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                             1811

                     SENSE AND SENSIBILITY

                          by Jane Austen

                      CHAPTER I


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

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

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

Mr. Dashwood's disappointment was, at first, severe; but his temper was
cheerful and sanguine; and he might reasonably hope to live many years,
and by living economically, lay by a considerable sum from the produce
of an estate already large, and capable of almost immediate improvement.
But the fortune, which had been so tardy in coming, was his only one
twelvemonth. He survived his uncle no longer; and ten thousand pounds,
including the late legacies, was all that remained for his widow and
daughters.

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

Mr. John Dashwood had not the strong feelings of the rest of the family;
but he was affected by a recommendation of such a nature at such a time,
and he promised to do every thing in his power to make them comfortable.
His father was rendered easy by such an assurance, and Mr. John Dashwood
had then leisure to consider how much there might prudently be in his
power to do for them.

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

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

No sooner was his father's funeral over, than Mrs. John Dashwood,
without sending any notice of her intention to her mother-in-law,
arrived with her child and their attendants. No one could dispute her
right to come; the house was her husband's from the moment of his
father's decease; but the indelicacy of her conduct was so much the
greater, and to a woman in Mrs. Dashwood's situation, with only common
feelings, must have been highly unpleasing; but in her mind there was a
sense of honor so keen, a generosity so romantic, that any offence of
the kind, by whomsoever given or received, was to her a source of
immovable disgust. Mrs. John Dashwood had never been a favorite with any
of her husband's family; but she had had no opportunity, till the
present, of showing them with how little attention to the comfort of
other people she could act when occasion required it.

So acutely did Mrs. Dashwood feel this ungracious behavior, and so
earnestly did she despise her daughter-in-law for it, that, on the
arrival of the latter, she would have quitted the house for ever, had
not the entreaty of her eldest girl induced her first to reflect on the
propriety of going, and her own tender love for all her three children
determined her afterwards to stay, and for their sakes avoid a breach
with their brother.

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

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

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

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

                      CHAPTER II


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

A continuance in a place where everything reminded her of former delight
was exactly what suited her mind. In seasons of cheerfulness, no temper
could be more cheerful than hers, or possess, in a greater degree, that
sanguine expectation of happiness which is happiness itself. But in
sorrow she must be equally carried away by her fancy, and as far beyond
consolation as in pleasure she was beyond alloy.

Mrs. John Dashwood did not at all approve of what her husband intended
to do for his sisters. To take three thousand pounds from the fortune of
their dear little boy would be impoverishing him to the most dreadful
degree. She begged him to think again on the subject. How could he
answer it to himself to rob his child, and his only child too, of so
large a sum? And what possible claim could the Misses Dashwood, who were
related to him only by half blood, which she considered as no
relationship at all, have on his generosity to so large an amount? It
was very well known that no affection was ever supposed to exist between
the children of any man by different marriages; and why was he to ruin
himself, and their poor little Harry, by giving away all his money to
his half sisters?

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

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

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

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

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

"To be sure it would."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That is very true, and, therefore, I do not know whether, upon the
whole, it would not be more advisable to do something for their mother
while she lives, rather than for them- something of the annuity kind I
mean. My sisters would feel the good effects of it as well as herself. A
hundred a year would make them all perfectly comfortable."

His wife hesitated a little, however, in giving her consent to this
plan.

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

"Fifteen years! my dear Fanny; her life cannot be worth half that
purchase."

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

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

"Undoubtedly; and, after all, you have no thanks for it. They think
themselves secure; you do no more than what is expected, and it raises
no gratitude at all. If I were you, whatever I did should be done at my
own discretion entirely. I would not bind myself to allow them anything
yearly. It may be very inconvenient some years to spare a hundred, or
even fifty pounds from our own expenses."

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

"To be sure it will. Indeed, to say the truth, I am convinced within
myself that your father had no idea of your giving them any money at
all. The assistance he thought of, I dare say, was only such as might be
reasonably expected of you; for instance, such as looking out for a
comfortable small house for them, helping them to move their things, and
sending them presents of fish and game, and so forth, whenever they are
in season. I'll lay my life that he meant nothing farther; indeed, it
would be very strange and unreasonable if he did. Do but consider, my
dear Mr. Dashwood, how excessively comfortable your mother-in-law and
her daughters may live on the interest of seven thousand pounds, besides
the thousand pounds belonging to each of the girls, which brings them in
fifty pounds a year apiece, and, of course, they will pay their mother
for their board out of it. Altogether, they will have five hundred a
year amongst them, and what on earth can four women want for more than
that?- They will live so cheap! Their house-keeping will be nothing at
all. They will have no carriage, no horses, and hardly any servants;
they will keep no company, and can have no expenses of any kind! Only
conceive how comfortable they will be! Five hundred a year! I am sure I
cannot imagine how they will spend half of it; and as to your giving
them more, it is quite absurd to think of it. They will be much more
able to give you something."

"Upon my word," said Mr. Dashwood, "I believe you are perfectly right.
My father certainly could mean nothing more by his request to me than
what you say. I clearly understand it now, and I will strictly fulfil my
engagement by such acts of assistance and kindness to them as you have
described. When my mother removes into another house my services shall
be readily given to accommodate her as far as I can. Some little present
of furniture too may be acceptable then."

"Certainly," returned Mrs. John Dashwood. "But, however, one thing must
be considered. When your father and mother moved to Norland, though the
furniture of Stanhill was sold, all the china, plate, and linen was
saved, and is now left to your mother. Her house will therefore be
almost completely fitted up as soon as she takes it."

"That is a material consideration undoubtedly. A valuable legacy indeed!
And yet some of the plate would have been a very pleasant addition to
our own stock here."

"Yes; and the set of breakfast china is twice as handsome as what
belongs to this house. A great deal too handsome, in my opinion, for any
place they can ever afford to live in. But, however, so it is. Your
father thought only of them. And I must say this, that you owe no
particular gratitude to him, nor attention to his wishes; for we very
well know that if he could, he would have left almost everything in the
world to them."

