somehow or other he will soon find an opportunity. Well,
my dear, I wish you joy of it again and again; and if ever
there was a happy couple in the world, I think I shall soon
know where to look for them."
"You mean to go to Delaford after them, I suppose," said
Elinor, with a faint smile.
"Ay, my dear, that I do, indeed; and as to the house
being a bad one , I do not know what the Colonel would be at,
for it is as good a one as ever I saw."
" He spoke of its being out of repair."
"Well, and whose fault is that? Why don't he repair
it? Who should do it but himself? "
They were interrupted by the servant's coming in to an-
nounce the carriage being at the door; and Mrs. Jennings,
inunediately preparing to go , said, —
"Well, my dear, I must be gone before I have had half
my talk out. But, however, we may have it all over in the
evening; for we shall be quite alone. I do not ask you to go
with me , for I dare say your mind is too full of the matter to
care for company; and, besides, you must long to tell your
sister all about it."
Marianne had left the room before the conversation
began. '
254 SENSE Aira SENSTBILlTYi
*' Certainly , ma'am , I ah all tell Marianne of it ; bat I shall
not mention it at preeeitt to anj body else*"
'*0h J very well," said Mre. Jesmmga, rather dla appointed,
^^ Then you would not have me tell it Lucj ; for I think of
going as far as Holbom to-day*"
'*Noj ma^ajn, not even Lucy^ if you please. One da/e
delay will not be very material; and, till I have writteu to
Mr. Ferrari, I think it ought not to be mentioned to any bodj
else. I ehall do that directly. It ia of opportance that no time
should be lost with him; for he will of course have much to do
relative to his ordination,"
This speech at first puzzled Mra. Jennings exceedingly.
Why Mr, Perrars w^as to be written to about it in such a hurry
she could not immediately comprehend. A few moments' re-
flection, however, produced a very happy idea; and aheei-
claimed, —
"Oh, hof I understand you. Mr. Ferrars is to be tiie
man. Well, so much the better for him. Ay, to be sure,
he must be ordained in readiness; and I am very glad to find
things are so forward between you. But, my dear, is not
this rather out of character? Should not the Qolonel write
himself? Sure, he is the proper person,"
Elinor did not quite understand the beginning of Mrs,
Jennings'fi speech , neither did ehe think it worth enquiring
into; and therefore only repOed to its conclusion,
"Colonel Brandon is so delicate a man, that be rather
wished any one to announce his intentions to Mr. Ferrars than
himself."
"And so you are forced to do it- Well ^ that is an odd kind
of delicacy I However, I will not disturb you" (seeing her
preparing to write). " You know your own concerns best. So
good -by , my dear. I have not heard of any thing to please
me so well since Charlotte was brought to bed. ^
And away she went; but returnmg again in a mo-
ment, —
"1 have just been thinking of Betty's sister, my d^ar.
f I ahoald he veiy glad to ^ftV \ieT wa ^ciod is. miitress. But
Sut J
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 255
whether she would do for a lady^s maid , I am sure I can^t
ell. She is an excellent housemaid, and works very well
kt her needle. However, you will think of all that at your
eisnre."
"Certainly, ma*am," replied Elinor, not hearing much
)f what she said, and more anxious to be alone than to be
Distress of the subject.
How she should begin, — how she should express herself
n her note to Edward, — was now all her concern. The
^articular circumstances between them made a difficulty of
:hat which to any other person would have been the easiest
thing in the world ; but she equally feared to say too much
or too little, and sat deliberating over her paper, with the
pen in her hand, till broken in on by the entrance of Edward
iiimself.
He had met Mrs. Jennings at the door, in her way to the
carriage, as he came to leave his farewell card; and she,
after apologising for not returning herself, had obliged him
to enter, by saying that Miss Dashwood was above, and
wanted to speak with him on very particular business.
Elinor had just been congratulating herself, in the midst
of her perplexity, that however difficult it might be to express
herself properly by letter, it was at least preferable to giving
the information byword of mouth, when her visiter entered,
to force her upon this greatest exertion of all. Her astonish-
ment and con^sion were very great on his so sudden appear-
ance. She had not seen him before since his engagement
became public , and therefore not since his knowing her to be
acquainted with it; which, with the consciousness of what
she had been thinking of, and what she had to tell him , made
her feel particularly uncomfortable for some minutes. He,
too, was much distressed; and they sat down together in a
most promising state of embarrassment. Whether he had
asked her pardon for his intrusion on first coming into the
room, he could not recollect; but, determining to be on the
safe side , he made his apology in form, as soon as he could
say any thing, after taking a chair.
E
256 SBKSt3 AND SE2CSIB1LITY,
**lfofl> JetmiugB told me," said he, *Hhat you msh^ij
to apeak with mcj at least 1 uudeTBtood her so, -^ or I c^-
tainly should not have intruded on you in such a manner;
though f at the same time, I should h&ye heen extremel]
HOny to leave London without seeing you and your si^terj]
especially as it will most likely be some time — it is not proh-
able that 1 should soon have the pleasure of meeting you
again, I go to Oxford to-morrow."
"You would not have gone, however," said Elinor, re-
covering herself, and determined to get over what she so
mnch dreaded as soon as possible, ** without receiving our
good wishes, even if we had not been able to give them in
person. Mrs. Jennings was quite right in what she said. I
have something of consequence to inform you of, which I wis
on the point of communicating by paper, I am charged with t
most agreeable office '^ (breathing rather faster than usual its
she spoke), "Colonel Brandon, who was here only ten minutei
ago, has desired me to say, that, understanding you mean
to take orders, he has great pleasure in offering you tbi
living of Delaford , now j ust vacant , and only wiaUes it were
more vain ah le. Allow me to congratulate you on having u
respectable and well-judging a friend, and to join in hi» wish
that the living — it is ah out two hundred a year — were much
more considerahle , and such aa might better enable you to —
as might be more than a temporary accommodation to your-
self — such, in short, as naight establish all your vie wi of
happiness,^^
What Edward felt, aa he could not say it himself, it csd-
not be expected that any one else should say for him. H*
looked ail the astonishment which such unexpected, suchtm'
thought of information eouid not fail of exciting ; butheaaid
only these two words j —
•* Colonel Brandon 1'*
"Yes," continued Elinor, gathering more resolution, fti
some of the worst waa over^ " Colonel Brandon means it as i
testimony of his concern for what has lately passed, — fortha
cruel ffituation in wkdck i^e un^M^^Jv^^^Aft «,Q\idu.ct of your
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 257
family has placed you, — a concern, which I am sure Mari-
anne, myself, and all your friends, must share; and, like-
wise , as a proof of his high esteem for your general character,
and his particular approbation of your behaviour on the pre-
sent occasion.'*
"Colonel Brandon give me a living! Can it be pos-
sible?"
"The unkindness of your own relations has made you
astonished to find friendship any where."
"No," replied he, with sudden consciousness, "not to
find it in you; for I cannot be ignorant that to you, to your
goodness , I owe it all. I feel it — I would express it if I could
— but, as you well know, I am no orator."
"You are very much mistaken. I do assure you that you
owe it entirely, at least almost entirely, to your own merit,
and Colonel BrandoQ's discernment of it. I have had no hand
in it. I did not even know , till I understood his design , that
tiie living was vacant; nor had it ever occurred to me that he
might have had such a living in his gift. As a friend of mine,
of my family, he may, perhaps, indeed I know he Ao^, still
^eater pleasure in bestowing it; but, upon my word, you
owe nothing to my solicitation."
Truth obliged her to acknowledge some small share in the
action; but she was at the same time so unwilling to appear
as the benefactress of Edward, that she acknowledged it with
hesitation; which probably contributed to ^ that suspicion
m his mind which had recently entered it. For a short time
he sat deep in thought, after Elinor had ceased to speak ; at
last, and as if it were rather an effort, he said, —
" Colonel Brandon seems a man of great worth and re-
spectability. I have always heard him spoken of as such,
and your brother I know esteems him highly. He is un-
doubtedly a sensible man, and in his manners perfectly the
gentleman."
"Indeed," replied Elinor, "I believe that you will find
him, on farther acquaintance, all that you have heard him
to be; and as you will be such very neax \i!&\^D\^\a^ ^^x
Sense and Sensibility. VI
qn
258
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY,
t
1 understand the parsonage is almoet close to the mauBion-
bouse) it is particularly important that he should he all thia."
Edward made no answer; but when she had turned awa^
her head, gave her a look so serious , so earnest, so uncheer- ,
ful, as seemed to aay, that he might hereafter wish the
distance between the parsonage and the mansion-house much |
greater.
"Colonel Brandon, I think, lodges in St. Jamea'a Street,"
said he, soon afterwards, rising from his chaiX'
Elinor told him tlie number of the house.
^'I must hurrj away, then, to give him those thanki '
which jou will not allow me to give yoii • to assure him that h«
has made me a very — an eieeedlngly happy man."
Elinor did not offer to detain him ; and they parted , with
a very earnest assurance on her side of her unceasing good
wishes for his happineBS in every change of situation that
might befall him ; on his^ with rather an attempt to return the
same good will, than the power of expressing it.
*^ When I see him again/' said Elinor to herself, as the
door shut him out, ** I shall see him the husband of Lucy."
And with this pleasing anticipation she sat down to recon-J
aider the past, recall the words, and endeavour to comprehend
all the feelings of Edward; and, of eourse, to reflect on her j
own with discontent.
When Mrs. Jennings came home, though she returned
from seeing people whom she had never seen before , and of
whom , therefore , she must have a great deal to eay, her mind '
was HO much more occupied hy the important secret in btr j
possesBion, than by any thing else, that she reverted to it j
again as soon as Elinor appeared.
"Well, my dear," she cried, "I sent you up the youngi
man. Did not I do right? And I suppose you had no great j
difficulty — you did not find him very unwilling to accept i
your proposal?"
** No, ma'am \ that wa s not very likely."
^* Well , and how soon will he he ready? For it seems lUl J
to depend upon that."
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 259
"Really,** said Elinor, "I know so little of these kind of
forms , that I can hardly even conjecture as to the time , or the
preparation necessary; but I suppose two or three months
will complete his ordination.'*
"Two or three months!" cried Mrs. Jennings: "Lord!
my dear, how calmly you talk of it; and can the Colonel wait
two or three months ! Lord bless me ! I am sure it would put
me quite out of patience ! And though one would be very glad
to do a kindness by poor M. Ferrars, I do think it is not worth
while to wait two or three months for him. Sure, somebody
else might be found that would do as well; somebody that is
m orders already.**
" My dear ma*am,** said Elinor, "what can you be thinking
of? Why, Colonel Brandon's only object is to be of use to
Mr. Ferrars.**
" Lord bless you , my dear ! Sure you do not mean to per-
suade me that the Colonel only marries you for the sake of
giving ten guineas to Mr. Ferrars ! **
The deception could not continue after this; and an ex-
planation immediately took place , by which both gained con-
siderable amusement for the moment, without any material
loss of happiness to either; for Mrs. Jennings only exchanged
one form of delight for another, and still without forfeiting
her expectation of the first.
"Ay, ay, the parsonage is but a small one ,** said she , after
the first ebullition of surprise and satisfaction was over, " and
very likely may be out of repair; but to hear a man apo-
logising , as I thought , for a house that to my knowledge has
5ve sitting rooms on the ground-floor, and I think the house-
keeper told me could make up fifteen beds! and to you, too,
:hat had been used to live in Barton Cottage ! It seemed
juite ridiculous. But, my dear, we must touch up the Colonel
x> do something to the parsonage , and make it comfortable
or them, before Lucy goes to it.**
"But Colonel Brandon does not seem to have any idea of
Jie living*s being enough to allow them to marry.**
"The ColoDel is a ninny, my deax\ "b^cooafe ^^ft \\a.^\:^<^
11*
}
260 SENSE AJ*D 8E1^SIBILITT,
thousand a ]^ear himself, he thinks that iiohodj eke can
marry on lefla. Take my word for it, that, if I am alive, I sbaM
be paying a visit at Delaford Parsonage before MichaebnaJlj
and I am sure I shan't go if Luey an't there." J
Elinor was quite of her opinion as to the probability d
their not waiting for any thing more. (
CHAPTER XLL 1
EnwAED, having carried his thanks to Colonel Brandon,
proceeded with his liappiness to Lucy; and such was the
eiceasof itby the time he reached Bartletfs Buildings, thit
ahe was able to assure Mrs. Jennings^ who called on her agii|
the next day with her congratulations, that she had nt^
seen him in such spirits before in her life.
Her own happiness, and her own spirits , were at least verj
certain ; and slie joined Mrs- Jennings most heartily in herei-
pectation of their being all comfortably together in Delaford
Parsonage before Michaelmas, So far was she, at the saiae
time, from any backwardnesa to give Elinor that credit which
Edward would give her, that she spoke of her friendship for
them both with the most grateful warmth , was ready ^^H
all their obligation to her, and openly deetared thati^^^l
tion for their good on Miss Dash wood's part, either preaeflto*
future , would ever surprise her, for she bebcved her capable
of doing any thing in the world for those she really valued.
As for Colonel Brandon y she was not only ready to worship
him aa a saint, but was, moreover, truly aniions that be
should be treated as one in ail worldly concerns; anxious that
I his tithes should be raised to the utmost; and secretly tt-
b solved to avail herself ^ at Delaford , as far as she possihll
could, of his servants, his carriage, his cows, and his poult
^f It was now above a week since John Dash wood hud call
I in Berkeley Street ^ and as since that time no notice had 1
I taken by them of his wife's indispoiition, beyond one ve:
enquir^j Elinor began to feel it necessary to pay her a ^
SEN&E AND HENI?IBfLITT* 861
This wai an obligation, however, which not only opposed her
own inclination , but which had not the assistance of any
encotixagemsnt from her companions. Mariamie^ not eon-
tented with absolutely refusing to go herself, was very urgent B
to prevent her sister's going at all ^ and Mrs. Jenumgs, though |
her carriage waa always at El in or *s service , so very much dis-
liked Mrs, John Da&hwood , that not even her curiosity to see
how she looked after the late discovery, nor her strong deaire
to ftflront her by taking Edward's part, could overcome her
unwillingness to be in her company again. The consequenee
was , that Elinor set out by herself to pay a visit, for which no
one could really have less inclination^ and to run the risk of a
tete-h-tete with a woman whom neither of the others had so
much reason to dislike. fl
Mrs. Dash wood was denied; but before the carriage could ■
turn &om the house ^ her husband accidentally came out.
He expressed great pleasure m meeting Elinor, told her that
he bad been just going to call In Berkeley Street, and assur-
iug her that Fanny would be very glad to see her, invited her
to come in.
They walked up stairs into the drawing-room. Nobody
was there.
"Fanny is in her own room, I suppose," said he: *^lwill
go to her presently , for 1 am sure she will not have the least
objection in the world to seeiug you. Very far from it, in-
deed. Now especially there cannot be — hut, however, you
and Marianne were always great favourites* Why would not
Marianne come?"
Elinor made what excuse she could for her.
*^ I am not sorry to ace you alone," he rephed, "for I have
a good deal to say to you. This living of Colonel Brandon's
^— can it be true? has he really given it to Edward? I heard
It yesterday by chance , and was coming to you on pm^ose to
enquire farther about it."
**It is perfectly true. Colonel Brandon has given the living^
of D elaf ord to Ed war d/ ' H
^EeaUy I Well, this h very astonishing! — no relatioa-
I
i
i
262 SENSE AKD SENSlBELrTT.
Bhip! — no coanectioii between them I — and now that livrngs
fetch Bucb a pnce 1 — what wa^ the yalne of this? ^^
** About two himdred a year,"
** Very well — and for the next presentation to a lirmg of
that yalue — Biipposiiig the late iiicumbent to hare been old
and sickly, and likely to vacate it aoon — he might have got,
J dare say — fourteen hundred pounds. And how came he
not to have settled that matter before this person's death?
NotDj indeed, it would be too late to bcU it, but a man of
Colonel Brandon^s sense ! I wondejr be should be so impro-
vident in a point of sucb common, auch natural, oooceml
Well, I am convinced that there is a vast deal of incon-
siBtencj in almost every human character. I euppoae , how-
ever — on recollection — that the case may probably he tJii».
Edward is only to hold the hving tiU the person to whom the
Colonel has really sold the presentation is old enough to take
itt Ay, ay, that is the fact, depend upon iV






Elinor contradicted it, however, very positively; and by
relating that she had herself been employed in conveying the
oflFer from Colonel Brandon to Edward, and therefore must
underBtand the terms on which it was given, obliged him to
submit to her authority.
'^It is truly astonishing I " he cried, after hearing what she
fiaid; "what could be the ColonerB motive."
**A very simple one, — to be of use to Mr. Ferrara,"
" Well, well; whatever Colonel Brandon may he , Edward
is a very lucky man. You will not mention the matter to
Fanny, however; for though I have broke it to her, and
she bears it vastly well, she will not like to hear it much
talked of,"
Elinor had aome difficulty here to re&ain from observing,
that she thought Fanny might have borne with composure an
acquisition of wealth to her brother, by which neither she nor
her child could be possibly impoverished.
"Mrs. F err are," added he, lowering his voice to the tone
becoming so important a subject , ^* knows nothing about It at
present J and I believe it ^\\l bft ^eat to keep it entirely con-
I
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. ^ 263
3ealed from her as long as may be. When the marriage takes
place, I fear, she must hear of it all."
"But why should such precaution be used? Though.it
[8 not to be supposed that Mrs. Ferrars can have the smallest
satisfaction in knowing that her son has money enough to live
upon, for that must be quite out of the question; yet why, after
her late behaviour, is she supposed to feel at all? She haa
done with her son, — she has cast him off for ever, and has
made all those over whom she had any influence cast him off
likewise. Surely, after doing so, she cannot be imagined
liable to any impression of sorrow or of joy on his account:
she cannot be interested in any thing that befalls him. She
would not be so weak as to throw away the comfort of a child,
and yet retain the anxiety of a parent ! "
"Ah! Elinor," said John, "your reasoning is very good;
but it is founded on ignorance of human nature. When Ed-
ward's unhappy match takes place, depend upon it, his
mother will feel as much as if she had never discarded him;
and therefore every circumstance that may accelerate that
dreadful event must be concealed from her as much as pos-
sible. Mrs. Ferrars can never forget that Edward is her son."
"You surprise me: I should think it must nearly have es-
caped her memory by this time."
"You wrong her exceedingly. Mrs. Ferrars is one of the
most affectionate mothers in the world."
, Elinor was silent.
"We think now,'^ said Mr. Dashwood, after a short pause,
" oi Roberts marrying Miss Morton."
Elinor, smiling at the grave and decisive importance of
her brother's tone, calmly replied, —
" The lady, I suppose, has no choice in the affair."
" Choice I how do you mean? "
" I only mean that I suppose , from your manner of speak-
ing, it must be the same to Miss Morton whether she marry
Edward or Robert."
"Certainly, there can be no difference; for Robert will
now; to all intents and purposes, beeoi\&\<i«i^^9ift>2si^^^^^
P264 SEN8B kKt> SENBlBmtTY. ^H
son 5 and, as to any thing else, they are both very agrea
able young men: I do not know tbat one b superior to tba
other;' ;
Elinor asld no more, and John was also for a short timi
silent. His reflections ended thus: — i
**0f one thing, my dear sister /' kindly taking herhand^
and speaking in an awful whbper, ^^I may assiwe you- anil
I will do it, heeaufie I know It must gratify you* I have gooit
reason to think — indeed I have it from the beat authority, oi
I should not repeat it; for otherwise it would he very wrong
to say any thing about it, — but I have it from the very be^
authority , — not that 1 ever preeiaely heard Mrs. Ferrars sajp
it herself, but her daughter <Ud^ and I have it from her, — •
that, in short, whatever objections there might be against i
certain — a certain connection, you understand me» — It
would have been far preferable to her, — it would not bavQ
given her half the vexation that (his does, I was eiceedingljl
pleaded to hesa that Mrs. Ferrara considered it in that light; 4
very gratifying circumitance, you know, to ue all, 'It woull
have been beyond comparison ,' ahe said, 'the least evil of thi
two; and she would be glad to compound now for nothing
worse/ But, however, all that is quite out of the question, -^
not to he thought of, or mentioned. As to any attachment
you know, it never could be^ all that is gone hy^ But ]
■fliought I would jiiet tell you of this because I kuew honi
much it must please you- Hot that you have any reason t0
regret, my dear Elinor: therein no doubt of your doing ex*
ceedingly well, — quite as well, or better, perhaps, all thln^
considered. Has Colonel Brandon been with you lately?")