This argument was irresistible. It gave to his intentions whatever of
decision was wanting before; and he finally resolved, that it would be
absolutely unnecessary, if not highly indecorous, to do more for the
widow and children of his father than such kind of neighborly acts as
his own wife pointed out.

                      CHAPTER III


MRS. DASHWOOD remained at Norland several months; not from any
disinclination to move when the sight of every well known spot ceased to
raise the violent emotion which it produced for a while; for when her
spirits began to revive, and her mind became capable of some other
exertion than that of heightening its affliction by melancholy
remembrances, she was impatient to be gone, and indefatigable in her
enquiries for a suitable dwelling in the neighborhood of Norland; for to
remove far from that beloved spot was impossible. But she could hear of
no situation that at once answered her notions of comfort and ease, and
suited the prudence of her eldest daughter, whose steadier judgment
rejected several houses as too large for their income, which her mother
would have improved.

Mrs. Dashwood had been informed by her husband of the solemn promise on
the part of his son in their favor, which gave comfort to his last
earthly reflections. She doubted the sincerity of this assurance no more
than he had doubted it himself, and she thought of it for her daughters'
sake with satisfaction, though as for herself she was persuaded that a
much smaller provision than 7000l. would support her in affluence. For
their brother's sake, too, for the sake of his own heart, she rejoiced;
and she reproached herself for being unjust to his merit before, in
believing him incapable of generosity. His attentive behaviour to
herself and his sisters convinced her that their welfare was dear to
him, and, for a long time, she firmly relied on the liberality of his
intentions.

The contempt which she had, very early in their acquaintance, felt for
her daughter-in-law, was very much increased by the farther knowledge of
her character, which half a year's residence in her family afforded;
and, perhaps, in spite of every consideration of politeness or maternal
affection on the side of the former, the two ladies might have found it
impossible to have lived together so long, had not a particular
circumstance occurred to give still greater eligibility, according to
the opinions of Mrs. Dashwood, to her daughters' continuance at Norland.

This circumstance was a growing attachment between her eldest girl and
the brother of Mrs. John Dashwood, a gentlemanlike and pleasing young
man, who was introduced to their acquaintance soon after his sister's
establishment at Norland, and who had since spent the greatest part of
his time there.

Some mothers might have encouraged the intimacy from motives of
interest, for Edward Ferrars was the eldest son of a man who had died
very rich; and some might have repressed it from motives of prudence,
for, except a trifling sum, the whole of his fortune depended on the
will of his mother. But Mrs. Dashwood was alike uninfluenced by either
consideration. It was enough for her that he appeared to be amiable,
that he loved her daughter, and that Elinor returned the partiality. It
was contrary to every doctrine of hers that difference of fortune should
deep any couple asunder who were attracted by resemblance of
disposition; and that Elinor's merit should not be acknowledged by every
one who knew her was to her comprehension impossible.

Edward Ferrars was not recommended to their good opinion by any peculiar
graces of person or address. He was not handsome, and his manners
required intimacy to make them pleasing. He was too diffident to do
justice to himself; but when his natural shyness was overcome, his
behaviour gave every indication of an open, affectionate heart. His
understanding was good, and his education had given it solid
improvement. But he was neither fitted by abilities nor disposition to
answer the wishes of his mother and sister, who longed to see him
distinguished- as- they hardly knew what. They wanted him to make a fine
figure in the world in some manner or other. His mother wished to
interest him in political concerns, to get him into parliament, or to
see him connected with some of the great men of the day. Mrs. John
Dashwood wished it likewise; but in the mean while, till one of these
superior blessings could be attained, it would have quieted her ambition
to see him driving a barouche. But Edward had no turn for great men or
barouches. All his wishes centered in domestic comfort and the quiet of
private life. Fortunately he had a younger brother who was more
promising.

Edward had been staying several weeks in the house before he engaged
much of Mrs. Dashwood's attention; for she was, at that time, in such
affliction as rendered her careless of surrounding objects. She saw only
that he was quiet and unobtrusive, and she liked him for it. He did not
disturb the wretchedness of her mind by ill-timed conversation. She was
first called to observe and approve him farther, by a reflection which
Elinor chanced one day to make on the difference between him and his
sister. It was a contrast which recommended him most forcibly to her
mother.

"It is enough," said she; "to say that he is unlike Fanny is enough. It
implies everything amiable. I love him already."

"I think you will like him," said Elinor, "when you know more of him."

"Like him!" replied her mother with a smile. "I feel no sentiment of
approbation inferior to love."

"You may esteem him."

"I have never yet known what it was to separate esteem and love."

Mrs. Dashwood now took pains to get acquainted with him. Her manners
were attaching, and soon banished his reserve. She speedily comprehended
all his merits; the persuasion of his regard for Elinor perhaps assisted
her penetration; but she really felt assured of his worth: and even that
quietness of manner, which militated against all her established ideas
of what a young man's address ought to be, was no longer uninteresting,
when she knew his heart to be warm and his temper affectionate.

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

"In a few months, my dear Marianne." said she, "Elinor will, in all
probability, be settled for life. We shall miss her; but she will be
happy."

"Oh, mamma, how shall we do without her?"

"My love, it will be scarcely a separation. We shall live within a few
miles of each other, and shall meet every day of our lives. You will
gain a brother, a real, affectionate brother. I have the highest opinion
in the world of Edward's heart. But you look grave, Marianne; do you
disapprove your sister's choice?"