Elinor had heard enough , if not to gratify her vanity and)
raise her self-importance, to agitate her nei-ves and fill h^
mind ; and she was therefore glad to be spared from the nece*^
sity of saying much in reply herself, and from the danger of
hearing any thing more from her brother, hy the entrance o|
Mr, Kobert Ferrars, After a few moiuent&' chat, John Dasli^
wood, recollecting that Fanny was yet uninformed of^bif
ahter's hcmg there, quiltisad liiia tQorai m c^eat of her; ai4
J
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 265
Elinor was left to improve her acquaintance with Robert, who,
by the gay unconcern, the happy self-complacency of his
manner, while enjoying so unfair a division of his mother's
love and liberality, to the prejudice of his banished brother,
earned only by his own dissipated course of life and that
brother's integrity, was confirming her most unfavourable
opinion of his head and heart.
They had scarcely been two minutes by themselves , be-
fore he began to speak of Edward; for he , too , had heard of
the living, and was very inquisitive on the subject. Elinor
repeated the particulars of it, as she had given them to John ;
and their effect on Robert, though very different, was not less
striking than it had been on Urn. He laughed most immode-
rately. The idea of Edward's being a clergyman , and living
in a small parsonage-house, diverted him beyond measure;
and when to that was added the fanciful imagery of Edward
reading prayers in a white sm*plice, and publishing the banns
of marriage between John Smith and Mary Brown, he could
conceive nothing more ridiculous.
Elinor, while she waited in silence and immovable gravity
the conclusion of such folly, could not restrain her eyes from
being fixed on him with a look that spoke all the contempt it
excited. It was a look, however, very well bestowed ; for it
relieved her own feelings, and gave no intelligence to him.
He was recalled from wit to wisdom, not by any reproof of
hers, but by his own sensibility.
"Wemaytreatitasajoke," said he, at last, recovering
from the affected laugh which had considerably lengthened
out the genuine gaiety of the moment; "but, upon my soul,
it is a most serious business. Poor Edward! he is ruined for
ever. I am extremely sorry for it; for I know him to be a
very good-hearted creature, — as well-meaning a fellow, per-
haps, as any in the world. You must not judge of him. Miss
Dashwood, hom your slight acquaintance. Poor Edward!
His manners are certainly not the happiest in nature. But
we are not all bom , you know , with the same powers, — the
same address. Poor fellow ! to see him in a cvtcU oi ^fct«5i^5SK\
L is eeita
^^ He.
2C6 SINSE A?ro SENSIBILITY,
To be rare it was pitiable enough; but,apon my soul, I belie*
he has as good a heart us any in the kingdom; and I deelai
and prote&t to you , 1 never was so shacked in my life aa wli«
it all burst forth, I could not believe it. My mother was th
first person who told me of it; and I, feeling myself called <*
to act with resolntion, immediately said to her, — *Mj del
mad am f I do not know what you may iutend to do on the occi
sion ; bnt as for myeelf, I must say, that if Edward does marr
this young woman, / never wiU see him again/ That wi
wliat I said immediately. I was moat itncommonly shocked
indeed. Poor Edward! he has done for himself completeI|
— shut liimself out for ever from all decent society I But ^ «
I directly said to my mother , I am not in the least surprisd
at it: from his style of education^ it was always to be expected
My poor mother was half frantic."
** Have yon ever seen the lady ? "
"Yes; once, while she was staying in this house, Ibafl
peaed to drop in for ten minutes; and 1 saw quite enough d
her: the merest awkward country girlj without style, fl
elegance , and almost without beauty. I remember her p&
fecUy* Just the kind of girl I should suppose likely to captj
vate poor Edward. I offered immediately, as soon as ni(
mother related the affau- to me, to talk to him myself, and dil
suade him from tbe match; but it was too late i^ien , I found, U
do any thing ; for, unluckily j 1 was not in the way at firsts ani
knew nothing of it till after the breach had taken place , whei
it was not for me , you know , to interfere. But, had 1 beei
informed of it a few hours earlier, I think it is most probabl
that something might have been hit on. I certainly shouli
have represented it to Edward in a very shong light, *JU3|
dear fellow,* I should have said, * cousider what you are doing
You are making a most disgraceful connection, and such I
one as your family are unanimous in disapproving.^ I cannoS
help thinking, in short, that means might have been found
hut now it is all too late. He must be starved, you know, thil
is certain ; absolutely starved."
He had just settled tiiiB pomlmtXi ^tt^\- ^m^^^'osure ,
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 267
the entrance of Mrs. JohnDashwood put an end to the subject.
But though she never spoke of it out of her own family, Elinor
could see its influence on her mind in the something like con-
fusion of countenance with which she entered, and an attempt
at cordiality in her behaviour to herself. She even proceeded
80 far as to be concerned to find that Elinor and her sister
were so soon to leave town , as she had hoped to see more of
them; an exertion in which her husband, who attended her
into the room , and hung enamoured over her accents, seemed
to distinguish every thing that was most affectionate and
graceful.
CHAPTER XLII.
One other short call in Harley Street, in which Elinor
received her brother's congratulations on their travelling so
far towards Barton without any expense, and on Colonel
Brandon's being to follow them to Cleveland in a day or two,
completed the intercourse of the brother and sisters in town;
and a faint invitation from Fanny , to come to Norland when-
ever it should happen to be in their way, which of all things
was the most unlikely to occur, with a more warm, though less
public, assurance, from John to Elinor, of the promptitude
with which he should come to see her atDelaford, was all that
foretold any meeting in the country.
It amused her to observe that all her friends seemed de-
termined to send her toDelaford; a place, in which, of all
others, she would now least choose to visit, or wish to reside ;
for not only was it considered as her future home by her
brother and Mrs. Jennings, but even Lucy, when they parted,
gave her a pressing invitation to visit her there.
Very early in April, and tolerably early in the day, the
two parties from Hanover Square and Berkeley Street set out
from their respective homes , to meet , by appointment , on the
road. For the convenience of Charlotte and her child, they
were to be more than two days on their jo\icmfif5\ «xA^&x,
208
SENSE AKD ^EN>$iBiLrnr.
Palmer^ travelUng^more expeditiously with Colonel Bran
waa to join them at Clevelanti bqod alter their arrival.
Marianne} few hb had been her hours of comfort mLon
and eager as she had long been to quit it^ could not, wl
came to the point, bid adieu to the house in which she ha
the last time enjoyed those hopes ^ and that confidenet
W J Ho Ugh by, which were now extinguish ed for ever ^ wit
great pain. Nor could ahe leave the place in which
lougbby remained f busy in new engagement-s, and
schemes , in which sM could have no share ; without shed
many tears.
Elmor^s satisfaction, at the moment of removal, was i
poiitive. She had no such object for her lingering thot
to fii on \ she left no creature behind, from whom it would
her a moment*s regret to be divided for ever; she was pl«
to be free herself from the persecution of Lucy's friendi
she was grateful for bringing her sister away unseen by
loughhy since his marriage; and she looked forward
hope to what a few months of tranquillity at Barton mig'
towards restoring Marianne's peace of mind, and eonfir
her own.
Their journey was safely performed. The second
brought them into the cherished, or the prohibited^ com
Somerset; for as such was it dwelt on by turns in Maria
imagination^ and in the forenoon of the third they drove
Cleveland,
Cleveland was a spacious, modern-built home, situafc
a sloping lawn. It had no park, but the pleasure-grc
were tolerably extensive ; and^ like every other place c
same degree of importance, it had its open shrubbery,
closer wood walk; a road of smooth gravel, winding roi
plaatatiouj led to the front; the lawn was dotted over
timber; the house itself was under the guardianship oft]
the mountain -ash, and the acacia, and a thick screen of
altogether, interspersed with tall Lombardy poplars, shi
the o0iees.
Marianne entered the house with a heart swelling
BEHSE AND BENSIBILITI'.
S6&
emotion from the conBciouBiiese of being onlj eighty miles
from Barton , and not thirty from Combe Magna ; and before
she bad been five minutes within iti walls ^ while the others
were busily helping Charlotte to show her child to the house-
keeper, she quitted it again, stealing away through tlic wind-
ing shmbberies, now just beginning to be in beauty, to gain a
distant emhience; where, from its Grrecian temple, her eye,
wandering over a wide tract of country to the south-east,
could fondly rest on the farthest ridge of hills in the liorkon,
and fancy that frx>m their summits Combe Magna might he
seen.
In s^ich moments of precious , of invaluable misery, ehe
rejoiced in tears of agony to be at Cleveland ; and as she
returned by a different circuit to the bouse, feeling all the
j>py privilege of country liberty, of wandering from place
^ place in free and loiurious solitude, she resolved to spend
aost every hour of every day, while she remained with the
Fabners^ in the indulgence of such solitary ra,mb]es.
She returned just in time to join the others, as they quitted
the house, on an excursion thi'ongh its more immediate pre-
mises; and the rest of the morning was easily while d away in
lounging round the kitchen garden, examining the bloom
upon its walls, and listening to the gardener's lameiitationH
upon blights, ^- in dawdling through the greenhouse, where
the loss of her favourite plants, unwarily exposed ^ and nipped
by the lingering frost, raised the laughter of Charlotte, — and
In viiiting her poultry -yard, where , in the disappointed hopes
of her dairy-maid, by bens forsaking their nests, or being
stolen by a fox, or in the rapid decease of a promising young
brood, she found tVesh sources of merriment.
The morning wa& fine and dry , and Marianne, in her plan
of employment abroad , bad not calculated for any change of
weather during their stay at Cleveland. With great surprise,
therefore, did she find herself prevented , by a settled rain,
from going out again after dinner* She bad depended on a
twilight walk to the Grecian temple , and perhaps all over the
grounds, and an evening merely cold or damp would not have
270
BEHBE AND SEKBIBILITT.
deterred her from it; Isut a heavj and settled ram eve
could not fancy dry or pleasant weather for walking.
Their party was emails and tbe honra passed quietly a
Mrs. Palmer had her child , and Mra. Jennings her ca
work: they talked of the friends they had left be!
arranged Lady Middleton's engagements ^ and wonc
whether Mr, Palmer and Colonel Brandon would get fa
than Readingthat nigh t. Elinor^howeverlittleconc em
it, joined in their disc our ae ; and Marianne, who had the k
of finding her way in every house to the library, howe
might be avoided hy the family in general, soon procured
self a hook*
Nothing was wanting on Mrs. Palmer's side that con
and friendly good- humour could do, to make them feel t
selves welcome. The openness and heartiness of her ms
more than atoned for that want of re col lection and e5e|
which made her often deficient in the forms of politeness
kindness, recommended by eo pretty a face, was enga^
her foliy, though evident, was not disgusting ^ because i
not conceited ■ and Elinor could have forgiven eveiy thmi
her laugh.
The two gentlemen axrived the next day to a very
diimer, affording a pleasant enlargement of the party, t
TBiy welcome variety to their conversation, which a
morning of the same continued rain had reduced very Iot
Eimor had seen so little of Mr. Palmer, and in that
had seen so much variety in his address to her sister and
self, that she knew not what to expect to ftnd him in hk
family. She found him, howeverj perfectly the gentlem
his behaviour to all his visiters, and ouly occasionally ru
his wife and her mother; she found him very capable oft
a pleasant compauiou , and only prevented from being i
ways, by too great an aptitude to fancy himself as t
superior to people in general ^ as he must feel himself to
Mrs. Jennings and Charlotte* For the rest of his char
and habits, they were marked^ as far as Elinor could perc
with no traits at all unusual in his m^ and time of Ufie.
d^mM
SEUBE JlSB BE^f^lBlLITY.
271
was nice in his eathig, uneertiiin in his hours; fond of his
child , though flfteftiRg to slight it ; and idled awajthe morn-
ings at billiards, which ought to hare been devoted to h us i-
ueaa. She liked him, however, upon the whole, much better
than she liad expected, and in her heart was not sorry that she
could h'ke him no more 5 not florrj to be driven by the oh- 1
jenration of bis epicurism, hie selfiahnesa , and his conceit, to
with complaceiiey on the remembrance of Edward*a
oerous temper, simple taate, and diffident feelings*
Of Edward, or at least of some of his concerns, she now j
I leceived intelligence from Colonel Brandon , who had been
[into Dorsetshire lately; and who , treating her at once as the
~ aterested fi'iend of Mr. Ferrars, and the kind confidant of
Dself , talked to her a great deal of the parsonage at Dela- j
described its deficiencies, and told her what he meant to
do himself towards removing them. His behaviour to her in
this, as well aa in every otlier particular, his open pleasure m
meettBg her after an nbsenceof only ten days, his readiness
to converse with her, and his deference for her opinion, might
?e)y well justify Mrs. Jenninga^s persuasion of his attach-
ment, and would have been enough, perhaps, had not Elinor
Btill, as from the first^ believed Marianne his real favourite, to
make her suspect it herself* But as it was , such a notion had
Bcarceiy ever entered her head , except by Mrs, Jennings's
suggestion; and she could not help believing herself the
nicest observer of the two: she watched his eyes, while Mrs,
Jennings thought only of his behaviour; and while his looks ,
of anxious solicitude on Marianne's feeling, in her head and '
throat, the beginning of a heavy cold, because unespressed
by words, entirely escaped the latter lady's observation, —
j^he could discover in them the quick feeUnga , and neediesa
alarm of a lover.
Two delightful twilight walks on the third and fourth
evenings of her being there , not merely on the dry gravel of
the shrubbery J bat all over the grounds ^ and especially in the
most distant parts of them, where there was something more
of wilditesa than in the rest, where the ti^ees were the oldest^
272 SBNSE AND SENSIBILITY.
and the grass was the longest and wettest, Lad — assis^d l^
the still greater imprudence of sitting in her wet shoes and
stockings — given Marianne a cold so violent , as , though for
a day or two trifled with or denied, would force itself by in-
creasing ailments on the concern of every body, and the
notice of herself. Prescriptions poured in from all quarten^
and, as usual, were all declined. Though heavy and feverish,
with a pain in her limbs , a cough , and a sore throat, a good
night's rest was to cure her entirely ; and it was with difficulty
that Elinor prevailed on her, when she went to bed, to try one
or two of the simplest of the remedies.
CHAPTER XLIII.
Marianne got up the next morning at her usual time; to
every enquiry replied that she was better, and tried to prove
herself so, by engaging in her accustomary employments. But
a day spent in sitting shivering over the fire with a book in
her hand, which she was unable to read, or in lying, weaiy
and languid, on a sofa, did not speak much in favour of her
amendment; and when , at last, she went early to bed, more
and more indisposed. Colonel Brandon was only astonished
at her sister's composure, who, though attending and nnnnng
her the whole day, against Marianne's inclination, and forcing
proper medicines on her at night, trusted, like Marianne, to
the certainty and efficacy of sleep, and felt no real alarm.
A very restless and feverish night, however, disappointed
the expectation of both; and when Marianne, after persistinf
in rising, confessed herself unable to sit up,v,and returned
voluntarily to her bed, Elinor was very ready to adopt Mia
Jennings's advice, of sending for the Palmers' apothecary.
He came, examined his patient, and though encouraging
Miss Dashwood to expect that a very few days would restore
her sister to health, yet, by pronouncing her disorder to have t
putrid tendency, and allowing the word 'infection" to pass his
lips, gave instant alarm to Mrs. Palmer, on her baby's account
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 273
Mrs. Jennings, who had been inclined from the first to think
Marianne's complaint more serious than Elinor, now looked
very graye on Mr. Harris's report, and confirming Charlotte's
fears and caution, urged the necessity of her immediate re-
moyal with her infant; and Mr. Palmer, though treating their
apprehensions as idle , found the anxiety and importunity of
bis wife too great to be withstood. Her departure, therefore,
was fixed on; and, within an hour after Mr. Harris's arrival,
she set off, with her little boy and his nurse, for the house of a
near relation of Mr. Palmer's, who lived a few miles on the
other side of Bath; whither her husband promised, at her
earnest entreaty, to join her in a day or two; and whither
she was almost equally urgent with her mother to accompany
her. Mrs. Jennings, however, with a kindness of heart which
made Elinor really love her, declared her resolution of not
stirring £rom Cleveland as long as Marianne remained ill,
and of endeavouring, by her own attentive care, to supply to
ber the place of the mother she had taken her from; and
Elinor found her, on every occasion, a most willing and
active helpmate, desirous to share in all her fatigues, and
often, by her better experience in nursing, of material use.
Poor Marianne, languid and low from the nature of her
malady, and feeling herself universally ill, could no longer
hope that to-morrow would find her recovered; and the idea
of what to-morrow would have produced, but for this unlucky
illness, made every ailment more severe ; for on ihat day they
were to have begun their journey home; and, attended the
whole way by a servant of Mrs. Jennings , were to have taken
their motiier by surprise on the following forenoon. The
little that she said was all in lamentation of this inevitable
delay; though Elinor tried to raise her spirits, and make her
believe , as she then really believed herself, that it would be a
very short one.
The next day produced little or no alteration in the state
of tilie patient; she certainly was not better, and, except that
there was no amendment, did not appear worse. Their party
was now farther redoeed; for Mr. Palmer, though veiy im-
Semte mmi SeMthiHtf. 18
r
274 SENSE A3«D J^EKSIBILITY.
wlUiiig to go j as well from real humanity and good-nature
from a dislike of appearing to be frightened away by his wij
was pcrauaded at last, hj-^ Colonel Brandon j to perform
promise of following her; and while he was preparing to
Colonel Brandon himself, witli a much greater en
began to talk of going likewise. Here , however, ih%
ness of Mrs. Jcnniuga interposed monfc acceptably^ for
the Colonel a way while hia love was in ao much uueasineat
her sister's account would be to deprive them both,
thought, of every comfort \ and, therefore, telling him at om
that Ms stay at Cleveland waa neceaaary to herself ; that i1
should want him to play at piquet of aueveuiag, while
Dash wood was above with her sister ^ Slc. ahe urged him i
strongly to remain , that he, who waa gratifying the first wii
of his owu heart by a compliance , could not long even affei
to demur; especially as Mrs. Jennings's entreaty was warml
aeconded by Mr. Palmer ^ who seemed to feel a relief to hii
self in leaving behind him a person so well able to a^aist
advise Miss Dashwood in any emergence.
Marianne was, of course, kept in igaorance of all the
arrangements. She knew not Ujat ahe had been the mea
offending the owners of Cleveland away^ in about seven daj
from the time of their arrival It gave her no surprise
she saw nothing of Mi*s> Palmer; and as it gave her likewil
no concern, she never meationed her name.
Two days passed away &om the time of Mr. Palmei
depm-ture ; and her situation continued, with Utile variatioi
the same. Mr. Harris, who attended her every day,
talked boldly of a speedy recovery ; and Miss Daahwood
equally sanguine ; but the expectation of the others waa
no means so cheerful. Mrs* Jenmngs had determined,
early in the seizure^ that Marianne would never get overi
and Colonel Brandon, who waB chiefly of use in list^^ning
Mrs. Jennings's forebodings , was not in a state of miiid
resist their influence. Ho tried to reason himself out of feiu
which the different judgment of the apothecary seemed
render absurd j but the many hours of each day in which]
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 275
was left entirely alone were but too favourable for the ad-
nuBsioB of every melancholy idea; and he could not expel
from his mind the persuasion that he should see Marianne no
more.