"Perhaps," said Marianne, "I may consider it with some surprise. Edward
is very amiable, and I love him tenderly. But yet- he is not the kind of
young man- there is something wanting- his figure is not striking; it
has none of that grace which I should expect in the man who could
seriously attach my sister. His eyes want all that spirit, that fire,
which at once announce virtue and intelligence. And besides all this, I
am afraid, mamma, he has no real taste. Music seems scarcely to attract
him; and, though he admires Elinor's drawings very much, it is not the
admiration of a person who can understand their worth. It is that, in
fact, of his frequent attention to her while she draws, that, in he
knows nothing of the matter. He admires as a lover, not as a
connoisseur. To satisfy me, those characters must be united. I could not
be happy with a man whose taste did not in every point coincide with my
own. He must enter into all my feelings: the same books, the same music
must charm us both. Oh, mamma, how spiritless, how tame was Edward's
manner in reading to us last night! I felt for my sister more severely.
Yet she bore it with so much composure, she seemed scarcely to notice
it. I could hardly keep my seat. To hear those beautiful lines which
have frequently almost driven me wild, pronounced with such impenetrable
calmness, such dreadful indifference!"

"He would certainly have done more justice to simple and elegant prose.
I thought so at the time; but you would give him Cowper."

"Nay, mamma, if he is not to be animated by Cowper!- but we must allow
for difference of taste. Elinor has not my feelings, and, therefore, she
may overlook it, and be happy with him. But it would have broken my
heart, had I loved him, to hear him read with so little sensibility.
Mamma, the more I know of the world, the more am I convinced that I
shall never see a man whom I can really love. I require so much! He must
have all Edward's virtues, and his person and manners must ornament his
goodness with every possible charm."

"Remember, my love, that you are not seventeen. It is yet too early in
life to despair of such a happiness. Why should you be less fortunate
than your mother? In one circumstance only, my Marianne, may your
destiny be different from 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 he has an innate propriety and simplicity of taste, which, in
general, direct him perfectly right."

Marianne was afraid of offending, and said no more on the subject; but
the kind of approbation which Elinor described as excited in him by the
drawings of other people was very far from that rapturous delight,
which, in her opinion, could alone be called taste. Yet, though smiling
within herself at the mistake, she honored her sister for that blind
partiality to Edward which produced it.

"I hope, Marianne," continued Elinor, "you do not consider him as
deficient in general taste. Indeed, I think I may say that you cannot,
for your behaviour to him is perfectly cordial, and if that were your
opinion, I am sure you could never be civil to him."

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

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

"I am sure," replied Elinor, with a smile, "that his dearest friends
could not be dissatisfied with such commendation as that. I do not
perceive how you could express yourself more warmly."

Marianne was rejoiced to find her sister so easily pleased.

"Of his sense and his goodness," continued Elinor, "no one can, I think,
be in doubt, who has seen him often enough to engage him in unreserved
conversation. The excellence of his understanding and his principles can
be concealed only by that shyness which too often keeps him silent. You
know enough of him to do justice to his solid worth. But of his minuter
propensities, as you call them, you have, from peculiar circumstances,
been kept more ignorant than myself. He and I have been at times thrown
a good deal together, while you have been wholly engrossed on the most
affectionate principle by my mother. I have seen a great deal of him,
have studied his sentiments and heard his opinion on subjects of
literature and taste; and, upon the whole, I venture to pronounce that
his mind is well informed, enjoyment of books exceedingly great, his
imagination lively, his observation just and correct, and his taste
delicate and pure. His abilities in every respect improve as much upon
acquaintance as his manners and person. At first sight, his address is
certainly not striking; and his person can hardly be called handsome,
till the expression of his eyes, which are uncommonly good, and the
general sweetness of his countenance, is perceived. At present, I know
him so well, that I think him really handsome; or at least, almost so.
What say you, Marianne?"

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

Elinor started at this declaration, and was sorry for the warmth she had
been betrayed into, in speaking of him. She felt that Edward stood very
high in her opinion. She believed the regard to be mutual; but she
required greater certainty of it to make Marianne's conviction of their
attachment agreeable to her. She knew that what Marianne and her mother
conjectured one moment, they believed the next- that with them, to wish
was to hope, and to hope was to expect. She tried to explain the real
state of the case to her sister.

"I do not attempt to deny," said she, "that I think very highly of him-
that I greatly esteem, that I like him."

Marianne here burst forth with indignation-

"Esteem him! Like him I Cold-hearted Elinor! Oh! worse than
cold-hearted! Ashamed of being otherwise. Use those words again, and I
will leave the room this moment."

Elinor could not help laughing. "Excuse me," said she; "and be assured
that I meant no offence to you, by speaking, in so quiet a way, of my
own feelings. Believe them to be stronger than I have declared; believe
them, in short, to be such as his merit, and the suspicion- the hope of
his affection for me may warrant, without imprudence or folly. But
farther than this you must not believe. I am by no means assured of his
regard for me. There are moments when the extent of it seems doubtful;
and till his sentiments are fully known, you cannot wonder at my wishing
to avoid any encouragement of my own partiality, by believing or calling
it more than it is. In my heart I feel little- scarcely any doubt of his
preference. But there are other points to be considered besides his
inclination. He is very far from being independent. What his mother
really is we cannot know; but, from Fanny's occasional mention of her
conduct and opinions, we have never been disposed to think her amiable;
and I am very much mistaken if Edward is not himself aware that there
would be many difficulties in his way, if he were to wish to marry a
woman who had not either a great fortune or high rank."

Marianne was astonished to find how much the imagination of her mother
and herself had outstripped the truth.

"And you really are not engaged to him!" said she. "Yet it certainly
soon will happen. But two advantages will proceed from this delay. I
shall not lose you so soon, and Edward will have greater opportunity of
improving that natural taste for your favorite pursuit which must be so
indispensably necessary to your future felicity. Oh! if he should be so
far stimulated by your genius as to learn to draw himself, how
delightful it would be!"

Elinor had given her real opinion to her sister. She could not consider
her partiality for Edward in so prosperous a state as Marianne had
believed it. There was, at times, a want of spirits about him which, if
it did not denote indifference, spoke 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 dependent situation which forbad the indulgence of his
affection. She knew that his mother neither behaved to him so as to make
his home comfortable at present, nor to give him any assurance that he
might form a home for himself, 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 her, which her mother and sister still
considered as certain. Nay, the longer they were together the more
doubtful seemed the nature of his regard; and sometimes, for a few
painful minutes, she believed it to be no more than friendship.