On the morning of the third day, however, the gloomy
anticipations of both were almost done away; iPor when Mr.
Harris arrived, he declared his patient materially better.
Her pulse was much stronger, and every symptom more
fiivourable than on the preceding visit. Elinor, confirmed in
6?8ry pleasant hope, was all cheerfulness; rejoicing that, in
her letters to her mother, she had pursued her own judgment
rather than her friend's , in making very light of the indis-
position which delayed them at Cleveland ; and almost fixing
Qathe time when Marianne would be able to travel.
But the day did not close so auspiciously as it began.
Towards the evening Marianne became ill again, growing
Qiore heavy, restless, and imcomfortable than before. Her
fliister, however, still sanguine, was willing to attribute the
change to nothing more than the fatigue of having sat up to
liaYe her bed made ; and carefully administering the cordials
[Krescribed, saw her, with satisfaction, sink at last into a
ilmnber , from which she expected the most beneficial effects.
Ser sleep, though not so quiet as Elinor wished to see it,
lasted a considerable time ; and anxious to observe the result
Df it herself, she resolved to sit with her during the whole
^f it. Mrs. Jennings , knowing nothing of any change in the
patient, went unusually early to bed ; her maid, who was one
of the principal nurses, was recreating herself in the house-
keeper's room, and Elinor remained alone with Marianne.
The repose of the latter became more and more disturbed;
and her sister, who watched, with unremitting attention, her
continual change of posture , and heard the frequent but in-
articidate sounds of complaint which passed her lips, was
ahnost wishing to rouse her from so painful a slumber, when
Marianne, suddenly awakened by some accidental noise in
the house, started hastily up, and, with feverish wildness,
cried out, —
18*
t
276 SENSB AHD gEJTBIBlLlTY.
* ^ l9 mamma comin g ? *'
"Not jet,'' replied the other, concealing her terror, and
aesiating Marianne to lie down agam ^ ** bnt she will ba here^
I hope, before it is long. It ie a great way j you know, trim
hence to Barton."
" But Blip must not go round by London ," cried Marianne^
in the same hurried manner. **I shall never ieeher, if she
goes by London,"
Elinor perceived, with alarm , that she was not quite her-
self, and, while attempting to soothe her, eagerly felt her
pulse* It was lower and quicker than ever. And Marianne,
still talking wildly of mamma, her alarm increased so rapidly,
as to determine heron sending instantly for Mr. Harris, and
de&patching a messenger to Barton for her mother. To con-
sult with Colonel Brandon on the best means of effecting the
latter was a thought which immediately followed the resolu-
tion of its performance 5 and as soon as she had rung up the
maid to take her place by her sister, she hastened down to the
drawing-room, where ihe knew he was generally to be fosmd
at a much later hour than the present.
It was no time for hesitation. Her fears and her diffi^
cultiea were immediately before him. Her fears, he ha
no courage, no confidence, to attempt the removal of: hi
listened to them in ailerlt despondence 5 but her difficultiei
were instantly obviated; for, with a readiness that seemed
to speak the oeeasionj and the service pre-arranged in hifl
mind, he offered himself as the messenger who should fetch
Mrs. Daehwood. Elinor made no resistfince that was not
easily overcome. She thanked him with brief, though fer?ent
gratitude ; and while he went to hurry off his servant vrtth a
mesiago to Mr* Harris , and an order for poet-horses directly,
she wrote a few lines to her mother.
The comi'ort of such a friend at that moment as Colonel
Brandon^ — of such a companion for her mother, — how
gratefully was it felt! a companion whose judgment wonld
guide, whose attendance must relieve, and whose friendship
might soothe her 1 As far as the shock of such a siunmons cmdd
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 277
be lessened to her, his presence, his manners, his assistance,
would lessen it
He, meanwhile, whatever he might feel , acted with all
the firmness of a collected mind, made every necessary ar-
rangement with the utmost despatch, and calculated with
exactness the time in which she might look for his return. Not
a moment was lost in delay of any kind. The horses arrived,
even before they were expected; and Colonel Brandon only
pressing her hand with a look of solemnity, and a few words
spoken too low to reach her ear, hurried into the carriage. It
was then about twelve o'clock, and she returned to her sister^s
apartment to wait for the arrival of the apothecary, and to
watch by her the rest of the night. It was a night of almost
equal suffering to both. Hour after hour passed away in
sleepless pain and delirium on Marianne's side, and in the
most cruel anxiety on Elinor's before Mr. Harris appeared.
Her apprehensions once raised paid by their excess for all
her former security; and the servant who sat up with her,
for she would not allow Mrs. Jennings to be called, only tor-
tured her more, by hints of what her mistress had always
thought.
Marianne's ideas were still, at intervals, fixed incohe-
rently on her mother; and whenever she mentioned her name
it gave a pang to the heart of poor Elinor, who reproaching
herself for having trifled with so many days of illness, and
wretched for some immediate relief, fancied that all relief
might soon be in vain, that every thing had been delayed too
long, and pictured to herself her suffering mother arriving too
late to see this darling child, or to see her rational.
She was on the point of sending again for Mr. Harris, or if
he could not come, for some other advice, when the former
— but not till after ^yq o'clock — arrived. His opinion,
however, made some little amends for his delay; for though
acknowledging a very unexpected and unpleasant alteration
in his patient, he would not allow the danger to be mate-
rial, and talked of the relief which a fresh mode of treat-
ment must procure, with a confidence which, in a lesser de-
278 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
gree, was communicated to Elinor. He promised to call
again in the course of three or four hours ; and left both the
patient and her anxious attendant more composed than he had
found them.
With strong concern, and with many reproaches for not
being called to their aid, did Mrs. Jennings hear in the
morning of what had passed. Her former apprehensions,
now with greater reason restored, left her no doubt of the
event; and though trying to speak comfort to £linor, her
conviction of her sister's danger would not allow her to offer
the comfort of hope. Her heart was really grieved. The
rapid decay, the early death of a girl so young, so Fovely as
Marianne, must have struck a less interested person with
concern. On Mrs. Jennings's compassion she had other
claims. She had been for three months her companion, was
still under her care, and she was known to have been greatly
injured, and long unhappy. The distress of her sister, too,
particularly a favourite, was before her; and as for their
mother, when Mrs. Jennings considered that Marianne might
probably be to ^ what Charlotte was to herself, her sym-
pathy in her sufferings was very sincere.
Mr. Harris was punctual in his second visit; but he came
to be disappointed in his hopes of what the last would pro-
duce. His medicines had failed; the fever was unabated;
and Marianne only more quiet — not more herself — remained
in a heavy stupor. Elinor, catching all, and more than all,
his fear in a moment, proposed to call in farther advice. But
he judged it unnecessary: he had still something more to try,
some fresh application, of whose success he was almost as
confident as the last; and his visit concluded with encourag-
ing assui'ances which reached the ear but could not enter the
heart of Miss Dashwood. She was calm, except when she
thought of her mother; but she was almost hopeless; and in
this state she continued till noon, scarcely stirring from her
sister's bed, her thoughts wandering from one image of grief,
one suffering friend to another; and her spirits oppressed
to the utmost by the conversation of Mrs. Jennings, who
SBNSE A?n) SENglBrLITY. 279
templed not to attribute tlie severity and danger of tliia attack
to tlie man J weeks of previous indtapositioii whicli Marianne's
diaappointment had brought on- Elinor felt all the rea*
sonahleneBS of the idea^ and it gave fresh misery to her re-
jections.
About noon, however, she began — but with a caution —
a dread of disappointment which for some time kept bor silent
even to her friend -- to fancy ^ to hope she could perceive a
llight amendment in her sister's pulse ; she waited, watched,
^nd examined it again and again ^ and at last, with an agita-
Hon more difficult to bury under exterior calmness than all
Jier foregoing distress, ventured to communicate her hopes.
ifce. Jennings, though forced, on examination, to acknow-
ledge a temporary revival, tried to keep her young firiend
tcom indulging a thought of its continuance; and Elinor,
Conning over every injunction of distrust, told herself like-
'wise not to hope. But it was too late, Hope had already
tentered; and feeling all its anxious flutter, she bent over her
jiister to watch — Bhe hardly knew for what. Half an hour
ipassed away, and the favourable symptom yet blessed her*
Others even arose to confirm it. Her breath, her skin, her
lips, all flattered Elinor with signs of amendment; and Ma-
rianne fixed her eyes on her with a rational, though languid,
gaze. Anxiety and hope now oppressed her in equal degrees,
and left her no moment of tranquillity till the arrival of Mr*
I Harris at four o'clock ; when hJa assurances^ bis felicitations
^n a recovery in her sister even surpassing his expectation,
gave her contidence, comfort, and tears of joy.
Marianne was in every respect materially better; and he
declared her entirely out of danger, Mrs. Jennings, perhaps
satisfied with the partial justification of herforebodmgs which
had been found in their late alarm, allowed herself to trust in
his judgment^ and admitted, with unfeigned joy, and soon
with unequivocal cheerfulness, the probability of an entire
recovery.
Elinor could not be cbeerful. Her joy was of a different
kind, and led to any thing rather than to gaiety, Marianne,
2B0 BENSfi AKD SENBlBILtlrT.
restored to life, health, friende, and to her doting motiier,
was an idea to fill her heart wltli sensations of exquisite com-
fort, and expand it iu fervent gratitude \ but it led to no ont-
ward demonstrations of joj, no words , uo smiles. All within
Elinor's breast was eatisf action, silent and strong.
She continued by the side of her sister, with little inter-
mission, the whole afternoon \ calming every fear, satisfying
every enquuy of her enfeebled spirits, supplying every
succour, and watching almost every look and every breath.
The possibility of a relapse would, of cour&e^ in some
moments, occur to remind her of what aniiety was; but when
she saw, on her frequent and minute examination, that every
symptom of recovery continued, and saw Marianne at iix
o'clock sink Into a quiet, steady, and to all appearance com-
fortable, sleep, she silenced every doubt.
The time was now drawing on when Colonel Brandon
might be expected back. At ten o'clock, she trusted, or at
least not much later, her mother would be relieved from the
dreadful suspense in which she must now be travelling to*
wards them. The Colonel, tool — perhaps scarcely less
obj ect of p i ty ! Oh , h o w slow was the progress of tka e which^
yet kept them in ignorance !



At seven o'clock, leaving Marianne still aweeUy asleepi
she joined Mrs. Jennings in the drawing-room to tea,
breakfast she had been kept by her fears^ and of dinner bj
their sudden reverse, from eating much \ and the present re-
freshment, therefore, with such feelings of content as she
brought to it, was particularly welcome. Mrs* Jennkjgs would
have persuaded her, at its conclusion, to take some rest be-
fore her mother's arrival, and allow her to take her place by
Marianne^ but Elinor had no sense of fatigue, no capability
of sleep at that moment about her, and she was not to be kept
away from her sister an unnecessary instant. Mrs. Jennings,
therefore, attending her up stairs into the sick chamber, to
satisfy herself that all continued right, left hej there again to
her charge and her thoughts, and retired to her own roQfii to
write letters and sleep ^
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 281
The night was cold and stormy. The wind roared round
the house, and the rain beat against the windows; but Elinor,
all happiness within, regarded it not. Marianne slept through
every blast; and the travellers, they had a rich reward in •
Btor% for every present inconvenience.
" The clock struck eight. Had it been ten, Elinor would
have been convinced that at that moment she heard a carriage
driving up to the house ; and so strong was the persuasion
that she didj in spite of the almost impossibility of their being
already come, that she moved into the adjoining dressing-
closet and opened a window shutter, to be satisfied of the
truth. She instantly saw that her ears had not deceived her.
The flaring lamps of a carriage were immediately in view.
By their uncertain light she thought she could discern it to be
drawn by four horses ; and this, while it told the excess of her
poor mother's alarm, gave some explanation to such imex-
pected rapidity.
Never in her life had Elinor found it so difficult to be calm
as at that moment. The knowledge of what her mother must
be feeling as the carriage stopped at the door, — of her doubt
— her dread, — perhaps her despair! — and of what she had
to tell! with such knowledge it was impossible to be calm.
All that remained to be done was to be speedy; and, there-
fore , staying only till she could leave Mrs. Jennings's maid
with her sister, she hurried down stairs.
The bustle in the vestibule, as she passed along an inner
lobby, assured her that they were already in the house. She
rushed forwards towards the drawing-room : she entered it, —
and saw only Willoughby.
CHAPTER XLIV.
Elinor, starting back with a look of horror at the sight of
him, obeyed the first impulse of her heart in turning in-
stantly to quit the room; and her hand was already on the
lock, when its action was suspended by his hastily advancing,
289 SENSE Axn SENsrBiLrrY<
and saying f in a voice rather of conimajid than supplica-
tion , —
"MiBi Dash wood, for half an hoiir — for ten minutes - I
eatreat you to atay,"
^*No, eir," she replied with firmness, **I shall not Btay.
Your bugineSB cannot be with me. The servants, I sup-
pose j forgot to tell you that Mr. Palmer was not in the
house."
" Had they told me/' he cried with vehemence, *Hhat Mr,
Palmer and all his relations were at the devils it would not
have turned me from the door. My buainess is with you, and
only you."
"With me V^ — in the utmost amazement: — '*well, sir —
be quick — and if you can — leas violent."
'^ Sit down, and I will he both."
She hesitated 5 she knew not what to do. The possibility
of Colonel Brandon's aiTiving and Ending him there came
across her. But abe had promiaed to hear him; and her
curioaity no less than her honour was engaged. After a
moment's recollection, therefore, eoneluding that prudence
required despatch, and that her acquiescence would hest pro-
mote it, she walked silently towards the table, and sat down.
He took the opposite chair; and for half a minute not a word
waa said by either,
"Pray he qtiickj &ir," said Elinor impatiently; "1 have Be
time to spare/'
He was sitting in an attitude of deep meditation , and
seemed not to hear her.
"Your aister," said he, with abruptness, a moment after-
wards, "is out of danger. I heard it ft*om the servant, Qud
be praised! But is it true? is it really true?"
Elinor would not speak. He repeated the enquiry with yeli
greater eagerneas*
"For God's sake tell me, is she out of danger, or is she
not?"
"We hope she is."
He rose up^ and walked across the room.
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 283
^'Had I known as much half an hour ago; — but since I
€xm here," speaking with a forced vivacity as he returned to
hifi seat, — "what does it signify? For once, Miss Dashwood
— it will be the last time, perhaps — let us be cheerful to-
gether. I am in a fine mood for gaiety. Tell me honestly,"
a deeper glow overspreading his cheeks, "do you think me
most a knave or a fool?"
Elinor looked at him with greater astonishment than ever.
She began to think that he must be in liquor; — the strange-
ness of such a visit, and of such manners, seemed no other-
wise intelligible ; and with this impression she immediately
rose, saying, —
"Mr. Willoughby, I advise you, at present, to return to
i Combe. I am not at leisure to remain with you longer. What-
! ever your business may be with me , it will be better recol-
lected and explained to-morrow."
" I understand you," he replied , with an expressive smile,
and a voice perfectly calm ; "yes, I am very drunk. A pint
of porter with my cold beef at Marlborough was enough to
overset me."
"At Marlborough!" cried Elinor, more and more at a
loss to understand what he would be at.
"Yes — I left London this morning at eight o'clock, and
the only ten minutes I have spent out of my chaise smce that
time procured me a nunchion at Marlborough."
The steadiness of his manner, and the intelligence of his
eye as he spoke, convincing Elinor, that whatever other un-
pardonable folly might bring him to Cleveland , he was not
brought there by intoxication, she said, after a moment's
recollection, —
"Mr. Willoughby, you ought to feel, and I certainly do,
that after what has passed, your coming here in this manner,
and forcing yourself upon my notice , requires a very parti-
cular excuse. What is it that you mean by it? "
"1 mean," said he, with serious energy, "if I can, to
make you hate me one degree less than you do now. I mean
to offer some kind of explanation , some kind of apology, for
284 BENBB AND BKHBlBtLITY.
the past; to open my whole heart to you, and by conviiiebf ^
you , that though I have been always a blockhead, I have noi
been always a rascal, to obtain somethiiig like forgiyenesfl
from Ma from your siflter/^
" le this the real reason of your coming?"
*'Upon my sonl it is," was his answer^ with a warmti
which brought all the former Wil lough by to her remembranofi,
and, in spite of herself , made her tbmk him sincere.
*^If that is all, you may be satisfied already; for Mariamu!
does^ she has lontj forgiven you."
"Has she?" he cried, in the same eager tone» "Then
she has forgiven me before she ought to have done it. But
she shall forgive me again, and on more reasonable grounds.
Now will you listen to me?"
Elinor bowed her assent,
^^I do not know,'* said he, after a pause of expectation on
her side, and thoughtfulneaa on his own , " how you may have
accounted for my behaviour to your sister, or what diabolical
motive you may have imputed to me. Perhaps you will hardlj
think the better of me, — it is worth the trial, however, — and
you shall hear every thing. When I first became intimate in
your family, I had uo other intention, no other view in the
acquaintance, than to paaa my time pleasantly while I wai
obliged to remain in Devonshire, more plea&antly than I had
ever done before. Your sister^s lovely person, and interesting
manners, could not but please me ? and her behaviour to me
almost from the first was of a kind — it is autouishing , when I
reflect on what it was, and what she was, that my bearl
should have been so insensible I But at first, I must confess,
my vanity only was elevated by it. Careless of her happi-
ness, thinking only of my own amusement, giving way to
feelings which I had always been too much in the habit of J
indulging, I endeavoured, by every means in my power, to
make myself pleasing to her, without any design of returning
her affections-
Miss Dashwood, at thifl pomt^ turulug her eyes on
with the most angiy contempt, stopped him, by saying, —
i
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 285
"It is hardly worth while, Mr. Willoughby, for you to
relate , or for me to listen any longer. Such a beginning as
ihis cannot be followed by any Qiing. Do not let me be
pained by hearing any thing more on the subject."
"I insist on your hearing the whole of it," he replied.
*My fortune was never large, and I had always been ex-
pensiye, always in the habit of associating with people of
setter income than myself. Every year since my coming of
ige, or even before , I believe, had added to my debts 5 and
though the death of my old cousin, Mrs. Smith, was to set
me free, yet that event being uncertain, and possibly far
iistant , it had been for some time my intention to re-establish
my circumstances by marrying a woman of fortune. To
attach myself to your sister , therefore , was not a thing to be
thought of; and with a meanness, selfishness, cruelty, which
QO indignant, no contemptuous look, even of yours, Miss
Dash wood, can ever reprobate too much, — I was acting in
this manner, trying to engage her regard, without a thought
of returning it. But one thing may be said for me: even in
that horrid state of selfish vanity, I did not know the extent
of the injury I meditated, because I did not then know what
it was to love. But have I ever known it? Well may it be
doubted; for, had I really loved, could I have sacrificed my
feelings to vanity, to avarice? or, what is more, could I have
sacrificed hers ? But I have done it. To avoid a comparative
poverty, which her affection and her society would have de-
prived of all its horrors, I have, by raising myself to affluence,
lost every thing that could make it a blessing."
"You did, then," said Elinor, a little softened, "believe
yourself at one time attached to her?"
"To have resisted such attractions, to have withstood
such tenderness ! Is there a man on earth who could have
done it? Yes, I found myself, by insensible degrees, sincerely
fond of her; and the happiest hours of my life were what I
spent with her when I felt my intentions were strictly honour-
able , and my feelings blameless. Even then , however , when
folly determined on paying my addresses to her, I allowed
^8G SEHSB AKD BENBIBZLITT. '
myfielf most improperlj to put off, from day to day, the mo-
ment of doing it, from an unwillmgneas to enter into an
engagement while my circumatajices were eo greatly atn- k
barraaeed, I will not reason here — nor will I stop for ^ou to n
expatiate on the abaurdity, and the worse than jibanrdity, of
scrupling to engage my faith where my honour was already
bound. The event has proved that I was a cunning fool^
providing with great circumspection for a possible op-
portunity of making myself contemptible and wretched for
ever. At last, however, my resolution was taken j and 1
had determined, as soon as I could engage her alo&BT to
justify the attentiona I had so invariably paid lier^ and
openly aasure her of an affection which I had already taken
such pains to display. But in the interim -- in the interun of
the very few hours that were to pass before I could have an t
opportunity of speaking with her in private — a circumstance I
occurred — an unlucky circumstance — to ruin all my reso-
lution, and with it all my comfort. A discovery took place^"
— here he hesitated and looked down. ^vMr B.Smith had some-
how or other been informed, I imagine by some distant re-
lation, whose interest it was to deprive me of her favour, of an
affair, a connection — hut I need not explain myself farther,^'
he added , looking at her with a heightened colour and an
enquiring eye, — "your particular intimacy ^ you have
probably heard the whole stoiy long ago."
** i have," returned Elinor, colouring likewise, and bardl*ii-
ing her he ait anew against any compassion for him, "1 have
heard it all; and how you will explain away any part of yoar
guilt in that dreadfiil business I confess is beyond mj com-
prehension."
"E em ember," cried Willoughhy, *^from whom you re-
ceived the account. Could it be an impartial one? I acknow^
ledge that her situation and her character ought to have been
respected by me- 1 do not mean to justify myself, but at the
same time cannot leave you to suppose that I have nothing to
urge — that because she was injured she was irTeproachable,
&nd because I was a libertine, she must be a saint. If the
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 287
violence of her passions, the weakness of her understanding
— I do not mean, however, to defend myself . Her affection
for me deserved better treatment; and I often, with great
self-reproach, recall the tenderness which, for a very short
time, had the power of creating any return. 1 wish — I heartily
wish it had never been. But I have injured more than herself;
and t have injured one , whose affection for me (may I say
it?) was scarcely less warm than hers; and whose mind — oh,
how infinitely superior! "
"Your indifference, however, towards that imfortunate
girl — I must say it, unpleasant to me as the discussion of
such a subject may well be — your indifference is no apology
for your cruel neglect of her. Do not think yourself excused
by any weakness , any natural defect of understanding on her
side, in the wanton cruelty so evident on yours. You must
have known, that while you were enjoying yourself in Devon-
shire, pursuing fresh schemes, always gay, always happy,
she was reduced to the extremest indigence."
"But, upon my soul, I did not know it," he warmly
replied: "I did not recollect that I had omitted to give her
my direction; and common sense might have told her how to
find it out."
"Well, sir, and what said Mrs. Smith?"
" She taxed me with the offence at once , and my confusion
may be guessed. The purity of her life, the formality of her
notions, her ignorance of the world, — every thing was
against me. The matter itself I could not deny, and vain
was every endeavour to soften it. She was previously dis-
posed, I believe, to doubt the morality of my conduct in
general, and was, moreover, discontented with the very little
attention, the very little portion of my time that I had
bestowed on her in my present visit. In short, it ended in a
total breach. By one measure I might have saved myself.
In the height of her morality, good woman ! she offered to
forgive the past , if I would marry Eliza. That could not be ;
and I was formally dismissed from her favour and her house.
The night following this affair — I was to go the next morning
268 BBNSE AKD SEHSIBILXTT.
— was Spent by me in deliberating on what my future con-
duct should be. The struggle was great, but it ended too
BQOn. My affection for Marianne^ my thorough conviction of
her attachment to me — it was all insufficient to outweigb
that dread of poverty, or get the better of thofie fake ideas of
the necessity of riches, which I was naturally inclined to feel
and expensive society had increased, I had reasoo to belser*
myself secure of my present wife, if I chose to address her,
and 1 persuaded myself to think that nothing else in common
prudence remained for me to do* A heavy scene , however,
awaited me before I could leave Devonshire ^ I was engaged
to dine with you on that very day \ some apology was there- l*
fore neeessary for my breaking the engagement. Bat whethef
I should write this apology, or deEver it in person , was s
point of long debate. To see Marianne I felt would be dread-
ful; and 1 even doubted whether I could see her again and
keep to my resolution. In that point, however, I undervalued
my own magnanimity, as the event declared; for I went, I
aaw her, and saw her miserable, and left her miserable; —
and left her hoping never to see her again."
"Why did you call, Mr. Willoughby?" said Elinor, re-
proachfully ; " a note would have answered every purpose.
Why was it necessary to call?"
" It was necessary to my own pride. I could not bear to
leave the country in a manner that might lead you, or the rest
of the neighbonrhood, to suspect any part of what had really
passed between Mrs. Smith and myself, and I resolved, there-
fore, on calling at the cottage, in my way to Hon! to a. ^fhe
sight of your dear sister, however, was really dreadful ; and,
to heighten the matter, I found her alone. You were all goofi
I do not know where, 1 had left her only the evening before,
so fiilly, so fiimly resolved within myself on doing right! A
few hours were to have engaged her to me for ever; and I
remember how happy, how gay were my spirits, as I walked
from the cottage to Alienham, satisfied with myself, de-
lighted with every body I But in this, our last interview of
friendship f I approached her with a sense of guilt that almoflt
i
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 289
took from me the power of dissembling. Her sorrow, her dis-
ajppointment, her deep regret, when I told her that I was
obliged to leave Devonshire so immediately — I never shall
forget it — united, too, with such reliance, such confidence
in me! Oh, God! what a hard-hearted rascal I was!**
They were both silent for a few moments. Elinor first
spoke.
"Did you tell her that you should soon return? "
"I do not know what I told her," he replied, impatiently;
"less than was due to the past, beyond a doubt, and in all
likelihood much more than was justified by the future. I
cannot think of it. It won't do. Then came your dear mother
to torture me farther, with all her kindness and confidence.
Thank Heaven! it did torture me. I was miserable. Miss
Dashwood, you cannot have an idea of the comfort it gives me
to look back on my own misery. I owe such a grudge to
myself for the stupid, rascally folly of my own heart, that
all my past sufi^erings under it are only triumph and
exultation to me now. Well, I went, left all that I loved,
and went to those to whom, at best, I was only in-
diflPerent. My journey to town — travelling with my own
horses , and therefore so tediously — no creature to speak to
— my own reflections so cheerful — when I looked forward
every thing so inviting ! — when I looked back at Barton , the
picture so soothing! — oh, it was a blessed journey !"
He stopped.
" Well, sir," said Elinor, who, though pitying him, grew
impatient for his departure, " and ihis is all?"
"All! — no: — have you forgot what passed in town?
That infamous letter? Did she show it you ? "
"Yes, I saw every note that passed."
"When the first of hers reached me, (as it immediately
did, fori was in town the whole time,) what I felt is, in the
common phrase , not to be expressed ; in a more simple one,
perhaps too simple to raise any emotion, my feelings were
very, very painftd. Every line, every word, was — in the
hackneyed metaphor which their dear writer, were she here,
Sense tyui Sensibilily, 19
290 SEKSE AKD SEKSIBILITY, 1
would forbid — a dagger to my hearts To know that Mari-
anne WES in town wjie, in the same language , a thunderbolt
Thunderbolts and daggers ! what a reproof would she have
given me ! Her taste, her opinions — I believe they are better
known to me than mj own, and I am sure they are dearer.*^
Elinor's heart ^ which bad undergone many changes in the
course of this extraordinarj converaatioU) was now softened
again ; jet she felt it ber duty to cheek such ideas in her eom*
p anion as the last.
" This is not right, Mr. WHloughhy. Remember that you
are married. He late only what in your conscience you think
necessaiy for me to hear."
'^ Mari annexe note, by assuring me that I was stiLl a» dear
to her as m former days, — that in spite of the many, mmj
weeks we had been separated , she was a« constant in her own
feelings ^ and as full of faith in the constancy of mine as ever,
- — awakened all my remorse. I sny awakened, because time
and London, business and dissipation, bad ija some measure
quieted it, and I had been growing a fine hardened villain,
fancying myself indifferent to her, and choosing to fancy ^at
sbe too must have become indifferent to me^ talking to myself
of our past attachment as a mere idle, trifling, business;
shrugging up my shoulders in proof of its being so, and
silencing every reproach , overcoming every scruple, bys**
eretly saying now and then , 'I shall be heartily glad to bear
Bhc is well married.' But this note made me know myself'
better. 1 felt that she was infinitely dearer to me than any
other woman in the world, and that I was using ber in-
famously. But every thjug was then just settled between
Miss Grey and me. To retreat was impossible. All that 1
had to do was to avoid you both. I scut no answer to Mari-
anne, intending by that means to preserve myself from her
faftber notice \ and for some time I was even deteimined nol
to call in Berkeley Street j but at last, judgiug it wiser t&
affect the air of a cool, common acquaintance than any thing
else, I watched you all safeJy out of the house one morning,
and left my name.''
1
SBKSE AND SEKSIBILIT7. 291
<< Watched us out of the house !"
^'Even 80. You would be surprised to hear how often I
watched you, how often I was on the point of falling in with
you. I haye entered many a shop to ayoid your sight as the
caxriage drove by. Lodging as I did in Bond Street, there
was hardly a day in which I did not catch a glimpse of one or
other of you; and nothing but the most constant watchfolness
on my side, a most invariably prevailing desire to keep out of
your sight, could have separated us so long. I avoided the
Middletons as much as possible, as well as every body else
who was likely to prove an acquaintance in common. Not
aware of their being in town, however, I blundered on Sir
John, I believe , the first day of his coming, and the day after
I had called at Mrs. Jennings's. He asked me to a party, a
dance at his house in the evening. Had he not told me as an
inducement that you and your sister were to be there, I should
have felt it too certain a thing to trust myself near him. The
next morning brought another short note from Marianne —
stiU affectionate , open, artless, confiding — every thing that
could make my conduct most hateful. I could not answer it.
I tried — but could not frame a sentence. But I thought of
her , I believe , every moment of the day. If you can pity me,
Miss Dashwood, pity my situation as it was then. With my
head and heart fiill of your sister, I was forced to play the
happy lover to another woman ! Those three or four weeks were
worse than all. Well, at last, as I need not tell you, you were
forced on me ; and what a sweet figure I cut ! what an evening
of agony it was ! Marianne , beautiful as an angel an one side,
calling me Willoughby in such a tone ! Oh, God! holding out
her hand to me , asking me for an explanation, with those be-
witching eyes fixed in such speaking solicitude on my face! and
Sophia, jealous as the devil on the other hand, looking all that
was — Well, it does not signify; it is over now. Such an even-
ing ! I ran away from you aU as soon as I could ; but not before I
had seen Marianne's sweet face as white as death. That was the
last , last look I ever had of her ; the last manner in which she
appeared to me. It was a horrid sight! Yet when I thought
19*
292 6BNS£ A^D SEH3IBILITT.
of her to-dajr sa resMj djing, It was a kind of comfort to me
fx) imagine that I knew exactly how ahe would appear to thoM
who saw her last in this world. She was before me, conatantlj
before me, as I travelled^ in the same look and hue,"
A flhort pause of mutual though tfulnesB succeeded. Wil-
loughby first rousing himself^ broke it thus : -^
" Well , let me make haste and be gone. Your stfltei ii
eertalnij better, eertainly out of danger? "
*' We are aasured of it J*
^* Your poor mother too ! doting on Marianne/^
*'But the letter, Mr. Willoughby, jour own letter: hm
you any thiug to say about that?"
" Yes , yes , that in particular. Your sister wrote to me
again , you know, the very nest morning. You saw what ibe
said. I was breakfasting at the Ellisons^ — and her letter,
with some others, was brought to me there from my lodgmgi. I j
It happened to cateb Sophia's eye before it caught mine;— '
and its siae^ the elegance of the paper, the handwriting
altogether, immediately gave her a suspicion. Some vague
report had reached her before of mj attachment to some
young lady in Devonshire , and what had passed within her
observation the preceding evening had marked who the young
lady was, and made her more jealous thati ever Aifecting that
air of playfulaea&j therefore, which is dehghtfiil in a woman
one loves, she opened the letter directly, and read its contend
She was well paid for her impudence. She read wliat ma4s
her wretched. Her wretchedness I could have borne , but her
passion — her malice — at all events it must be appeased. And,
in short, what do you think of toy wife's style of letter- writ-
ing? — delicate — tender — truly feminine ^ was it not?"
^ ^ Your wife ! The letter was in your own handwriting "
** Yes^ but I had only the credit of servilely copying such
sentences as I was ashamed to put my name to. The original
was all her own — her own happy thoughts and gentle dictioiL
But what could I do? We were engaged ^ every thing In pre-
paration, the day almost fijced — but I am talking like a fool
Preparation! Dayj In honest words, her moniey was neeei^
SEKSB AND SSNSIBILITT. 293
sary to me, and in a situation like mine anything was to be
done to prevent a rupture. And after all, what did it signify
to my character, in the opinion of Marianne and her friends,
in what language my answer was couched? It must have been
only to one end. My business was to declare myself a
scoundrel; and whether I did it with a bow or a bluster was of
little importance. ' I am ruined for ever in their opinion,' said
I to myself: 'I am shut out for ever from their society; they
already think me an unprincipled fellow; this letter will only
make them think me a blackguard one.* Such were my rea*
sonings as, in a sort of desperate carelessness, I copied my
wife's words, and parted with the last relics of Marianne.
Her three notes, — unluckily they were all in my pocket-book,
or I should have denied their existence , and hoarded them for
ever , — I was forced to put them up , and could not even kiss
them. And the lock of hair — that, too, I had always carried
about me in the same pocket-book, which was now searched
by madam with the most ingratiating virulence, — the dear
lock, — all, every memento was torn from me."
"You are very wrong, Mr. Willoughby; veryblamable,"
said Elinor; while her voice, in spite of herself , betrayed her
compassionate emotion ; "you ought not to speak in this way,
either of Mrs. Willoughby or my sister. You have made your
own choice. It was not forced on you. Your wife has a claim
to your politeness, to your respect, at least. She must be
attached to you, or she would not have married you. To treat
her with unkindness, to speak of her slightingly, is no atone-
ment to Marianne; nor can I suppose it a relief to your own
conscience."
"Do not talk to me of my wife," said he with a heavy
sigh; "she does not deserve your compassion. She knew
I had no regard for her when we married. Well, married
we were , and came down to Combe Magna to be happy, and
afterwards returned to town to be gay. And now do you
pity m^. Miss Dashwood? Or have I said all this to no
purpose? Am I, — be it only one degree , — am I less guilty
in your opinion than I was before? My intentions were not
294 SISNSB AHB SENSIBILITY.
always wroDg, Have T explained away any p?irt of my |
guilt?"
"Ye* I yoii have certainly removed eometMng — a little.
You have proved yourself, on the whole, lees faulty than I
had heliered you- You have proved your heart less wicked,
iniicli lesH wicked. But I hardly know — the misery tiiftt I
you have inflicted — I Iiardly know what could have made it
worse."
*^Will you repeat to your sister, when she ii recovered^
what I have been telling you? Let me be a little lightened^
too T in her opinion as well aa in yours. You tell me that she
haft forgiven me already. Let me be able to fancy that & '
better knowledge of my hearty and of my present feelings,
will draw from her a more spontaneous , more natural, BH
gentle, less dignified j forgiveness. Tell her of my ouseiy ^
and my penitence ; — tell her that my heart was never in*
constant to her; and, if you wiU, that at this moment sheii
dearer to me than ever."
" I will tell her all that is necessary to what may com-
paratively he called your justification. But you have not
explained to me the particular reason of your coming now,
nor how you heard of her illness."
'*Last night, in Drury Lane lobby, I ran against Sir John
Middleton; and when he saw who I was, for the fii'st time
these two months, he spoke to me. That be had cut me ever
since my marriage^ I had seen without surprise or resentment
Kow, however, his good-natured , honest, stupid soul, full of
indignation against me, and concern for yom- sister, conld not
resist the temptation of telling me what he knew ought to,
though probably he did not think it ^mdd., vex me horridlj.
As bluntly sa he could speak it, therefore, he told me that
Marianne Dash wood was dying of a putiid fever at Cleveland
— a letter that morning received from Mrs. Jennings deelarod
her danger most imminent — the Palmers all gone off m a
fright, &c. 1 was too much shocked to be able to [^oss myself
off as insensible even to the undlseeming Sir John. Hb h^art
was softened is seeing mine su^r \ and so much of his ill* wiU
SENSE AND SBNSIBILITT. 295
trafi done awaj, that when we parted, he ahn6st shook me by
the hand while he reminded me of an old promise about a
pmnter pappy. What I felt on hearing that yonr sister was
dying, and dying, too, believing me the greatest yillain upon
earth, scorning, hating me in her latest moments — for how
could I tell what horrid projects might not have been im-
puted? One person I was sure would represent me as capable
of any thing. What I felt was dreadful! My resolution was
soon made , and at eight o^clock this morning I was in my car-
riage. Now you know all."
Elinor made no answer. Her thoughts were silently fixed
on the irreparable injury which too early an independence,
and its consequent habits of idleness, dissipation, and luxury,
had made in tibe mind, the character, the happiness, of a man
who, to every advantage of person and talents, united a dis-
position naturally open and honest, and a feeling, a£Fectionate
temper. The world had made him extravagant and vain —
extravagance and vanity had made him cold-hearted and
selfish. Vanity, while seeking its own guilty triumph at the
expense of another, had involved him in a real attachment,
which extravagance, or at least its offspring, necessity, had
required to be sacrificed. Each faulty propensity in leading
him to evil , had led him likewise to punishment. The attach-
ment, from which against honour, against feeling, against
every better interest he had outwardly torn himself, now,
when no longer allowable, governed every thought; and the
connection, for the sake of which he had, with little scruple,
left her sister to misery, was likely to prove a source of un-
happiness to himself of a far more incurable nature. From a
reverie of this kind she was recalled at the end of some
minutes by Willoughby, who rousing himself from a reverie
at least equally painful, started up in preparation for gou^g,
and said, —
" There is no use id staying here ; I must be off."
"Are you going back to town? "
-f^'No — to Combe Magna. I have business there; from
thence to town in a day or two. Good-by."
296
SENSE AND SENSIBILITTi
I
He held out his band. She cotild not refiise to give him
hen: he preened it with aSection,
^'And you do think something better of me than you did?"
said he ^ letting it fall, and leaniiig agamat the mantei-piece,
as if forgetting he was to go.
Elinor aeaured him that she did; — that she forgave,
pitied f wished him well — was even intereated in his hap-
piness — and added some gentle counsel as to the heliaviour
most likely to promote it. His answer was not veiy en*
eonraging^
^^As to thatf^' said he^ ^*X most mb through the world aa
weU as I ean. Domestic happiness is out of the question.
If, however, 1 am allowed to think that you and yours feel an
interest in my fate and actions , it may be the meane — it may
put me on my guard — at least it will he something to live fof«
Marianne , to be sure , is lost to me for ever- Were I even by
any ble&aed chance at liberty again — — "
Elinor stopped him with a reproof.
^*Well,'* he replied^ "once more good- by. 1 shall now
go away and live in dread of one event*"
*^ What do you mean?'*
** Your sister's marriage*"
" You are very wrong. She can never be more lost to you
than she is now."