But, whatever might really be its limits, it was enough, when perceived
by his sister, to make her uneasy, and at the same time (which was still
more common) to make her uncivil. She took the first opportunity of
affronting her mother-in-law on the occasion, talking to her so
expressively of her brother's great expectations, of Mrs. Ferrars's
resolution that both her sons should marry well, and of the danger
attending any young woman who attempted to draw him in, that Mrs.
Dashwood could neither pretend to be unconscious, nor endeavor to be
calm. She gave her an answer which marked her contempt, and instantly
left the room; resolving that, whatever might be the inconvenience or
expense of so sudden a removal, her beloved Elinor should not be exposed
another week to such insinuations.

In this state of her spirit, a letter was delivered to her from the
post, which contained a proposal particularly well timed. It was the
offer of a small house, on very easy terms, belonging to a relation of
her own, a gentleman of consequence and property in Devonshire. The
letter was from this gentleman himself, and written in the true spirit
of friendly accommodation. He understood that she was in need of a
dwelling; and though the house he now offered her was merely a cottage,
he assured her that everything should be done to it which she might
think necessary, if the situation pleased her. He earnestly pressed her,
after giving the particulars of the house and garden, to come with her
daughters to Barton Park, the place of his own residence, from whence
she might judge, herself, whether Barton Cottage, for the houses were in
the same parish, could, by any alteration, be made comfortable to her.
He seemed really anxious to accommodate them; and the whole of his
letter was written in so friendly a style as could not fail of giving
pleasure to his cousin; more especially at a moment when she was
suffering under the cold and unfeeling behaviour of her nearer
connections. She needed no time for deliberation or inquiry. Her
resolution was formed as she read. The situation of Barton, in a county
so far distant from Sussex as Devonshire, which, but a few hours before,
would have been a sufficient objection to outweigh every possible
advantage belonging to the place, was now its first recommendation. To
quit the neighbourhood of Norland was no longer an evil; it was an
object of desire; it was a blessing, in comparison of the misery of
continuing her daughter-in-law's guest; and to remove for ever from that
beloved place would be less painful than to inhabit or visit it while
such a woman was its mistress. She instantly wrote Sir John Middleton
her acknowledgment of his kindness, and her acceptance of his proposal;
and then hastened to show both letters to her daughters, that she might
be secure of their approbation before her answer were sent.

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

                      CHAPTER V


NO sooner was her answer dispatched, than Mrs. Dashwood indulged herself
in the pleasure of announcing to her son-in-law and his wife that she
was provided with a house, and should incommode them no longer than till
everything were ready for her inhabiting it. They heard her with
surprise. Mrs. John Dashwood said nothing; but her husband civilly hoped
that she would not be settled far from Norland. She had great
satisfaction in replying that she was going into Devonshire. Edward
turned hastily towards her, on hearing this, and, in a voice of surprise
and concern, which required no explanation to her, repeated,
"Devonshire! Are you, indeed, going there? So far from hence! and to
what part of it?" She explained the situation. It was within four miles
northward of Exeter.

"It is but a cottage," she continued, "but I hope to see many of my
friends in it. A room or two can easily be added; and if my friends find
no difficulty in travelling so far to see me, I am sure I will find none
in accommodating them."

She concluded with a very kind invitation to Mr. and Mrs. John Dashwood
to visit her at Barton; and to Edward she gave one with still greater
affection. Though her late conversation with her daughter-in-law had
made her resolve on remaining at Norland no longer than was unavoidable,
it had not produced the smallest effect on her in that point to which it
principally tended. To separate Edward and Elinor was as far from being
her object as ever; and she wished to show Mrs. John Dashwood, by this
pointed invitation to her brother, how totally she disregarded her
disapprobation of the match.

Mr. John Dashwood told his mother again and again how exceedingly sorry
he was that she had taken a house at such a distance from Norland as to
prevent his being of any service to her in removing her furniture. He
really felt conscientiously vexed on the occasion; for the very exertion
to which he had limited the performance of his promise to his father was
by this arrangement rendered impracticable. The furniture was all sent
around by water. It chiefly consisted of household linen, plate, china,
and books, with a handsome piano-forte of Marianne's. Mrs. John Dashwood
saw the packages depart with a sigh: she could not help feeling it hard
that, as Mrs. Dashwood's income would be so trifling in comparison with
their own, she should have any handsome article of furniture.

Mrs. Dashwood took the house for a twelvemonth; it was ready furnished,
and she might have immediate possession. No difficulty arose on either
side in the agreement; and she waited only for the disposal of her
effects at Norland, and to determine her future household, before she
set off for the west; and this, as she was exceedingly rapid in the
performance of everything that interested her, was soon done. The horses
which were left by her husband had been sold soon after his death, and
an opportunity now offering of disposing of her carriage, she agreed to
sell that likewise, at the earnest advice of her eldest daughter. For
the comfort of her children, had she consulted only her own wishes, she
would have kept it; but the discretion of Elinor prevailed. Her wisdom,
too, limited the number of their servants to three; two maids and a man,
with whom they were speedily provided from amongst those who had formed
their establishment at Norland.

The man and one of the maids were sent off immediately into Devonshire,
to prepare the house for their mistress's arrival; for, as Lady
Middleton was entirely unknown to Mrs. Dashwood, she preferred going
directly to the cottage to being a visitor at Barton Park; and she
relied so undoubtingly on Sir John's description of the house, as to
feel no curiosity to examine it herself till she entered it as her own.
Her eagerness to be gone from Norland was preserved from diminution by
the evident satisfaction of her daughter-in-law in the prospect of her
removal; a satisfaction which was but feebly attempted to be concealed
under a cold invitation to her to defer her departure. Now was the time
when her son-in-law's promise to his father might with particular
propriety be fulfilled. Since he had neglected to do it on first coming
to the estate, their quitting his house might be looked on as the most
suitable period for its accomplishment. But Mrs. Dashwood began,
shortly, to give over every hope of the kind, and to be convinced, from
the general drift of his discourse, that his assistance extended no
farther than their maintenance for six months at Norland. He so
frequently talked of the increasing expenses of housekeeping, and of the
perpetual demands upon his purse, which a man of any consequence in the
world was beyond calculation exposed to, that he seemed rather to stand
in need of more money himself than to have any design of giving money
away.