^^But she will be gained by some one ebe. And if that
some one should be the very he whom, of all others, I could
least bear — bat I will not stay to rob myself of all your com-
passionate good- will, by showing that where I have most in-
jured 1 can least forgive, Good-by, — Grod bless you I"
And with these words he almost ran out of the room*
SEKSE AND SENSIBILITY. 297
CHAPTER XLV.
Elinor, for some time after he left her, for some tune even
after the sound of his carriage had died away, remained too
much oppressed by a crowd of ideas, widely differing in
themselves, but of which sadness was the general result, to
think even of her sister.
Willoughby, — he whom only half an hour ago she had
abhorred as the most worthless of men, — Willoughby, in
spite of all his faults, excited a degree of commiseration for
the sufferings produced by them, which made her think of him
as now separated for ever from her family, with a tenderness,
a regret, rather, in proportion, as she soon acknowledged
within herself, to his wishes than to his merits. She felt ^at
his influence over her mind was heightened by circumstances
which ought not in reason to have weight: by that person
of uncommon attraction, that open, affectionate, and lively
manner, which it was no merit to possess; and by that still
ardent love for Marianne, which it was not even innocent to
indulge. But she felt that it was so, long, long before she
could feel his influence less.
When at last she returned to the unconscious Marianne,
she found her just awaking, refreshed by so long and sweet
a sleep to the extent of her hopes. Elinor's heart was full.
The past, the present, the future, Willoughby *s visit,
Marianne's safety, and her mother's expected arrival , threw
her altogether into an agitation of spirits which kept off
every indication of fatigue, and made her only fearful of
betraying herself to her sister. Short was the time, however,
in which that fear could affect her; for within half an hour
after Willoughby's leaving the house, she was again called
down stairs by the sound of another carriage. Eager to save
her mother from every unnecessary moment's horrible
suspense , she ran immediately into the hall, and reached the
outv ^d door just in time to receive and support her as she
entered it
298 8SNSE AND SENSIBILITT.
Mrs. Daahwoodf whose terror as tiiey drew near the botwe
had produced almost the conviction of Marianne's being
more, hp,d no voice to enquire after her, no voice even for
Elinor r hut }^he>, waiting neither for aaliitation nor eBquiiy,
instantly gave the joyful relief; and her mother, catching it
with all her usual warmth ^ waa in a raoment as much over-
come by her happiueBs as she had been before by her feaTB.
She was supported into the drawing-room between her
daughter and her friend; and there, shedding tears of jojt
though still unable to speak ^ embraced Elinor ugain W
again, turning from her at intervals to preas Colonel Brandois'ft
hand , with a look which spoke at once her gratitude, and her
eonviction of his sharing with herself in the bliss of tk
moment. He shared it, however, in a silence even greater
than her own.
As soon as Mrs. Dash wood had recovered herself, to lef
Marianue was her first desire, and in two minutes she wii
with her beloved child ^ rendered dearer to her than evef
by absence , unhappLneis, and danger. Elinor's delight, ai
she saw what each felt in the meeting, was only checked by
an apprehension of its robbing Marianne of farther sleep:
hut Mrs, Dashwood could be calm , could be even prudtmt^
when the life of a child was at stake ^ and Marianne^ satis-
fied in knowing her mother was near her, and conscious of
being too weak for conversation, submitted readily to the
silence and quiet prescribed by every nurse around hef*
Mrs. Daahwood would sit up with her all night ; and Elinor,
in compliance with her mother's entreaty, went to bed. But
the rest, which one night entirely sleepless, and many hoan
of the mofit wearing anxiety seemed to make requisite, wit
kept off by irritation of spirits. Willoughby, **poor Wil-
loughby," as she now allowed herself to call him , was coa-
st autly in her thoughts^ she would not hut have heard bis
vindication for the world , and now blamed , now aoqaitted
herself for h avin g j udged him so h arsh 1 y before . But he r pm-
mise of relating it to her sister was invariably painful. She
dreaded the performance of it, dreaded what its eJ^t on



I
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 299
Marianne might be; doubted Tfhether, after such an expla-
nation, she could ever be happy with another; and for a mo-
fxxent wished Willoughby a widower. Then, remembering
Colonel Brandon, reproved ^erself, felt that to ^ sufferings
and Ms constancy, far more than to his rivaPs, the reward of
her sister was due , and wished any thing rather than Mrs.
Willoughby's death.
The shock of Colonel Brandon's errand at Barton had
been much softened to Mrs. Dashwood by her own previous
alarm; for so great was her uneasiness about Marianne, that
she had already determined to set out for Cleveland on that
very day, without waiting for any farther intelligence , and
had 80 far settled her journey before his arrivid, that the
Careys were then expected every moment to fetch Margaret
away, as her mother was unwilling to take her where there
might be infection.
Marianne continued to mend every day; and the brilliant
cheerMness of Mrs. Dash wood's looks and spirits proved her
to be, as she repeatedly declared herself, one of the happiest
women in the world. Elinor could not hear the declaration,
nor witness its proofs, without sometimes wondering whether
her mother ever recollected Edward. But Mrs. Dashwood,
trusting to the temperate account of her own disappointment,
whi(^ Elinor had sent her, was led away by the exuberance
«f her joy to think only of what would increase it. Marianne
was restored to her, from a danger in which, as she now
began to feel, her own mistaken judgment in encouraging
Hie unfortunate attachment to WUloughby had contributed
to place her; and in her recovery she had yet another source
of joy, unthought of by Elinor. It was thus imparted to her,
as soon as any opportunity of private conference between
them occurred.
"At last we are alone. My Elinor, you do not yet know
all my happiness. Colonel Brandon loves Marianne. He
has told me so himself."
Her daughter, feeling by turns both pleased and pained,
surprised and not surprised, was all silent attention.
300 SE!TSE AND SENSIBILrrY.
"You are never like me ^ dear Elinor , or I should woni
at 7oar composure now. Had I sat down to wish for an
possible good to my family, I sliould hare fixed on OdIoiij
Brandon's marrying one of jou ^ as the object most desirabll
and I believe Marianne will be the moat liappy with him of tl
two."
ELinor was half inclined to ask her reftson for thinkis
BO, because si^tlsfied that none , founded on an impartial ccx^
sideration of their age, characters, or feellnga, could be gw
but her mother must always be carried away by her imagl
tion, on any interesting subject; and, therefore, instead of
enquiij, she passed It off with a smile.
'^He opened his whole heart to me yesterday as
travelled. Itcauie out quite unawares, quite uiidesign&
I, you may well believe, could talk of nothing but my ehild;
he could not conceal his distress \ 1 saw that it equalled n^
own \ and he, perhaps thinking that mere friendship , as thi
world now goes, would not justify so warm a sympathy; oi
rather, not thinking at all, 1 auppose, giving way to ^
resistible feelings, made me acquainted with his eamM
tender, constaut, affection for Marianne. He has loved h«
my Elinor, ever since the first moment of seeing her." I
Here, however, Elinor perceived, not the language ^ wjS^
the professions of Colonel Brandon, but the natural embe"* '
ments of her mother^s active fancy, which fashioned e¥
thing delightful to her as it chose.
**His regard for her, infinitely surpassing any thing 1
WlUoughby ever felt or feigned, as much more warm, as mo _
sincere or constant, whichever we are to call it, has subsistai
through all the knowledge of dear Harianne^s unhappy pr
possession for that worthless young man 1 and without aelfiiJ
ness, without encouraging a hope! could he have seen
happy with another. Such a noble mind! such op
such sincerity ! No one can be deceived In Mm J*
"Colonel Brandon's character,** said Elinor, *^a£ an i
eehent man, is weU established.^'
**rtnow itis/' repUiid \ieY Tsiso^iet ^ ^m^ul'j^ "or^
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 301
rach a warning, / shonld be the last to encourage such affec-
tion , or even to be pleased by it. But his coming for me , ais
lie did, with such active, such ready friendship, isenoi^hto
prove him one of the wortiiiest of men."
''His character, however," answered Elinor, ''does not
rest on one act of kini^ess, to which his affection for Ma-
rianne, were humanity out of the case, would have prompted
him. To Mrs. Jennings , to the Middletons , he has been long
and intimately known ; they equally love and respect him ;
and even my own knowledge of him, though lately acquired,
is very considerable; and so highly do / value and esteem
him, that if Maria^e can be happy with him, I shall be as
ready as yourself to think our connection the greatest blessing
to us in the world. What answer did you give him? Did you
allow him to hope? "
" Oh , my love ! I could not then talk of hope to him or to
myself. Marianne might, at that moment, be dying. But he
did not ask for hope, or encouragement. His was an in-
voluntary confidence, an irrepressible effusion to a soothing
&iend, not an application to a parent. Yet, after a time, I
did say, for, at first, I was quite overcome, that if she lived, as
[ trusted she might, my greatest happiness would lie in pro-
moting their marriage; and since our arrival, since our de-
lightful security, I have repeated it to him more fully, have
given him every encouragement in my power. Time , a very
little time, I tell him, will do everything; Marianne's heart
IS not to be wasted for ever on such a man as Willoughby.
Hla own merits must soon secure it."
"Tojudgefrom the Colonel's spirits, however, you have
not yet made him equally sanguine."
"No. He thinks Marianne's affection too deeply rooted
for any change in it under a great length of time; and even
supposing her heart again free, is too diffident of himself to
believe , that with such a difference of age and disposition he
could ever attach her. There, however, he is quite mistaken.
His age is only so much beyond hers as to be an advantage,
as to make his character and principles fixed \ aad hi& &^-
302 fiEHSE AMD SEHSlBrOTT,
pwtioii, I am well eonvincedf is exactly ^e veij one to i
yoar aistar happj^ Aod his person ^ his maniiers, too, are i
in his favour. My partiality does not bllud me: he <
IB not BO handsome as Willoiighby ; but, at the fiame tiine;"
tfaere is sometliing much more pleasing in his cottntenaiLae.
There was always a something, if y ou re member^ in Wi '
by*B eyes at times, which I did not like."
Elinor eoiild not remember it; but her mother,
waiting for her assent^ con tinned, —
*^And his manners, the Colooers manners are not onljj
more pleasing to tne than Willoughby's ever were, but the
are of a kind I well know to be more solidly attaching to
Marianne- Their gentleness, their genuine attention to oth^
people, and their manly unstudied simplicity, iamueh more
accordant with her real disposition than the Eyeliness, <^f^^
artificial f and often ill-timed , of the other. I am very i
myself, that had WilloughVy turned ont as really amiable, i
he has proved himself the coutr^y, Marianne would ye
never have been so happy with him as she will be with CoIohq
Brandon."
She paused. Her daughter could not quite agree
her; but her dissent was not heard, and therefore gave i
o^ence.
*^At Delaford^ she will be within an easy distance i
me,^' added Mrs. Dash wood ^ ^^even if 1 remain at Ba
and in all probability, — for 1 hear it is a large villa
indeed there certainly muft be some small house or co
close by, that would suit us quite as well as our pre
situation."
Poor Elinor 1 ^ here was a new scheme for getting hei" i
DeLaford! — but her spirit was stubborn.
'^HiB fortune too! — for at my time of life, you kno^
every body cares about thatj — and though I neither I
nor desire to know^ what it really is, 1 am sure it muB^
good one/^
Here they were interrupted by the entrance of a
permn; and Elinor withdrew to think it aU over in privat«| I
SBJMSE AND SENSIBILJTT, 303
wish succeiB to her friend ^ and yet, in wishing it, to feel a
^ung for Wiliougiihy .
I
CHAP TEE XLVL
I Marianne's illness ^ though weakening in its kind, had not
'been long enough to make her recovery slow; and with youth,
natural BtrengtU, and her motliei*'fl presence in aid, it pro-
ceeded 80 emoothly as to enable her to remove ^ within four
, days after the arrival of the latter, into Mrs. Palmer's dresaing-
loom* When there ^ at her own particular request, for she
was impatient to pour forth her thanks to him for fetching lier
mother, Colonel Brandon was in\ited to visit her.
His emotion in entering the room , in seeing her altered
. looks , and in Tecciviiig the pale hand which she immediately
lield out to him, was such as, in Elinor's conjecture, must
^ee from something more than bis afi'ection for Marianne,
or the consciousnoas of its being known to others^ and she
soon discovered, in his melancholy eye and varying com-
[plexiou as he looked at her sister, the probable recurrence
of many past scenes of misery to hia mind, brought back by
that resembi^mce between Marianne and Eliza already ac-
knowledged , and now strengtbeued by the hollow eye , the
sickly skin, the posture of reclining weakness, and the warm
» acknowledgment of peculiar obligation.
' ^frs. Dash wood f not less watchful of what passed than her
daughter, but with a mind very differently influenced, and
therefore watching to very different effect, saw nothing in the
Coloners behaviour but what arose from the most simple and
self-evident sensations, while in the actions and words of
Marianne she persuaded herself to think that something more
than gratitude already dawned.
At the end of another day or two, Marianne growing visibly
stronger eyerj twelve hours, Mrs. Dashwood, urged equally
bj'her own and her daughter's wishes, began to talk of remov-
m^ to Barton, Ou htr measures depended those of her two
L
304 SENSE AITD SBN8IBILITT-
frieDds: Mre. Jenniiigs could not quit Clevelimd during 1
Daah woods' stay; and Colonel Brandon was soon brought, \
their united request, to consider ]ii& own abode tliere as equ
determinate , if not equally indispenBable. At his and ]
Jennings's united request in return, Mrs. DaaUwood was pn
vailed on to accept the uaeof his carriage on her journey hack,
for the better accommodation of her sick child 5 and thf
Colonel, at the joint invitation of Mrs. Dashwood and Sire.
Jennings , whose active good -nature made her friendly and
hospitable for other people as well as herself, engaged with
pleasure to redeem it by a visit at the cottage j in the course of
a few weeks.
The day of separation and departure arrived; and Mari-
anne, after taking so particular and lengthened a leave of
Mrs. Jennings J one bo earnestly grateful, bo full of reaped
and kind wishes as seemed due to her own heart &om a Becrct
acknowledgment of past inattention, and bidding Colonel
Brandon farewell with the cordiality of a friend ^ was carelnllj
assisted by him into the carriage , of which he seemed aniiouf
that she should engross at least half. Mrs. Dashwood and
Elinor then followed, and the othei's were left by themselvo
to talk of the travellers, and feel their own dulness, till I
Jennings was summoned to her chaise to take comfort in 1
gossip of her maid for the loss of her two young companio
and Colonel Brandon immediately afterwards took his aoUti
way to Delaford.
The Daahwooda were two days on the road, and Maria
bore her journey on both without essential fatigue. Every
thing that the most zealous affection, the most solicitous ea
could do to render her comfortable, was the office of ea
watchful companion, and each found their reward in
bodily ease, and her calmness of spirits^ To Ehnor,
ohaen^ation of the latter was particiilarly grateful. She , 1
had seen her week after week so constantly suffering, oppri
by anguish of heart which she had neither courage to speak c
nor fortitude to conceal, now saw with a joy, wkicli no otl
coald equally shares an app^mut (lomyosure of miudj
BBN3B AND ^E^lSIBILtTT.
306
in being the reaolt , as she tnisted j of aeTioufl reflection, must
eventually lead her to contentment and cheerfulnesB.
Ab they approached Barton^ indeed, and entered on scenes,
of which every field and every tree brought some peculiar,
Bome painful recollection, she grew silent and thoughtful, and
turning away her face from their notice , sat earnestly gazing
through the window. But here , Elinor could neither wonder
nor blame; and when she saw, as she assisted Marianne from
the carriage, that she had been crying, she saw only an
emotion too liatui'ai in itself to raise ajay thing leas tender
than ^lity, and in its uiiobtt^usivencss entitled to praise. Tn the
whole of her subsequent manner, she traced the direction of a
mind awakened to reasonable esertion; for no sooner had they
entered their common sitting-room, than Marianne turned her
eyes around it with a look of resolute firmness, as if determined
fit once to accustom herself to the sight of a^ery object with
which the remembrance of WH lough by could be connected.
She aaid little, but every sentence aimed at eheerfulneas j and
though a fligh sometimes escaped her , it never passed away
without the atonement of a smile. After dinner slie would try
her piano-forte. She went to it \ but the music ou which her
eye firat rested was an opera, procured for her by Willoughby^
containing some of theu favourite duets, and bearing on its
outward leaf her own name in his hand -writing. That would
not do. She shook her head, put the music aside , and , after
running over the key^ for a minute, complained of feebleness
in her fiugers, and closed the instrument again; decLarmg,
however, with firmness, as she did so^ that she should in future
practise much.
The next morning produced no abatement in these happy
fsymptoms. On the contrary, with a mind and body alike
Btrengthened by rest, she looked and spoke with more
genuine spiritj anticipating the pleasure of Margaret's return,
and talking of the dear family party which would then be re-
stored, of their mutual pursuits and cheerful society, as the
only happiness worth a wish,
5?iisi* find Sensibiiii^M ^
L
306 8ENSB AND SSINSIBILITY.
^^ When the weather is settled, and I have recoTered
strength/^ said she, "we will take long walks togel
every day. We will walk to tbe farm at the edge of
down, and see how the children go on\ we will walk to
Jolin's new plantations at Barton Cross, and the Ahbejla
and we will often go to the old mins of the Priory, and try
trace its foundations as far a* we are told tliey onee rej
I know we ah all be happy. I know the stunmer wf
happily away. I mean never to be later in rising tfa
and from that time till dinner I shall divide ev^ery moi
between music and reading. I have formed my plan»
am determined to enter on a course of ierious Btudy, On
own library h too well known to me , to be resorted to for ai
thing beyond mare amusement. But there are many wor]
well worth reading at the Park^ and there are others of rooi
modem production, which I know I can borrow of Colons
Brandon. By reading only six hours a day, I shall gain i
the course of a twelvemonth a great deal of instruction wfam
I now feel myself to want," i
Elinor honoured her for a plan which originated so nobj
as this; though smiling to see the same eager fancy whi(
had been lead Log ber to the extreme of languid indolence ai
selfish repining now at work in introducing excess into
scheme of such rational employment and virtuous selC
control. Her smile, however, changed to a sigh when sb
remembered that her promise to Wiiloughby was yet onlti
filled , and feared she had that to communicate which loi^
again unsettle the mind of Marianne, and ruin , at least fori
time, this fair prospect of busy tranquillity. Willing therfl
fore to delay the evil hour^ she resolved to wait tiJl her aistei^
health were more secure , before she appointed it* But thi
resolution was made only to be broken.
Marianne had been two or three days at home before tl|
weather was fine enough for an invalid like herself to ventu^
out. But at last a soft, genial morning appeared, such I
might tempt the daughter's wishes and the mother's coim
Hdence; aiidMaristnne^ le^u^ on Elinor's arm , was author
SEKSB AND SENSIBILITY. 307
rided to walk as long as she could without fatigue , in the lane
before the house.
The sisters set out at a pace, slow as the feebleness of
Marianne in an exercise hitherto untried since her illness re-
quired; and they had advanced only so far beyond the house
as to admit a full view of the hill, tiiie important hill behind,
when pausing with her eyes turned towards it, Marianne
calmly said, —
"There, exactly there," pointing with one hand, "on
that projecting mound, there J fell; and there I first saw
Willoughby."
Her voice sunk with fhe word, but presently reviving, she
added, —
"I am thankful to find that I can look with so little pain
on the spot! Shall we ever talk on that subject, Elinor?"
hesitatingly it was said. ' ' Or will it be wrong ? I can talk of
it now, I hope, as I ought to do."
Elinor tenderly invited her to be open.
"As for regret," said Marianne, "I have done with that,
as far as ^ is concerned. I do not mean to talk to you of
what my feelings have been for him, but what they are noiv.
At present, if I could be satisfied on one point, if I could be
allowed to think that he was not always acting a part, not
always deceiving me; but above all, if I could be assured
that he never was so very wicked as my fears have sometimes
fancied him , since the story of that unfortunate girl — "
She stopped. Elinor joyfully treasured her words as she
answered, —
"If you could be assured of that , you think you should be
easy."
" Yes. My peace of mind is doubly involved in it ; for not
only is it horrible to suspect a person, who has been what he
has been to me, of such designs, but what must it make me
appear to myself? What, in a situation like mine, but a
most shamefully unguarded a£Fection could expose me to — "
"How, then," asked her sister, "would you account for
his behaviour?"
■
308 SBNSB AOT) SENSlBfLlTT.
^*I would suppoBe him — oh, how gladly would I suppoi
him ! — only fickle^ very , very fickle.*'
Elinor said no more. She was debating within hersel
on the eligihility of beginning her storj directly, or p^
poning it tiU Marianne were in stronger health \ and they ere]
on for a few minutes in silence.
**I am not wishing him too much good ," said Marianne j
last^ with a sigh, ^^ when I wish his secret reflections may b
no more luipleasant than my own. He will sufter enough i
them;*
" Do you compare your conduct with his?'*
*^No. I compare it with what it ought to huve beenj
compare it with yoara."
"Oiu* situations have borne little reaemblauce."
''^ They have home more tliaji our conduct. Do not, w
dearest Elinor, let your kindness defend what 1 know yoi
judgment must censure. My illness has made me think- '.
has given me leisnro and calmness for serious recollect!
Long before I was enough recovered to talk , I was perfect
able to reflect. I considered the past: I saw in my own I
haviour, since the beginning of our acquaintance with
last autumn, nothing but a series of imprudence tow^irda tn;
self, and want of kijiiftnesa to otliers. I saw that my ok
feelings had prepared my sufferings, and that my want i
fortitude under them had almost led me tG the gi^avo. My il
ness, 1 weU knew, had been entirely brought on by mys6
by such negligence of my own health, as I had felt, even
the time ^ to be wrong. Had I died, it would have been «d
destruction. I did not know my danger till the danger
removed ; but with such feelings as these reflections gave m
I wouder at my recovery, — wonder that the very ej
of my desire to live, to have time for atonement to m;
and to you all, did not kill me at once. Had I died , iu
peculiar misery should I have left you, my nurse , my £ri<
my sister! You, who had seen all the ftetful aelfishneea
my latter days; who had known all the murmuringe of
h eart / How should 1 hav e \i^ g4 m ^our remembrance I
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY* S09
mother, too! How eould you have consoled herl I cannot
express my own abhorrence of myaelf* ' Whenever T looked
towards the past, I aaw some duty neglected, or some failing
indulged. Every body seemed injured by me. The kind-
ness, the unceasing kindtiesa, of Mrs, Jennings, I had
repaid with ungrateful contempt. To the Middletona, the
Palmers, the Steeles^ to every common acquaintance even,
I had been insolent and unjuBt^ with a heart hardened against
their merits, and a temper irritated by their vei'y attentioxi.
To John, to Fanny, yes, even to them, little as they de-
serve, Iliad given less than their dae. But you, you above
aUj above my mother, had been wronged by me. I, and
only I, knew your heart and its aorrows; yet, to what did it
influence me? — not to any compassion that could benefit
you or myself. Your example was before me ; but to what
avail? Was I more considerate of you and your comfort?
Did 1 imitate your forbearance , or lessen your restraints, by
taking any part in those offices of general complaisance or
parti ciilar gratitude which you had hitherto been left to dis-
charge alone ? No ; not less when I knew you to be unbdj>py,
than when I had believed you at ease , did I turn away from
every exertion of duty or triendship ; scarcely allowing sorrow
to exist but with me , regretting only that heart which had
deserted and wronged me , and leaving you , for whom
I professed an unbounded aJFection, to be miserable for my
Bake."
Here ceased the rapid flow of her self- reproving spirit-,
and Elinor, impatient to soothe , though too honest to flatter,
gave her instantly that praise and support which her iVank-
ness and her contrition so well deserved. Marianne pressed
her hand and replied , — ■
*^ y ou are very good. The future must be my proof. I
have laid down my plan, and if I am capable of adhering to it,
my feelings shall be governed and my temper improved.
They shall no longer worry others , nor torture myself. I
shall now live solely for my family. You, my mother, and
Margaret^ must henceforth be all t\i& ^f?OT\i\Jt>iftft,\iwv"w?^
310
SEKS^ AKB SENBIBILITY.
share m}' aflft'cttons entirely between you. From you, fron
my home ^ I shall never a^ain haye the Htn^lest mcitement U
move ■ and if I do mix in other society, it will be only to ahon
that my spirit is humbled, my heart amended , and tiiat 1 (
practise the ciyilitieg, the leieer duties of life, with gentlene
and forbearance* As for Willoughby, to say that I shall aooii|i
or that I shall ever forget him, would be idle. His re- 1
membrance can be overcome by no change of circumstance I
or opinions. But it shall be regulated , it shall be checked by |
religion, by reason , by constant employment,"
She paused — and added, in a lower voice, "If I could hot '
know his heart, every thing would become easy.'^
Elinor, who had now been for some time reflecting on the
propriety or impropriety of speedily hazarding her narration^
without feeling at all nearer decision than at first, beard thia;
and perceiving that as reflection did nothing resolution mtut
do all, soon found herself leading to the fact.
She managed the recital, as she hoped, with address i
prepared her anxious listener with caution; related simply
and honestly the chief points on which Willoughby grounded
hifl apology; did justice to has repentance, and softened
only his protestations of present regard. Marianne aaid not |
a word. She tremhled: her eyes were fixed on the ground;
and her lips became whiter than even sickness had left theju.
A thousand enquiries sprung up from her heart, but »he dared
not urge one. She caught every syllable with panting eager- ]
ness: her hand, unknowingly to herself, closely preaeed h^r]
sister's, and tears covered her cheeks,
Elinor, dreading her being tired , led her towards home j]
and till they reached the door of the cottage, easily con*
jecturing what her curiosity must be , though no question was
suffered so speak it^ talked of nothing but Willoughby, aud
their conversation together; and was carefully minute in
every particular of speech and look , where minuteness could j
be flafely indulged. As soon as they entered the houseTi
Marianne , with a kiss of gratitude, and these two words jsstl
articulate througb bet leaift ^ '^^Te^toaKKssia, " ^tJhdrew from 1
SENSE AND SBNSIBILITT. 311
her sister, and walked slowly up stairs. Elinor would not
attempt to disturb a solitude so reasonable as what she now
sought; and with a mind anxiously pre-arranging its result,
and a resolution of reviving the subject again, should Mari-
anne fail to do it, she turned into the parlour to ful£l her
parting injunction.
CHAPTER XLVII.
Mbs. Dashwood did not hear, unmoved, the vindication of
her former favourite. She rejoiced in his being cleared from
some part of his imputed guilt; she was sorry for him; she
wished him happy. But the feelings of the past could not be
recalled. Nothing could restore him with a faith unbroken,
a character imblemished, to Marianne. Nothing could do
away the knowledge of what the latter had suflfered through
his means , nor remove the guilt of his conduct towards Eliza.
Nothing could replaee him, therefore, in her former esteem,
nor injure the interests of Colonel Brandon.
Had Mrs. Dashwood, like her daughter, heard Wil-
loughby*s story from himself, — had she witnessed his dis-
tress, and been under the influence of his countenance and
his manner, — it is probable that her compassion would have
been greater. But it was neither in Elinor's power, nor in
her wish, to rouse such feelings in another, by her retailed
explanation, as had at first been called forth in herself. Re-
flection had given calmness to her judgment, and sobered her
own opinion of Willoughby*s deserts; she wished, therefore,
to declare only the simple truth, and lay open such facts as
were really due to his character, without any embellishment
of tenderness to lead the fancy astray.
In the evening, when they were all three together, Mari-
anne began voluntarily to speak of him again; but that it
was not without an effort, the restless, unquiet thoughtful-
ness in which she had been for some time previously sitting,
her rising colour, as she spoke, and her unsteady voice,
plainly showed.
t
312 SENSE AND SENSIBnJTT,
"I wish to afisui*e you both/^ aaid she, "that I aee every
thing as 70U can desire me to do."
Mi'3. Dash wood would have interrupted her instantly witt
soothing tenderno9S| had not Elinor, who really wished t&
hear her sister's unhiassed opinion, by an eager sign, engaged
her silence, Marianne slowly continued^ —
'^It is a great relief to me, what Elinor told me this
morning^ I have now heard exactly what I wished to hearj
For some moments her voice was lost; but recovetiug berselfj
she added, and with greater calmness than before j — "I am
now perfectly satisfied, I wish for no change. 1 never could
have been liappy with Mm, after knowing, as sooner or later
I must have known, all this, I should have had no eoa-
fidenee , no esteem. Nothing could have done it away to my
feelings/'
" 1 know it, I know it," cried her mother. *^ Happy mik
a man of libertine practices ] With one who had so injured
the peace of the dearest of our friends, and the best of men I
No — my Marianne has not a heart to be made happy with
snch a man! Her conscience , her sensitive conscience , woald
have felt all that the conscience of her husband ought to have
felt."
Marianne sighed , and repeated , ^^ I wish for no ebange.^'
**You consider the matter," said Elinor, ^'eicactly as i
good mind and a sound understanding must consider it; and I
dare say you perceive, as well as myself, not only in this, bttl
in many other circumstances j reason euough to be convinced
that your marriage must have involved you in many certain
troubles and disappointments, in which yon would have been
poorly supp oiled by an affection, on his side, much less cer-
tain. Had you married, yon must have been always poor.
His expenaiveness is acknowledged even by himself; and bta
whole conduct declares, that self-denial is a word hardly
understood by liim. His demands, and your inexperieDfic
together, on a small, very imal I income, must have brought
on distresses winch would not be the less grievous to yoU|
from hnvmg been entirely imkTvG^Ti ^T\du\\tUou^ht of befme
SBK3E ANli SF.NSIBILITY, 313
Ytmr aenie of bouour and honesty would liave led yon , I
triow, w^en awai'e of your aituatiouj to attempt all the
economy that would appear to you possihle; and, perhaps^
as lODg as your frugality retrenched oaly on your own com-
fort, you might have been suffered to praetise it, but beyond
that — and bow little could tbe utnioat of your single manage-
ment do to Btop the ruin which had begun before your mar-
riage? beyond ^ Am f, had you endeavoured j however reason-
ably, to abridge U^ enjoyments, is it not to be feared, that
instead of prevailing on feelings bo eelfiah to consent to it,
you would have lessened your own influence on his heart, and
made him regret tbe coimection which bad itirolved him in
such difficulties?"
Marianne's lips quivered, and she repeated the word
" Selfish T' in atone that implied, "Do you really think him
ftelfiih?"
"The whole of his behaviour," replied Elinor, "from the
beginning to the end of the affair, has been grounded on
aelfiibuesi. It was selfishness which first made him sport witli
yonr affections; which afterwards, when bis own were en-
gaged, made him delay the confession of it, and which finally
carried him from Barton. His own enjoyment, or his own
ease I was, in every particular, his ra ling principle."
*' It is veiy true . My happiness never was bis object."
''At present," continued Elinor, "be regrets what teha^
done. And why does he regret it? Because he finds it bas
not answered towards himself. It has not made him happy*
His circum stances are now unembarrassed ^^ be suffers from
no evil of that kind ; and he thinks only that he has married a
woman of a less amiable temper than yourself. But does it
ce follow that bad he married you, he would have been
>y? The inconveniences would liare been different. He
then have suffered under the pecuniary dietreises
beeauae they are removed, be now reckons as notiiing.
He would have bad a wife of whose temper he could make no
complaint J bat he would have been always necessitous —
always poor; and probably would soon hwift Lfe^T^fci^^J^s x^o^
314
AND SENBlBILITr.
the inumnerable com forts of a clear estate and good incomfi^
afl of far moTe importance , even to domestic happiness, than
the mere temper of a wife."
**I have not a doubt of it," said Marianne^ "and I have
nothing to regret — nothing but my own folly.''
"Ratlier say your mother's imprudence, my child," aaid
Mrs* Dash wood : ^^she must be answerable »"
Marianne woulci not let her proceed; and EHnor, satisHed
that each felt their own error, wished to avoid any S!irvey of
the past that might weaken her sister's spirits 5 she, therefore,
pursuing the first subject, immediately continue dj —
"Owe observation may, I think , be fairly drawn from the
whole of the stoiy — that all Willoughby's difficulties have
arisen from the firflt offence against virtue, in his behaviour to
Eli^a Williams. That crime has been the origin of every
lesser one, and of all his present discontents/'
Marianne assented most feelingly to the remark ; and her
mother was led by it to an enumeration of Colonel Brandons
injuries and merits, warm as friendship and design could
unitedly dictate. Her daughter did not look j however, &s U
mneh of it were heard by her.
Elinor, according to her espectatioti, saw, on the two or
three following days, that Marianne did not continue to gain
strength as she had done j but while her resolution was unsub-
dued, and she still tried to appear eheerfiil and easy, her
sister could safely trust to the effect of time upon her health.
Margaret returned, and the family were again all restored
to each other, again quietly settled at the cottage; and if not
pursuing their usual studies with quite so much vigour aa
when they first came to Barton ^ at least planning a vigorous
prosecution of themin future,
Elinor grew impatient for some tidings of Edward, Sho
had heard nothing of him since her leaving London , nothing
new of his plans , nothing certain even of his present abode»
Some letters had passed between her and her brother, in cod-
ae^uence of Marianne^s illoess ; and in the first of John's there
had been this sentence v — '^'^'^ etoLwr Taa^Vu^^iiour unfortu-
(
SENSE AND SENSIBILTTY. 315
nate Edward, and can make no enquiries on so prohibited a
subject, but conclude him to be still at Oxford;" which was
all the intelligence of Edward afforded her by the corre-
spondence, for his name was not even mentioned in any of the
succeeding letters. She was not doomed, however, to be long
in ignorance of his measures.
Their man-servant had been sent one morning to Exeter
on business ; and when , as he waited at table , he had satisfied
the enquiries of his mistress as to the event of his errand, this
was his voluntary communication, —
"I suppose you know, ma*am, that Mr. Ferrars is
married."
Marianne gave a violent start, fixed her eyes upon Elinor,
saw her turning pale , and fell back in her chair in hysterics.
Mrs. Dashwood, whose eyes, as she answered the servant's
enquiry, had intuitively taken the same direction, was
shocked to perceive , by Elinor's countenance , how much she
really suffered; and, in a moment afterwards, alike distressed
by Marianne's situation, knew not on which child to bestow
her principal attention.
The servant, who saw only that Miss Marianne was taken
ill, had sense enough to call one of the maids , who, with Mrs.
Dashwood's assistance , supported her into the other room.
By that time Marianne was rather better; and her mother,
leaving her to the care of Margaret and the maid , returned to
Elinor, who, though still much disordered, had so far re-
covered the use of her reason and voice as to be just beginning
an enquiry of Thomas, as to the source of his intelligence.
Mrs. Dashwood immediately took all that trouble on herself;
and Elinor had the benefit of the information without the
exertion of seeking it.
" Who told you that Mr. Ferrars was married, Thomas?"
"I see Mr. Ferrars myself, ma'am, this morning in Exeter,
and his lady too, Miss Steele as was. They was stopping in
a chaise at the door of the New London Inn, as I went there
with a message from Sally at the Park to her brother, who is
one of the post-boys. I happened to look ml^ %a\^«^\s^ *^^
^IG finKSE a:sd sensibility.
chaise , ajid io I see directly it was the yonngeBt Miss Steele
80 1 took offmj liat^ and sbe kne^ me and called to me, ani
enqnired after jou , m a' am ^ and the young ladies ^ especially
MiBs Marianne!, and bid mc I shoald give her compliments anil
Mr, Ferrans's, their beat compliments and service, and hoi
BOrry they was they had not time to come on and see you \ but
they was in a great hurry to go forwards, for they was going
further down for a little while, hat howsevcr, when they come
back, they'd make anre to come and see jou,"
*^Bat did she tell you she was married, Thomas?**
'^ Yes^ ma'am. She smiled, and said how she had changed
her name since she was in these parts. She was always Ji
very affable and free -spoken young lady, and vexy civil be-
ll a ved. So , I m ade free to w i sh be r j oy / '
** Was Mr, Ferrars in the carriage with her?"
'^ YeSj ma'am^ I just see him leaning back in it^ but he did
not look up I be never was a gentleman much for talking/
Elinor's heart could easily account for his not putting him-
self forward; and Mrs, Dashwood probably found the saui*
explanation.
*^ Was there no one else in the carriage?"
" No, ma'am, only they two."
**Do you know where they came from?"
** They come straight from town , as Miss Locy — Mri'
Ferrars told me.'*
"And are going farther westward?'*
^' Yes, ma'am — but not to bide long. They will soon be
back again, and then they'd be sure and call here,"
Mrs. Dashwood now looked at her daughter; but ElinOf
knew better than to expect them. She recognlfled the whole
of Lucy in the message , and was very confident that Edward
would never come near them. She observed, in a low voice,
to her mother J that they were probably going down to Ih,
Pratt's, ne ar P lym outh .
Thomas's intelligence seemed over, Elinor looked ai H
she wished to hear more*
**Did yon see them o^^beioie ^csm <^^vql^ ^jw*.^?**
i
SENSE AUTD BENSmmiTT. 317
^^No, ma am — the horses W£is just coming out, but I
could uot bide aiij longer; I was afraid of being late.'*
" Did Mrs. Ferrarb look well?"
"Yes , ma'am ^ slie Huid how she was very well; aad to my
mind she was always a very handsome young lady — and she
Beamed vastly contented*"
Mrs* Dash wood could think of no other question; and
Thomas and the table-cloth, now alike needless , were soon
afterwards dismissed. Marianne had already sent to say,
that she should eat nothing more. Mrs. Dashwood'ij and
Elinor's appetites were equally lost; and Margaret might
think herself very well off that^ with so much unea^ineBs as
both her sisters had lately experienced^ so much reason as
they had often had to be caieless of their meals, she had never
been obUged to go without her dinner before.



When the dessert and the wine were arranged ^ and Mrs*
Daabwood and Elinor were left by themselves, they remained
long together in a similarity of thoughtfulness and silence.
Mrs. Dasbwood feared to hazard any remark, and ventured
not to offer consolation. She now found that she had en-ed in
relying on Elinor's representation of herself; and justly coiJ-
eluded that every thing had been expressly softened at the
time , to spare her from an increase of unhappiness, suffering
as she then had suffered for Marianne. She found that she
tad been misled by the careful , the considerate attention of
Her daughter^ t^j think the attachment, which once she had so
■well understood, much slighter in reality than she had been
wont to believe , or than it was now proved to be. She feared
timt under this persuasion she had been unjust, inattentive,
Bay^ almost unkind, to her Elinor; that Marianne's affliction,
T>ecause more acknowledged, more immediately before her,
bad too much engrossed her tenderness, and led her away to
forget that in Elinor she might have a daughter suffering al-
most as much, certainly with less self-provocation and greater
' fortitude.
318 * SENSE AKD &ENSIBIUTY.
CHAPTER XLVIIL
EiJNOE now found the difference between the eipectafii
of an unpleasant event, however certain the mind may be I
told to consider it ^ and certainty itself. She now found that, I
in epite of herself, she had always admitted a hope , while
Edward remained single , that something would occur tD
prevent hia marrying Lucy j that some resolution of his owDi
some mediation of friends , or aome more eligible opportunity J
of eitablishment for the lady ^ would arise to assist the bappi- J
nesB of alL But he wae now married; and she eonde
her heart for the lurking flattery which so much heightenei
the pain of the intelligence.