In a very few weeks, from the day which brought Sir John Middleton's
first letter to Norland, everything was so far settled in their future
abode as to enable Mrs. Dashwood and her daughters to begin their
journey.

Many were the tears shed by them in their last adieus to a place so much
beloved. "Dear, dear Norland!" said Marianne, as she wandered alone
before the house, on the last evening of their being there; "when shall
I cease to regret you!- when learn to feel a home elsewhere!- Oh! happy
house, could you know what I suffer in now viewing you from this spot,
from whence, perhaps, I may view you no more!- And you, ye well-known
trees!- but you will continue the same. No leaf will decay because we
are removed, nor any branch become motionless although we can observe
you no longer!- No; you will continue the same; unconscious of the
pleasure or the regret you occasion, and insensible of any change in
those who walk under your shade!- But who will remain to enjoy you?"

                      CHAPTER VI


THE first part of their journey was performed in too melancholy a
disposition to be otherwise than tedious and unpleasant. But as they
drew towards the end of it, their interest in the appearance of a
country which they were to inhabit overcame their dejection, and a view
of Barton Valley, as they entered it, gave them cheerfulness. It was a
pleasant, fertile spot, well wooded, and rich in pasture. After winding
along it for more than a mile, they reached their own house. A small
green court was the whole of its demesne in front; and a neat
wicket-gate admitted them into it.

As a house, Barton Cottage, though small, was comfortable and compact;
but as a cottage it was defective, for the building was regular, the
roof was tiled, the window shutters were not painted green, nor were the
walls covered with honeysuckles. A narrow passage led directly through
the house into the garden behind. On each side of the entrance was a
sitting room, about sixteen feet square; and beyond them were the
offices and the stairs. Four bed-rooms and two garrets formed the rest
of the house. It had not been built many years, and was in good repair.
In comparison of Norland, it was poor and small indeed!- but the tears
which recollection called forth as they entered the house were soon
dried away. They were cheered by the joy of the servants on their
arrival, and each for the sake of the others resolved to appear happy.
It was very early in September; the season was fine; and from first
seeing the place under the advantage of good weather, they received an
impression in its favor which was of material service in recommending it
to their lasting approbation.

The situation of the house was good. High hills rose immediately behind,
and at no great distance on each side; some of which were open downs,
the others cultivated and woody. The village of Barton was chiefly on
one of these hills, and formed a pleasant view from the cottage windows.
The prospect in front was more extensive; it commanded the whole of the
valley, and reached into the country beyond. The hills which surrounded
the cottage terminated the valley in that direction; under another name,
and in another course, it branched out again between two of the steepest
of them.

With the size and furniture of the house Mrs. Dashwood was upon the
whole well satisfied; for though her former style of life rendered many
additions to the latter indispensable, yet to add and improve was a
delight to her; and she had at this time ready money enough to supply
all that was wanted of greater elegance to the apartments. "As for the
house itself, to be sure," said she, "it is too small for our family,
but we will make ourselves tolerably comfortable for the present, as it
is too late in the year for improvements. Perhaps in the spring, if I
have plenty of money, as I dare say I shall, we may think about
building. These parlors are both too small for such parties of our
friends as I hope to see often collected here; and I have some thoughts
of throwing the passage into one of them, with perhaps a part of the
other, and so leave the remainder of that other for an entrance; this,
with a new drawing-room which may be easily added, and a bed-chamber and
garret above, will make it a very snug little cottage. I could wish the
stairs were handsome. But one must not expect everything; though I
suppose it would be no difficult matter to widen them. I shall see how
much I am before-hand with the world in the spring, and we will plan our
improvements accordingly."

In the meantime, till all these alterations could be made from the
savings of an income of five hundred a year by a woman who never saved
in her life, they were wise enough to be contented with the house as it
was; and each of them was busy in arranging their particular concerns,
and endeavoring, by placing around them books and other possessions, to
form themselves a home. Marianne's piano-forte was unpacked and properly
disposed of; and Elinor's drawings were affixed to the walls of their
sitting room.

In such employments as these they were interrupted soon after breakfast
the next day by the entrance of their landlord, who called to welcome
them to Barton, and to offer them every accommodation from his own house
and garden in which theirs might at present be deficient. Sir John
Middleton was a good looking man about forty. He had formerly visited at
Stanhill, but it was too long for his young cousins to remember him. His
countenance was thoroughly good-humoured; and his manners were as
friendly as the style of his letter. Their arrival seemed to afford him
real satisfaction, and their comfort to be an object of real solicitude
to him. He said much of his earnest desire of their living in the most
sociable terms with his family, and pressed them so cordially to dine at
Barton Park every day till they were better settled at home that, though
his entreaties were carried to a point of perseverance beyond civility,
they could not give offence. His kindness was not confined to words; for
within an hour after he left them, a large basket full of garden stuff
and fruit arrived from the park, which was followed before the end of
the day by a present of game. He insisted, moreover, on conveying all
their letters to and from the post for them, and would not be denied the
satisfaction of sending them his newspaper every day.

Lady Middleton had sent a very civil message by him, denoting her
intention of waiting on Mrs. Dashwood as soon as she could be assured
that her visit would be no inconvenience; and as this message was
answered by an invitation equally polite, her ladyship was introduced to
them the next day.

They were, of course, very anxious to see a person on whom so much of
their comfort at Barton must depend; and the elegance of her appearance
was favourable to their wishes. Lady Middleton was not more than six or
seven and twenty; her face was handsome, her figure tall and striking,
and her address graceful. Her manners had all the elegance which her
husband's wanted. But they would have been improved by some share of his
frankness and warmth; and her visit was long enough to detract something
from their first admiration, by showing that, though perfectly
well-bred, she was reserved, cold, and had nothing to say for herself
beyond the most common-place inquiry or remark.

Conversation, however, was not wanted, for Sir John was very chatty, and
Lady Middleton had taken the wise precaution of bringing with her their
eldest child, a fine little boy about six years old; by which means
there was one subject always to be recurred to by the ladies in case of
extremity, for they had to enquire his name and age, admire his beauty,
and ask him questions which his mother answered for him, while he hung
about her and held down his head, to the great surprise of her ladyship,
who wondered at his being so shy before company, as he could make noise
enough at home. On every formal visit a child ought to be of the party,
by way of provision for discourse. In the present case it took up ten
minutes to determine whether the boy were most like his father or
mother, and in what particular he resembled either, for of course every
body differed, and every body was astonished at the opinion of the
others.

An opportunity was soon to be given to the Dashwoods of debating on the
rest of the children, as Sir John would not leave the house without
securing their promise of dining at the Park the next day.

                      CHAPTER VII


BARTON PARK was about half a mile from the cottage. The ladies had
passed near it in their way along the valley, but it was screened from
their view at home by the projection of a hill. The house was large and
handsome; and the Middletons lived in a style of equal hospitality and
elegance. The former was for Sir John's gratification, the latter for
that of his lady. There were scarcely ever without some friends staying
with them in the house, and they kept more company of every kind than
any other family in the neighbourhood. It was necessary to the happiness
of both; for however dissimilar in temper and outward behaviour, they
strongly resembled each other in that total want of talent and taste
which confined their employments, unconnected with such as society
produced, within a very pass. Sir John was a sportsman, Lady Middleton a
mother. He hunted and shot, and she humoured her children; and these
were their only resources. Lady Middleton had the advantage of being
able to spoil her children all the year round, while Sir John's
independent employments were in existence only half the time. Continual
engagements at home and abroad, however, supplied all the deficiencies
of nature and education; supported the good spirits of Sir John, and
gave exercise to the good breeding of his wife.

Lady Middleton piqued herself upon the elegance of her table, and of all
her domestic arrangements; and from this kind of vanity was her greatest
enjoyment in any of their parties. But Sir John's satisfaction in
society was much more real; he delighted in collecting about him more
young people than his house would hold, and the noisier they were the
better was he pleased. He was a blessing to all the juvenile part of the
neighbourhood; for in summer he was for ever forming parties to eat cold
ham and chicken out of doors, and in winter his private balls were
numerous enough for any young lady who was not suffering under the
unsatiable appetite of fifteen.

The arrival of a new family in the country was always a matter of joy to
him; and in every point of view he was charmed with the inhabitants he
had now procured for his cottage at Barton. The Misses Dashwood were
young, pretty, and unaffected. It was enough to secure his good opinion;
for to be unaffected was all that a pretty girl could want to make her
mind as captivating as her person. The friendliness of his disposition
made him happy in accommodating those, whose situation might be
considered, in comparison with the past, as unfortunate. In showing
kindness to his cousins, therefore, he had the real satisfaction of a
good heart; and in settling a family of females only in his cottage, he
had all the satisfaction of a sportsman; for a sportsman, though he
esteems only those of his sex who are sportsmen likewise, is not often
desirous of encouraging their taste by admitting them to a residence
within his own manor.

Mrs. Dashwood and her daughters were met at the door of the house by Sir
John, who welcomed them to Barton Park with unaffected sincerity; and as
he attended them to the drawingroom repeated to the young ladies the
concern which the same subject had drawn from him the day before, at
being unable to get any smart young men to meet them. They would see, he
said, only one gentleman there besides himself; a particular friend who
was staying at the Park, but who was neither very young nor very gay. He
hoped they would all excuse the smallness of the party, and could assure
them it should never happen so again. He had been to several families
that morning, in hopes of procuring some addition to their number, but
it was moonlight, and every body was full of engagements. Luckily Lady
Middleton's mother had arrived at Barton within the last hour; and as
she was a very cheerful, agreeable woman, be hoped the young ladies
would not find it so very dull as they might imagine. The young ladies,
as well as their mother, were perfectly satisfied with having two entire
strangers of the party, and wished for no more.

Mrs. Jennings, Lady Middleton's mother, was a good-humoured, merry, fat,
elderly woman, who talked a great deal, seemed very happy, and rather
vulgar. She was full of jokes and laughter, and before dinner was over,
had said many witty things on the subject of lovers and husbands; hoped
they had not left their hearts behind them in Sussex, and pretended to
see them blush whether they did or not. Marianne was vexed at it for her
sister's sake, and turned her eyes towards Elinor to see how she bore
these attacks, with an earnestness which gave Elinor far more pain than
could arise from such common-place raillery as Mrs. Jennings's.

Colonel Brandon, the friend of Sir John, seemed no more adapted by
resemblance of manner to be his friend, than Lady Middleton was to be
his wife, or Mrs. Jennings to be Lady Middleton's mother. He was silent
and grave. His appearance, however, was not unpleasing, in spite of his
being, in the opinion of Marianne and Margaret, an absolute old
bachelor, for he was on the wrong side of five-and-thirty; but though
his face was not handsome, his countenance was sensible, and his address
was particularly gentlemanlike.

There was nothing in any of the party which could recommend them as
companions to the Dashwoods; but the cold insipidity of Lady Middleton
was so particularly repulsive, that in comparison of it the gravity of
Colonel Brandon, and even the boisterous mirth of Sir John and his
mother-in-law, was interesting. Lady Middleton seemed to be roused to
enjoyment only by the entrance of her four noisy children after dinner,
who pulled her about, tore her clothes, and put an end to every kind of
discourse except what related to themselves.