That he should be married ao sooUf before (as she un-
agined) he could be in orders, and consequently before be
eouid be in possession of the living, surprised her a little at
first; but she soon saw how likely it was that Lucy^ in her
self-provJdent care, in her haste to secure him, should OTer-
look every thing but the risk of delay. They were married^
— man-ied in town^ — and now hastening down to her unelei.
What had Edward felt on being within four miles of Barton^
— on seeing her mother's servant, — on hearing Lucy't
message!
They would soon, she supposed, be settled atDelafordr —
Dolaford, ^ that place in which so much conspired to give
her an interest; which she wished to be acquainted with,
and yet desired to avoid. She saw them in an instant m
their parsonage - house ^ saw in Lucy the active, contriving
manager; uniting at once a desire of smart appearance witfa
the utmost frugality, and ashamed to be suspected of half her
ecoiiomical practices^ pursuing her own interest in eveiy
thought; courting the favour of Colonel Brandon, of Mn. ,
Jennings, and of every wealthy ^iend* In Edward, she knew
not what she sav? , uor y(^^ ^^ ^\%\i&4tG see^ Happy or i
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 319
lappy, nothing pleased her: she turned away her head from
ivery sketch of him.
Elinor flattered herself that some one of their connections
in London would write to them to announce the event, and
^ve farther particulars; but day after day passed off, and
brought no letter, no tidings. Though uncertain that any
3ne were to blame , she found fault wiSi every absent firiend.
rhey were all thoughtless or indolent.
"When do you write to Colonel Brandon, ma'am?" was
an enquiry which sprung from the impatience of her mind to
iiave something going on.
" I wrote to him , my love , last week, and rather expect to
see than to hear horn him again. I earnestly pressed his
coming to us , and should not be surprised to see him walk in
to-day, or to-morrow, or any day."
This was gaining something, — something to look for-
vard to. Colonel Brandon mtist have some information to
jive.
Scarcely had she sp determined it, when the figure of a
nan on horseback drew her eyes to the window. He stopped
it their gate. It was a gentleman, — it was Colonel Brandon
limself . Now she should hear more , and she trembled in ex-
pectation of it. But it was not Colonel Brandon ; neither his
lir , nor his height. Were it possible , she should say it must
)e Edward. She looked again. He had just dismounted:
the could not be mistaken, — it was Edward. She moved
iway , and sat down. " He comes from Mr. Pratt's purposely
X) see us. I will be calm, — I will be mistress of myself."
In a moment she perceived that the others were likewise
aware of the mistake. She saw her mother and Marianne
change colour, — saw them look at herself, and whisper a
Pew sentences to each other. She would have given the world
to be able to speak, and to make them understand that she
hoped no coolness, no slight, would appear in their behaviour
to him ; but she had no utterance, and was obliged to leave all
to their own discretion.
Not a syllable passed aloud. They all waited \SL%Vife\iss&
320 SENSE A^D aENSnSiLilTY.
for the appearance of tlieir vkitf^r. His footstepg were heaM,
along the grayel path : in a moment he was in tlie paeaag?,^
and in another he was before them.
His countenance > as he entered the room, was not too
happy, even for Elinor, Hia complexion was white with
agitation; and he looked as if fearful of bis reception, and
conscious that he merited no kind one, Mrs, Dash wood,
however J conforming, as she trusted, to the wishes of that
daughter, hy whom she then meant , in the warmth of her
heart, to bo guided in every thing, met him with a look of
forced complacency, gave him her band, and wished bLmjoy.
He coloured , and stammered out an unintelligible reply^
Elinor's lips had moved with her mother's; and, when the
moment of action was over, she wished that she had sbaken
hands with him too. But it waa then too late; and, with
a countenance meaning to be open, she sat down again, and
talked of the weather,
Marianne had retreated as much as possible out of sight,
to conceal her distress; and Margaret, understanding *ome
part, but not tbe whole of the case, thought it incumbent oa
her to be dignified , and therefore took a seat aa far from him
as she eoald, and maintained a strict silence.
When Elinor had ceased to rejoice in the dryness of tbe
season , a very awful pause took place. It was put an end to
by Mrs, Daahwood, who felt obliged to hope that he had left
Mrs.FerrarK very well. In a hurried manner, he replied in
the affirmative.
Another pause,
Elinor, resolving to exert herself ^ though fearing tli6
sound of her own volcCj now said, —
"Is Mrs. Ferrars at Longs taple?"
**At Longstaplcl" he replied, with an au* of surprise*
*^ No ; my mother is in town,"
"I meant," said Elinor, taking up aome work from th«
table, '^to enquire after Mrs. Edward Ferrars,'*
She dared not look \ip'^ ^3\yfc\i'e>tmGtii^ and Mariaxuwi both
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 321
turned their eyes on him. He coloured, seemed perplexed,
looked doubtingly, and, after some hesitation, said, —
"Perhaps you mean my brother: you mean Mrs. — Mrs.
Robert Ferrars."
"Mrs. Robert Ferrars!" was repeated by Marianne and
ber mother in an accent of the utmost amazement; and
though Elinor could not speak , even Tier eyes were fixed on
- him with the same impatient wonder. He rose &om his seat,
and walked to the window, apparently from not knowing
what to do; took up a pair of scissors that lay there; and
while spoiling both them and their sheath by cutting the
latter to pieces as he spoke, said, in a hurried voice, —
"Perhaps you do not know : you may not have heard that
my brother is lately married to — to the youngest — to Miss
Lucy Steele."
^ His word? were echoed with unspeakable astonishment by
all but Elinor, who sat, with her head leaning over her work,
in a state of such agitation as made her hardly know where
she was.
"Yes," said he: "they were married last week, and are
nowatDawlish."
Elinor could sit it no longer. She almost ran out of the
room; and, as soon as the door was closed, burst into tears
of joy, which at first she thought would never cease. Edward,
who had till then looked any where , rather than at her, saw
her hurry away, and perhaps saw, or even heard, her
emotion; for immediately afterwards he fell into a reverie,
which no remarks, no enquiries, no affectionate address of
Mrs. Dashwood could penetrate ; and at last, without saying
a word, quitted the room, and walked out towards the village,
leaving the others in the greatest astonishment and per-
plexity on a change in his situation so wonderful and so
sudden, — a perplexity which they had no means of lessening
but by their own conjectures.
jSe^Aond Sensibility. '^V
322 SENSS AND SENSIBILITY.
CHAPTER XLIX.
Unaccouxtable, however, as the circumBtances of his
release might appear to the whole family, it was certain that
Edward was free; and to what purpose that freedom would
be employed was easily pre-determined by all; — for after
experiencing the blessings of one imprudent engagement,
contracted without his mother's consent, as he had already
done for more than four years, nothing less could be expected
of him in the failure of that, than the immediate contraction of
another.
. His errand at Barton, in fact, was a simple one. It was
only to ask Elinor to marry him ; and considering that he was
not altogether inexperienced in such a question , it might be
strsuige that he should feel so uncomfortable in the present
case as he really did, so much in need of encouragement and
fresh air.
How soon he had walked himself into the proper reso-
lution, however, how soon an opportunity of exercising it
occurred, in what manner he expressed himself, and how
he was received, need not be particularly told. This only
need be said; — that when they all sat down to table at four
o'clock, about three hours after his arrival, he had secured his
lady , engaged her mother's consent, and was not only in tiie
rapturous profession of the lover, but, in the reality of reason
and truth, one of the happiest of men. His situation indeed
was more than commonly joyful. He had more than the
ordinary triumph of accepted love to swell his heart, and raise
his spirits. He was released, without any reproach to him-
self , from an entanglement which had long formed his misery,
from a woman whom he had long ceased to love; and elevaAed
at once to that security with another, which he must hKte
thought of almost with despair, as soon as he had learned to
consider it with desire. He was brought, not from doubt or
suspense , but from misery to happiness ; and the change was
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. ^ 323
openly spoken in such a genuine, flowing, gratel^l cheerful-
ness, as his friends had never witnessed in him before.
His heart was now open to Elinor; all its weaknesses , all
its errors confessed, and his first boyish attachment to
Lucy treated with all the philosophic dignity of twenty-
four.
"It was a foolish, idle inclination on my side," said he "the
consequence of ignorance of the world,- and want of employ-
ment. Had my mother given me some active profession when
I was removed at eighteen from the care of Mr. Pratt, I think,
nay, I am sure, it would never have happened; for though I
left Longstaple with what I thought, at the time, a most
unconquerable preference for his niece , had I then had any
pursuit, any object to engage my time and keep me at a
distance from her for a few months , I should very soon have
outgrown the fancied attachment, especially by mixing more
with the world, as in such a case I must have done. But
instead of having any thing to do , instead of having any
profession chosen for me, or being allowed to choose any
myself, 1 returned home to be completely idle; and for the
first twelvemonth afterwards I had not even the nominal
employment, which belonging to the university would have
given me , for I was not entered at Oxford till I was nineteen.
Chad therefore nothing in the world to do, but to fancy myself
in love ; and as my mother did not make my home in every
respect comfortable , as I had no friend , no companion in my
brother, and disliked new acquaintance , it was not unnatural
for me to be very often at Longstaple, where I always felt
myself at home, and was always sure of a welcome; and
accordingly I spent the greatest part of my time there from
eighteen to nineteen : Lucy appeared every thing that was
amiable and obliging. She was pretty too — at least I
thought so then; and I had seen so little of other women , that
I could make no comparisons, and see no defects. Considering
every thing, therefore, I hope, foolish as our engagement
was, foolish as it has since in every way been proved, it was
not at the time an unnatural or an mexe\xaa\A^-^\fe^^ ^W3^?
c
324
SENSE A^'D SEJfSlBHilTT,
intiia mindiV
kl
The change which a few hours had wrought In t
and the hap p mesa of the Dashwoods, was iuch — so great —
as promised them all the satisfaction of a sleeple&B night
Mrs. Dash wood 1 too happy to be comfortable , knew not how
to love Edward , nor praise Elinor enough ^ how to be enough
thankful for his release without wounding his delieacj^ nor
how at once to give them leisnre for unrestrained conYersation
together J and yet enjoy ^ as she wished , the ilght and aociet;
of both.
Marianne could speak Jier happiness only hj tears. Qom-4
parisons would occur — regrets would arise ; and her joyJ
though sincere as her love for her sister, was of a kind to giTi
her neither spirits nor language.
But Elinor — how are her feelings to be described? Fp
the moment of learning that Lucy was married to anothefil
that Edward was free , to the moment of his justifying thdl
hopes which had so instantly followed, she was every thing by!
tarns but tranquil. But when the second moment had ps£8ed|l
when she found every doubt , every solieitude removed, cotasT
pared her situation with what so lately it had been, — saw hii
honourably released fro ox his former engagement, — aaw i
instantly profiting by the release, to address herself s
declare an aflection as tender, as constant as she ha
supposed it to be , — she was oppressed , she was overco
her own felicity; and happily disposed as is the human i
to be easily familiarised with any ehEinge for the better,
required several hours to give sedateneas to her spirits, or t
degree pf tranquillity to her heart.
Edward was now fijced at the cottage at least for a week^
for whatever other claims might be made on him , it ^
impossible that less than a week should be given up to
enjoyment of Elinor's company, or suffice to say half that \
to be said of the past, the present, and the future; for tho
a very few hours spent in the hard labour of incessant i
will despatch more subjects than can really be in eonmiaa
between any two rational creatures, yet with lovers it ii
different. Between them no i^j^i^ft.^^ N-i ^T!ffl&W4^ w* co
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 325
munication is even made, till it has been made at least twenty
times over.
Lucy's marriage, the unceasing and reasonable wonder
among them all, formed of course one of the earliest discus-
sions of the lovers ; and Elinor's particular knowledge of each
party made it appear to her, in every view, as one of the most
extraordinary and unaccountable circumstances she had ever
heard. How they could be thi-own together, and by what
attraction Robert could be drawn on to marry a girl, of whose'
beauty she had herself heard him speak without any ad-
miration, — a girl, too, already engaged to his brother, and
on whose account that brother had been thrown off by his
family, — it was beyond her comprehension to make out. To
her own heart it was a delightful affair, to her imagination it
was even a ridiculous one, but to her reason, her judgment, it
was completely a puzzle.
Edward could only attempt an explanation by supposing,
that, perhaps, at first accidentally meeting, the vanity of the
one had been so worked on by the flattery of the other, as to
lead by degrees to all the rest. Elinor remembered what
Robert had told her in Harley Street, of his opinion of what
his own mediation in his brother's affairs might have done , if
applied to in time. She repeated it to Edward.
^^That was exactly like Robert," was his immediate ob-
servation. "And <Aaf," he presently added, "might perhaps
be in his head when the acquaintance between them first
began. And Lucy , perhaps , at first might think only of pro-
curing his good offices in my favour. Other designs might
afterwards arise."
How long it had been carrying on between them, however,
he was equally at a loss with herself to make out; for at
Oxford, where he had remained by choice ever since his
quitting London, he had had no means of hearing of her but
from herself, and her letters to the very last were neither less
frequent nor less affectionate than usual. Not the smallest
suspicion, therefore, had ever occurred to prepare him for
what followed: and when at last it burst on him in a letter
326
iHITSH AND SENSIBILITY.
from Luc J liereelf ^ he had been for some time j he helley
half stupified between the wonder, the horror, and the joy
such a deliverance. He pat the letter into Elinor's hand.
"DearSu-,
"Being very sure I hare long loit your affections, Ih
thought myself at liberty to bestow my own ou another ^
have no doubt of being aa happy with him as I once used fc
think I might be with you; but I scorn to accept a band whil
the heart was another's. Sincerely wish you happy in y<
choice , and it shall not be my fault if we are not always
friends J as our near relationship now makes proper. I
safely say I owe yon no ill-will ^ and am iure you will be
generous to do us any ill offices. Your brother has gai]
my affections entirely^ and as we could not live without Oii
another J we are just returned from the altar, and are nowol
our way to Dawlish for a few weeks; which place yourdt
brother has great curiosity to see, but thought I would ft
trouble you with these few lines, and shall always remain^
** Your sincere well wish er, friend^ and sister,
*^LtJCvFf;aEA£S.
*^I have burnt all your letters^ and will return your pietl
the first opportunity. Please to destroy my scrawl s -
the ring with my hair you are very welcome to keep."
Elinor read and returned it without any comment.
"I will not aak your opinion of it aa a composition,
Edward. *'For worlds would not I have had a letter of b
seen by you in former days. In a sister it is bad enough ^ I
in a wife 1 how I have blushed over the pages of her wrttii
and 1 believe I may say that since the first half year of
foolish business this is the only letter I ever received &om 1
of which the substance made me any amends for ^e defedi
the style."
"However it may have eome about,'* said Elinor, afta
pause, "they are certavnVf married^ and your motlier
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 327
brought on herself a most appropriate p\inishment. The
independence she settled on Robert, tlnrough resentment
against you, has put it in his power to make his own choice;
and she has actually been bribing one son with a thousand a
year to do the very deed which she disinherited the other for
intending to do. She will hardly be less hurt , 1 suppose , by
Robert's marrying Lucy, than she would have been by your
marrying her."
" She will be more hurt by it, for Robert always was her
favourite. She will be more hurt by it, and on the same prin-
ciple will forgive him much sooner."
In what state the affair stood at present between them
Edward knew not, for no communication with any of his
family had yet been attempted by him. He had quitted
Oxford withm four-and-twenty hours after Lucy's letter
arrived, and with only one object before him, the nearest road
to Barton , had had no leisure to form any scheme of conduct,
with which that road did not hold the most intimate connec-
tion. He could do nothing till he were assured of his fate
with Miss Dashwood ; and by his rapidity in seeking that fate,
F it is to be supposed , in spite of the j ealousy with which he had
; once thought of Colonel Brandon, in spite of the modesty with
f which he rated his own deserts , and the politeness with which
I he talked of his doubts , he did not , upon the whole , expect a
very cruel reception. It was his business, however, to say
[ that he did, and he said it very prettily. What he might say
": on the subject a twelvemonth after must be referred to the
■■ imagination of husbands and wives.
That Lucy had certainly meant to deceive, to go off with
a flourish of malice against him in her message by Thomas,
was perfectly clear to Elinor; and Edward himself, now
thoroughly enlightened on her character, had no scruple in
believing her capable of the utmost meanness of wanton ill-
nature. Though his eyes had been long opened , even before
his acquaintance with Elinor began, to her ignorance and a
want of liberality in some of her opinions, they had been
equally imputed, by him, to her want of education*.^ wwitai
338
aiSKBE AND SEKSlBHilTT.
her laat letter reached Lim, lie had atwaja beLiev'Cd lier to ht
a well'dispoaed, good*bearted girl , and thorougMy attached
to himself, Nothiag but such a persuasion couJd have pre-
vented his putting an end to an engagement , which , long be-
fore the discovery of it laid bim open to bis mother's angcr^
had been a continual source of disquiet and regret to bim, J
"I thought it my duty," said he , " independent of my fesl^
ings^ to give her the option of continuing the engagement or
notj when I was renounced by my mother, and stood to all ap-
pearance without a friend in the world to assist me. In such
a situation as tbat^ where there seemed nothing to tempt the
avarice or the vanity of any living creature ^ how could I sup-
pose, when she so earnestly, so warmlj-^ insisted on sharing my
fate , whatever it might be , that any thing but the most
intereated affection was her inducementV And even now,
cannot comprehend on what motive she acted, or what fanci(
advantage it eould be to her, to be fettered to a man for whi
she had not the smallest regard, and who had only two tbi
sand pounds in the world. She could not foresee that Coloi
Brandon would give me a living,"
*'No; but eh e might suppose that something would oci
in your favour; that your own family might in time relent
And at any rate^ she lost nothing by continuing the engage-
ment, for she has proved that it fettered neither berinclinatiOD
nor her actions. The connection was certainly a respectabJ
one, and probably gained her consideration among
friends; and, if nothing more advantageous occurred, it woi
be better for her to marry you than be single,"
Edward was, of course, immediately convinced tbatnothi
could have been more natural than Lucy's conduet, nor m<
self-evident than the motive of it.
Elinor scolded him ^ harshly as ladies always scold the il
prudence which compliments themselves , for having spent
much time with them at Norland , when be must have felt
own inconstancy,
"Your behaviour was certainly very wrong," said
"because, to say nothing of m-j oifii.<ionvijction , our relati*
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 329
were all led away by it to fancy and expect what , as you were
then situated, could never be."
He could only plead an ignorance of his own heart, and a
mistaken confidence in the force of his engagement.
" I was simple enough to thiak , that because my faith was
plighted to another, there could be no danger in mf being
witibyou; and that the consciousness ofmy engagement was
to keep my heart as safe and sacred as my honour. I felt that I
admired you , but I told myself it was only friendship ; and till
I began to make comparisons between yourself and Lucy, I
did not know how far I was got. After that, I suppose , I was
wrong in remaining so much in Sussex; and the arguments
with which I reconciled myself to the expediency of it were no
better than these: — The danger is my own; lam doing no
injury to any body but myself."
Elinor smiled, and shook her head.
Edward heard with pleasure of Colonel Brandon's being
expected at the cottage , as he really wished , not only to be
better acquainted with him, but to have an opportunity of
convincing him , that he no longer resented his giving him the
living of Delaford. "Which, at present," said he, "after
thanks so ungraciously delivered as mine were on the occa-
sion, he must think I have never forgiven him for offering."
Now he felt astonished himself tiiat he had never yet been
to the place. But so little interest had he taken in the matter,
that he owed all his knowledge of the house, garden, and
glebe, extent of the parish, condition of the land, and rate of
the tithes, to Elinor herself, who had heard so much of it
from Colonel Brandon, and heard it with so much attention,
as to be entirely mistress of the subject.