In the evening, as Marianne was discovered to be musical, she was
invited to play. The instrument was unlocked, every body prepared to be
charmed, and Marianne, who sang very well, at their request went through
the chief of the songs which Lady Middleton had brought into the family
on her marriage, and which, perhaps, had lain ever since in the same
position on the piano-forte; for or ladyship had celebrated that event
by giving up music, although, by her mother's account, she had played
extremely well, and by her own was very fond of it.

Marianne's performance was highly applauded. Sir John was loud in his
admiration at the end of every song, and as loud in his conversation
with the others while every song lasted. Lady Middleton frequently
called him to order, wondered how any one's attention could be diverted
from music for a moment, and asked Marianne to sing a particular song
which Marianne had just finished. Colonel Brandon alone, of all the
party, heard her without being in raptures. He paid her only the
compliment of attention; and she felt a respect for him on the occasion,
which the others had reasonably forfeited by their shameless want of
taste. His pleasure in music, though it amounted not to that ecstatic
delight which alone could sympathise with her own, was estimable when
contrasted against the horrible insensibility of the others; and she was
reasonable enough to allow that a man of five-and-thirty might well have
outlived all acuteness of feeling, and every exquisite power of
enjoyment. She was perfectly disposed to make every allowance for the
colonel's advanced state of life which humanity required.

                      CHAPTER VIII


MRS. JENNINGS was a widow with an ample jointure. She had only two
daughters, both of whom she had lived to see respectably married, and
she had now, therefore, nothing to do but to marry all the rest of the
world. In the promotion of this object she was zealously active, as far
as her ability reached; and missed no opportunity of projecting weddings
among all the young people of her acquaintance. She was remarkably quick
in the discovery of attachments, and had enjoyed the advantage of
raising the blushes and the vanity of many a young lady by insinuations
of her power over such a young man; and this kind of discernment enabled
her, soon after her arrival at Barton, decisively to pronounce that
Colonel Brandon was very much in love with Marianne Dashwood. She rather
suspected it to be so, on the very first evening of their being
together, from his listening so attentively while she sang to them; and
when the visit was returned by the Middletons dining at the cottage, the
fact was ascertained by his listening to her again. It must be so. She
was perfectly convinced of it. It would be an excellent match, for he
was rich, and she was handsome. Mrs. Jennings had been anxious to see
Colonel Brandon well married, ever since her connection with Sir John
first brought him to her knowledge; and she was always anxious to get a
good husband for every pretty girl.

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

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

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

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

"Did not you hear him complain of the rheumatism? and is not that the
commonest infirmity of declining life?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I have never mentioned it to her, but of course she must."

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

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

                      CHAPTER IX


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

Their visitors, except those from Barton Park, were not many; for, in
spite of Sir John's urgent entreaties that they would mix more in the
neighbourhood, and repeated assurances of his carriage being always at
their service, the independence of Mrs. Dashwood's spirit overcame the
wish of society for her children; and she was resolute in declining to
visit any family beyond the distance of a walk. There were but few who
could be so classed; and it was not all of them that were attainable.
About a mile and a half from the cottage, along the narrow winding
valley of Allenham, which issued from that of Barton, as formerly
described, the girls had, in one of their earliest walks, discovered an
ancient respectable-looking mansion, which, by reminding them a little
of Norland, interested their imagination and made them wish to be better
acquainted with it. But they learnt, on enquiry, that its possessor, an
elderly lady of very good character, was unfortunately too infirm to mix
with the world, and never stirred from home.

The whole country about them abounded in beautiful walks. The high
downs, which invited them from almost every window of the cottage to
seek the exquisite enjoyment of air on their summits, were a happy
alternative when the dirt of the valleys beneath shut up their superior
beauties; and towards one of these hills did Marianne and Margaret one
memorable morning direct their steps, attracted by the partial sunshine
of a showery sky, and unable longer to bear the confinement which the
settled rain of the two preceding days had occasioned. The weather was
not tempting enough to draw the two others from their pencil and their
book, in spite of Marianne's declaration that the day would be lastingly
fair, and that every threatening cloud would be drawn off from their
hills; and the two girls set off together.

They gaily ascended the downs, rejoicing in their own penetration at
every glimpse of blue sky; and when they caught in their faces the
animating gales of a high southwesterly wind, they pitied the fears
which had prevented their mother and Elinor from sharing such delightful
sensations.

"Is there a felicity in the world," said Marianne, "superior to this?-
Margaret, we will walk here at least two hours."

Margaret agreed, and they pursued their way against the wind, resisting
it with laughing delight for about twenty minutes longer, when suddenly
the clouds united over their heads, and a driving rain set full in their
face. Chagrined and surprised, they were obliged, though unwillingly, to
turn back, for no shelter was nearer than their own house. One
consolation, however, remained for them, to which the exigence of the
moment gave more than usual propriety,- it was that of running with all
possible speed down the steep side of the hill which led immediately to
their garden gate.

They set off. Marianne had at first the advantage, but a false step
brought her suddenly to the ground; and Margaret, unable to stop herself
to assist her, was involuntarily hurried along, and reached the bottom
in safety.

A gentleman carrying a gun, with two pointers playing round him, was
passing up the hill, and within a few yards of Marianne, when her
accident happened. He put down his gun and ran to her assistance. She
had raised herself from the ground, but her foot had been twisted in her
fall, and she was scarcely able to stand. The gentleman offered his
services; and perceiving that her modesty declined what her situation
rendered necessary, took her up in his arms, without farther delay, and
carried her down the hill. Then passing through the garden, the gate of
which had been left open by Margaret, he bore her directly into the
house, whither Margaret was just arrived, and quitted not his hold till
he had seated her in a chair in the parlour.

Elinor and her mother rose up in amazement at their entrance; and while
the eyes of both were fixed on him with an evident wonder and a secret
admiration which equally sprung from his appearance, he apologised for
his intrusion by relating its cause, in a manner so frank and so
graceful that his person, which was uncommonly handsome, received
additional charms from his voice and expression. Had he been even old,
ugly, and vulgar, the gratitude and kindness of Mrs. Dashwood would have
been secured by an act of attention to her child; but the influence of
youth, beauty, and elegance, gave an interest to the action which came
home to her feelings.