One question after this only remained undecided between
them; one difficulty only was to be overcome. They were
brought together by mutual affection, with the warmest ap-
probation of their real friends; their intimate knowledge of
each other seemed to make their happiness certain , and they
only wanted something to live upon. Edward had two thou-
sand pounds, and Elinor one, which, with Delaford livin^^
330 SENSE AKB BENSIBILITT.
was all that they could call their own; for it was imposaihl©,
that Mrs. Daahwood should advance any things and they were
neither of them quite enough in love to think that thre«.
hundred and fifty pounds a year would supply them with thti
com forts of life.
Edward was not entirely without hopea of some favouiahlo
change in his mother towards him; and on that he rested for
the residue of their income. But Elinor had no such de*
pendeneej for, since Edward would still he im able to marry
Miss Morton, and hie choosing herself had heen spoken of in
Mrs. Ferrara's flattering language as only a lesser evil than
his choosing Lucy Steele, she feared that Robert's offenc#
would serve no other puipose than to en rich Fanny,
About four days after Edward's arrival Colonel Brandon
appeared, to complete Mrs, Dash wood's satisfaction, and to
give her the dignity of having, for the first time since her
living at Barton, more company with her than her house
would hold. Edward was allowed to retain the privilege of
firat comer, and Colonel Brandon, therefore, walked every
night to Ms old quarters at the Park ; &om whence he maally
returned in the morning, early enough to interrupt the loT€n'
first tete-k'tete before breakfast.
A three weeks' residence atDciaford, where, in his a^eiiiiig
hours at least, he had Little to do but to calculate the dlB<
proportion between thirty- sii and seventeen, brought him tci
Barton m a temper of mind which needed all tlie improvemenl
in Marianne's looks, all the kindneBS of her welcome, and all
the encouragement of her mother^s language, to make it
cheerful. Among such friends, however, and such flattery,
he did revive. No rumour of Lucy's marriage had yet reached"
him I he knew nothing of what had passed ; and the first
hours of his visit were consequently spent in hearing and tfl
wondering. Every thing was expliiined to him by Mrs, Dash
wood; and he found fresh reason to rejoice in what he had
done for Mr. Ferrars, since eventually it promoted the intereil
of Elinor.
It would be needless to Bay, that the gentlemen advanced
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 331
in the good opinion of each other, as they advanced in each
other's acquaintance, for it could not be otherwise. Their
resemblance in good principles and good sense , in disposition
and manner of thinking, would probably have been sufficient
to unite them in friendship , without any other attraction ; but
their being in love with two sisters, and two sisters fond of
each other, made that mutual regard inevitable and im-
mediate, which might otherwise have waited the effect of time
and judgment.
The letters from town, which a few days before would
have made every nerve in Elinor's body thrill with transport,
now arrived to be read with less emotion than mirth. Mrs.
Jennings wrote to tell the wonderful tale, to vent her honest
indignation against the jilting girl, and pour forth her com-
passion towards poor Mr. Edward, who, she was sure, had
quite doted upon the worthless hussy, and was now, by all
accounts, almost broken-hearted, at Oxford. "I do thuik,"
she continued, "nothing was ever carried on so sly; for it
was but two days before Lucy called and sat a couple of
hours with me. Not a soul suspected any thing of the matter,
not even Nancy, who, poor soul! came crying to me the day
after, in a great fright for fear of Mrs. Perrars, as well as not
knowing how to get to Plymouth; for Lucy, it seems, bor-
rowed all her money before she went off to be married, on
purpose, we suppose, to make a show with, and poor Nancy
had not seven shillings in the world ; so I was very glad to
give her five guineas to take her down to Exeter, where she
thinks of staying three or four weeks with Mrs. Burgess, in
hopes, as I tell her, to fall in with the Doctor again. And I
must say that Lucy's crossness not to take her along with
them in the chaise is worse than all. Poor Mr. Edward ! I
cannot get him out of my head, but you must send for him to
Barton, and Miss Marianne must try to comfort him."
Mr. Dashwood's strains were more solemn. Mrs. Ferrars
was the most unfortunate of women — poor Fanny had
suffered agonies of sensibility — and he considered the exist-
ence of each, under such a blow, with grateful wonder.
382 SENSE AND BEK6IBILIT7.
Robert's offence was unpardonable, but Lucy^a waa infinitelj
worse. Neither of tliem was ever again to be meBtioned to
Mra.Ferrars; and eveii^ if she might hereafter be induced, to
forgive her son, hia wife should never be acknowledged as her
daughter, nor be permitted to appear in her presence. The
aecrecj with which every thing had been carried on between
them was rationally treated as enoiToously heigh t^ening the
crime, because) had any suBpicion of it occurred to the others,
proper measures would have been taken to prevent thR mar-
riage; and he called on Ehuor to join with him in regretting
that Lucy's engagement with Edward had not rather been ful-
filled, than that she should thus be the means of spreading
misery farther in the family. He thus coatiaued : —
^^Mrs. Ferrars has never yet mentioned Edward's name,
which does not atu-priae us 5 but, to our great astonishment,
not a line has been received from him on the occasion.
Perhaps, however, be is kept silent by his fear of offending;
and 1 shall, therefore, give him a hint, by a line to Oxford^
that his sister and 1 both think a letter of proper submission
from him, addressed perhaps to Fanny, and hj her shown
to her mother, might not be taken amisa; for we all know
the tenderness of Mrs* Ferrars's heart, and that she wishes
for nothing so much as to be on good terms with her
children.''
This paragraph was of some importance to the prospects
and conduct of Edward. It determined him to attempt are-
conciliation , though not exactly in the manner pointed ont hj
their brother and sister.
"A letter of proper submission I" repeated be; ** would
they have me beg my mother's pardon for Robertas ingra*
titude to fter, and breach of honour to tntf I can make no
submission. I am grown neither humble nor penitent by
what has passed. I am grown very happy; but that would
not interest. I know of no submissioit that w proper for me
to make/*
**You may certainly ask to be forgiven,'* said Elinosr^
"because you have offended; and I should think you mlghfe
I
I
1
(
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 333
now venture so far as to profess some concern for having ever
formed the engagement which drew on you your mother's
anger."
He agreed that he might.
"And when she has forgiven you, perhaps a little humility
may be convenient while acknowledging a second engage-
ment, almost as imprudent in her eyes as the first."
He had nothing to urge against it, but still resisted the
idea of a letter of proper submission; and, therefore, to make
it easier to him, as he declared a much greater willingness to
make mean concessions by word of mouth than on paper, it
was resolved that, instead of writing to Fanny, he should go
to London, and personally entreat her good oflSces in his
favour. "And if they really do interest themselves," said
Marianne, in her new character of candour, "in bringing
about a reconciliation, I shall think that even John and Fanny
are not entirely without merit."
After a visit on Colonel Brandon's side of only three or
four days, the two gentlemen quitted Barton together. They
were to go immediately to Delaford, that'Edward might have
some personal knowledge of his future home , and assist his
patron and friend in deciding on what improvements were
needed to it ; and from thence , after staying there a couple of
nights , he was to proceed on his journey to town.
CHAPTER L.
Afteb a proper resistance on the part of Mrs. Ferrars , just
so violent and so steady as to preserve her from that reproach
which she always seemed fearful of incurring, the reproach
of being too amiable, Edward was admitted to her presence,
and pronounced to be again her son.
Her family had of late been exceedingly fluctuating. For
many years of her life she had had two sons; but the crime
and annihilation of Edward, a few weeks ago, had robbed
her of one ; the similar annihilation of Robert had left her for
334 SEK8E AND 8ENfelBlLlTy,
a fortnight with ant auy; and now, by the resuscitation of
Edward , she had one again.
In spite of bis being allowed once more to live , howerer,
he did not feel the continuajice of his existence secure ttU he
had revealed his present eng^igement; for tlie puhlication of
that circumatanee , he feared, might give a sudden turn to luft
constitution, and carry him off as rapidly as before. With
apprehensive caution^ therefore, it was revealed ; and he was
listened to with unexpected calmness* Mrs. Ferrara at first
reasonably endeavoured to dissuade him fro ui marrying Misa
Dasbwood, by every argument in her power; told him, th&t
in Miaa Morton he would have a woman of higher rank and
larger fortune ^ and enforced the assertion , by observing tfaat ■
Miss Morton was the daughter of a nobleman with thirty ■
thousand pounds, while Misa Dasbwood was only the daughter
of a private gentleman with no more than three; but when she
found that, though perfectly admitting the truth of her re-
presentation , he was by no means inclined to be guided by it,
she judged it wisest, from the experience of the past, to amb-
mit^ and, therefore, after such an ungracious delay as she
owed to her own dignity, and as served to prevent every
suspicion of good- will , she issaed her decree of consent to the
marriage of Edward and Elinor,
What she would engage to do towards augmenting tiieir
income was next to be considered; and here it plainly ap-
peared, that though Edward was now her only son, he watf^
by no means her eldest; for while Robert was inevitably
endowed with a thousand pounds a year, not the smallest
objection was made against Edward's taking orders for the
sake of two hundred and fifty at the utmost; nor wiii
any thing promised either for the pre sent or in future^
beyond the ten thousand pounds, which bad been given with
Fanny.
It was m much, however, as was desired, and more tha
was expected, by Edward and Elinor ; and Mrs. Ferrars her-]
self, by her shuffling excuses, seemed the only person aurpi
at her not giving more.
I
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 336
With an income quite sufficient to their wants thus secured
to them, they had nothing to wait for after Edward was in
possession of the living but the readiness of the house, to
which Colonel Brandon, with an eager desire for the accom-
modation of Elinor, was making considerable improvements;
and after waiting some time for their completion, — after ex-
periencing, as usual, a thousand disappointments and delays,
from the unaccountable dilatoriness of the workmen, — Elinor,
as usual, broke through the first positive resolution, of not
marrying till every thing was ready; and the ceremony took
place in Barton church early in the autumn.
The first month after their marriage was spent with their
friend at the mansion-house; from whence they could su-
perintend the progress of the parsonage, and direct every
thing as they liked on the spot; could choose papers, project
shrubberies, and invent a sweep. Mrs. Jennings's prophecies,
though rather jumbled together, were chiefly fulfilled; for
she was able to visit Edward and his wife in Iheir parsonage
by Michaelmas ; and she found in Elinor and her husband, as
she really believed, one of the happiest couple in the world.
They had, in fact, nothing to wish for, but the marriage of
Colonel Brandon and Marianne, and rather better pasturage
for their cows.
They were visited on their first settling by almost all their
relations and friends. Mrs. Ferrars came to inspect the hap-
piness which she was almost ashamed of having authorised ;
and even the Dash woods were at the expense of a journey from
Sussex to do them honour.
"I will not say that 1 am disappointed, my dear sister,*'
said John, as ihey were walking together one morning before
the gates of Delaford House, ^Ufuit would be saying too much;
for certainly you have been one of the most fortunate young
women in the world, as it is. But, I confess, it would give me
great pleasure to call Colonel Brandon brother. His property
here, his place, his house, — every thing in such respectable
and excellent condition! And his woods, — I have not seen
such timber any where in Dorsetshire as there is now standing
r
336 SEKSE AKD SENSIBILITT.
ianne msiy^
in Belaford Hanger I And though, perhaps, Marianne
not seem exactly the person to attract liim, yet I think it
would altogether be advisable for you to have them now fre-
quently staying With yon; for, as Colonel Brandon aeeme &
great deal at home^ nobody can tell what may happen; for,
when people are much thrown together, and see little of any
body elfle, — and it will aiwaya be in your power to fi«t her off
to advantage, and bo forth* In ehort, you may as well giTe
her a chance; you understand me."



But though Mxu. Ferrnrs did come to see them, and
always treated them with the make-believe of decent affet*
tion, they were never insulted by her real favour and pre-
ference. That was due to the folly of Robert, and the ciinning
of his wife; and it was earned hj them before many months
had passed away. The aelfiah sagacity of the latter, which
had at first drawn Eobert into the scrape, waa the principal
instrument of his deliverance from it; for her respectM
humility, assiduous attentions , and endless flatteries^ as
ioon as the smallest opemng was given for their exercise, re^
coneiled Mrs. Ferrars to his choice, and re-established him
completely in her favour.
The whole of Lucy's behaviour in the affair, and
prosperity which crowned it, therefore, may be held forth ii
a most encouraging instance of what an earnest, an unceatii^
attention to self-interest, however its progx-ess may be ap-
parently obstructed, wiU do in securing every advantage of
fortune, with no other sacrifice than that of time and con-
science. When Eobert first sought her acquaintance, and
privately visited her in Bartlett^s Buildings, it was only with
the view imputed to him by his brother. He merely meant t^
persuade her to give up the engagement; and as there could
be nothing to overcome but the affection of both, he naturaU]
expected that one or two interviews would settle the
In that pointy however, and that only, he erred; for
Lncy soon gave him hopes that bis eloquence would coi
her in time^ another visit, another conversation, was
wanted to produce this conviction. Some doubts
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 337
lingered in her mind when they parted, which could only be
removed by anoliier half hour's discourse with himself. His
attendance was by this means secured, and the rest followed
in course. Instead of talking of Edward, they came gradually
to talk only of Robert, — a subject on which he had always
more to say than on any other, and in which she soon be-
trayed an interest even equal to his own; and, in short, it
became speedily evident to both, that he had entirely sup-
planted his brotiber. He was proud of his conquest, proud of
tricking Edward, and very proud of marrying privately with-
out his mother's consent. What immediately followed is^,
known. They passed some months in great happiness at
Dawlish ; for she had many relations and old acquaintance :
to cut — and he drew several plans for magnificent cottages; ■
and from thence returning to town procured the forgiveness of
Mrs. Ferrars, by the simple expedient of asking it, which, at
Lucy's instigation, was adopted. The forgiveness, at first,
indeed, as was reasonable, comprehended only Robert; and
Lucy, who had owed his mother no duty, and therefore could
have transgressed none, still remained some weeks longer
unpardoned. But perseverance in humility of conduct and
messages, in self-condemnation for Robert's offence, and
gratitude for the unkindness she was treated with, procured
her in time the haughty notice which overcame her by its
graciousness, and led soon afterwards, by rapid degrees, to
the highest state of affection and influence. Lucy became as
necessary to Mrs. Ferrars as either Robert or Fanny; and
while Edward was never cordially forgjven for having once
intended to marry her, and Elinor, though superior to her in
fortune and birth, was spoken of as an intruder, she was in
every thing considered, a,nd always openly acknowledged, to
be a favourite child. They settled in town, received very
liberal assistance from Mrs. Ferrars, were on the best terms
imaginable with the Dashwoods; and, setting aside the \
jealousies and ill-will continually subsisting between Fanny j
and Lucy, in which their husbands of course took a part,
Sense and Sensihilily, ^
338 SENSE AND g£NSIBILITT.
as well ti5 the frequent domes tic disagreemeuta between Ro-
bert and Lutjy themaelveaj nothing could eiceed the hantiony
hi which they all lived together*
What Edwflj'd had done to forfeit the right of t^ldest son
might have pu^^sled many people to find out; and what liobert
bad done to succeed to it might have puzzled them still more.
It was an arrangement, howeverj jnstiiied in ita effecta, if not
in its cause; for nothing ever appeared in Robertas style of
living or of talking to give a suapicion of liis regretting the
estent of his income, as either leaving his brother too little^ or
bringing himself too much \ and if Edward might be judged
from the ready discharge of his duties in every particular,
from an increasing attachment to his wife and hie home, and
from the regular cheerfulness of his spirits, he might be sup-
posed no less contented with his lot, no ie&s free from ever)*
wish of aa exchange.
Eliiior'& marriage divided her as little from her family ai
could well be contrive d^ without rendering the cottage at Biir-
ton entu'ely useless, for her mother and sisters spent much more
than half their time with her. Rlrs. Dash wood was acting on
motivtis of policy iis well as pleasure in the frequency of hcj
visits at Delaford; for her wish of bringing Marianne and
Colonel Brandon togetlior was hardly leas earnest, though
rather more liberal than what Jolm had expressed. It wiis now
her darling object. Precious as was the company of her
daughter to her, sbe desired nothing so much as to give up ils
constant enjoyment to her valued friend; and to see Marianue
settled at the mansion-house was equally the wish of Edward
and Elinor. They each felt his sorrows, and their own obliga-
tions, and Marianne, by general consent, was to be the re-
ward of alL
With sueb a confederacy against her — with a knowledgt;
so intimate of bis goodness — with a conviction of his fond
attachment to herself, which at last, tliough long after it
was observable to every body else — burst on her — what
could she do?
Marianne Dash wood was bom to an exti^aordinary fate-
I
i
i
voai ■
fate' I
SBN3E Ai^B SEISESXBILITT.
339
She was bom to dbcover the falsehood of her own opinionaj
and to counteract^ by her condact, her moat favourite maxims.
She was boro to overcome an afteetion formed so late in life
as at seventeen, and witJi no sentiment superior to sti'Ong
esteem and lively friend ship , voluntarily to give her liand to
another! — and that other, a man who had BuflPered no less
than herself under the event of a former attachment , whom,
two years before^ she had considered too old to be married, —
and who still sought the constitutional uafeguard of a flannel
waistcoat!
But so it was. Instead of falling a sacrifice to an ir-
resiBtible passion, a^ once she had fondly flattered herself with
ejft>ecting, instead of remaining even for ever with her mother^
and finding her only pleasures in retirement and study ^ as
afterwards in her more calm and sober judgment she had de-
termined on, — she found herBelf at nineteen submitting to
new attachments^ entering on new duties, placed in a new
home, a wife, the mistress of a family, *and the patroness of a
village.
Colonel Brandon was now as happy as all those who beet
loved him believed he deserved to be: in Marianne he was
consoled for every past aflliction : her regard and her society
restored his mind to animation, and his spirits to cheerfulness ]
and til at Marianne found her own happiness in forming hiSj
was equally the persuasion and delight of each observing
friend, Marianne could never love by halves ; and her whole
heart became , in time , as much devoted to her husband aa it
had once been to Willoughhy.
Willoughby could not hear of her marriage without a
pang J and his punishment was soon afterwards complete, in
the voluntary forgive ness of Mrs. Smith j who j by stating his
marriage with a woman of character as the source of her
clemency, gave him reason for believing that "had he behaVeS'
with honour towards Marianne he might iit onr?e have been
happy and rich. That his repentance of u; r, which
thus brought its Own punishments was siin , J not be
doubted; nor that he long thought of Colonel Briindon with
340 SBHSB AND SEJSeiBlLITY.
1
envy, and of 'Mkriaisne with regret. But tltat he was for erer
inconsolable, that he fled from society, or contracted &a
habitual gloom of temper, or died of a broken heart, must cot
be depended on — for he did neither. He lived to exert, iuid
frequently to enjoy himself. His wife was not always out of
ImmouTs nor his home always uncomfortable; and in his breed
of horses and dogs, and in sporting of every kind, he found no
inconsiderable degree of domestic felicity, M
For Mftrianne, however, in spite of liis incivility in lor^l
viving her loss, he always retained tliat decided regard which
interested bim in eyarj thing that befell her, and made her
his secret standard of perfection in woman; and many a rising
beauty would be slighted by him in after- days as bearing do
comparison with Mrs, Brandon* ■
^irs. Dash wood was prudent enough to remain at the cot^ m
tage without attempting a removal to Delaford; and, for*
tunately for Sir John and Mrs. Jenmngs, when Marianne wai
taken from them, Margaret had reached an age hi^hl/
suitable for dancing, and not very ineligible for being sup-
posed to have a lover.
Between Barton and Delaford there was that constant
eommunieation which strong family affection would naturally
dictate ; and among the merits and the happiness of Elinor
and Marianne , let it not be ranked as the least eoneiderablCi
that, though aifiters, and living almost within sight of eacb
other, they ceuld live without disagreement between them-
selves, or producing coolness between tbeir husbands.