She thanked him again and again; and, with a sweetness of address which
always attended her, invited him to be seated. But this he declined, as
he was dirty and wet. Mrs. Dashwood then begged to know to whom she was
obliged. His name, he replied, was Willoughby, and his present home was
at Allenham, from whence he hoped she would allow him the honour of
calling to-morrow to enquire after Miss Dashwood. The honour was readily
granted, and he then departed, to make himself still more interesting,
in the midst of a heavy rain.

His manly beauty and more than common gracefulness were instantly the
theme of general admiration; and the laugh which his gallantry raised
against Marianne received particular spirit from his exterior
attractions. Marianne herself had seen less of his person that the rest,
for the confusion which crimsoned over her face, on his lifting her up,
had robbed her of the power of regarding him after their entering the
house. But she bad seen enough of him to join in all the admiration of
the others, and with an energy which always adorned her praise. His
person and air were equal to what her fancy had ever drawn for the hero
of a favourite story; and in his carrying her into the house with so
little previous formality there was a rapidity of thought which
particularly recommended the action to her. Every circumstance belonging
to him was interesting. His name was good, his residence was in their
favourite village, and she soon found out that of all manly dresses a
shooting-jacket was the most becoming. Her imagination was busy, her
reflections were pleasant, and the pain of a sprained ankle was
disregarded.

Sir John called on them as soon as the next interval of fair weather
that morning allowed him to get out of doors; and Marianne's accident
being related to him, he was eagerly asked whether he knew any gentleman
of the name of Willoughby at Allenham.

"Willoughby!" cried Sir John; "what, is he in the country? That is good
news however? I will ride over to-morrow, and ask him to dinner on
Thursday."

"You know him, then," said Mrs. Dashwood.

"Know him? to be sure I do. Why, he is down here every year."

"And what sort of a young man is he?"

"As good a kind of fellow as ever lived, I assure you. A very decent
shot, and there is not a bolder rider in England."

"And is that all you can say for him?" cried Marianne, indignantly. "But
what are his manners on more intimate acquaintance? What his pursuits,
his talents, and genius?"

Sir John was rather puzzled.

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

But Marianne could no more satisfy him as to the colour of Mr.
Willoughby's pointer, than he could describe to her the shades of his
mind.

"But who is he?" said Elinor. "Where does he come from? Has he a house
at Allenham?"

On this point Sir John could give more certain intelligence; and he told
them that Mr. Willoughby had no property of his own in the country; that
he resided there only while he was visiting the old lady at Allenham
Court, to whom he was related, and whose possessions he was to inherit;
adding, "Yes, yes, he is very well worth catching I can tell you, Miss
Dashwood; he has a pretty little estate of his own, in Somersetshire
besides; and if I were you, I would not give him up to my younger
sister, in spite of all this tumbling down hills. Miss Marianne must not
expect to have all the men to herself. Brandon will be jealous, if she
does not take care."

"I do not believe," said Mrs. Dashwood, with a good-humoured smile,
"that Mr. Willoughby will be incommoded by the attempts of either of my
daughters, towards what you call catching him. It is not an employment
to which they have been brought up. Men are very safe with us, let them
be ever so rich. I am glad to find, however, from what you say, that he
is a respectable young man, and one whose acquaintance will not be
ineligible."

"He is as good a sort of fellow, I believe, as ever lived," repeated Sir
John. "I remember last Christmas, at a little hop at the Park, he danced
from eight o'clock till four without once sitting down."

"Did he, indeed?" cried Marianne, with sparkling eyes; "and with
elegance, with spirit?"

"Yes; and he was up again at eight to ride to covert."

"That is what I like; that is what a young man ought to be. Whatever be
his pursuits, his eagerness in them should know no moderation, and leave
him no sense of fatigue."

"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 common-place phrase by which wit is
intended; and 'setting one's cap at a man,' or 'making a conquest,' are
the most odious of all. Their tendency is gross and illiberal; and if
their construction could ever be deemed clever, time has long ago
destroyed all its ingenuity."

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

"Ay, you will make conquests enough, I dare say, one way or other. Poor
Brandon? he is quite smitten already; and he is very well worth setting
your cap at, I can tell you, in spite of all this tumbling about and
spraining of ankles."

                      CHAPTER X


MARIANNE'S preserver, as Margaret, with more elegance than precision,
styled Willoughby, called at the cottage early the next morning, to make
his personal enquiries. He was received by Mrs. Dashwood with more than
politeness; with a kindness which Sir John's account of him and her own
gratitude prompted; and every thing that passed during the visit tended
to assure him of the sense, elegance, mutual affection, and domestic
comfort of the family, to whom accident had now introduced him. Of their
personal charms he had not required a second interview to be convinced.

Miss Dashwood had a delicate complexion, regular features, and a
remarkably pretty figure. Marianne was still handsomer. Her form, though
not so correct as her sister's, in having the advantage of height, was
more striking; and her face was so lovely, that when, in the common cant
of praise, she was called a beautiful girl, truth was less violently
outraged than usually happens. Her skin was very brown, but, from its
transparency, her complexion was uncommonly brilliant; her features were
all good; her smile was sweet and attractive; and in her eyes, which
were very dark, there was a life, a spirit, an eagerness, which could
hardily be seen without delight. From Willoughby their expression was at
first held back, by the embarrassment which the remembrance of his
assistance created. But when this passed away, when her spirits became
collected, when she saw that to the perfect good breeding of the
gentleman, he united frankness and vivacity, and above all, when she
heard him declare, that of music and dancing he was passionately fond,
she gave him such a look of approbation, as secured the largest share of
his discourse to herself for the rest of his stay.

It was only necessary to mention any favourite amusement to engage her
to talk. She could not be silent when such points were introduced, and
she had neither shyness nor reserve in their discussion. They speedily
discovered that their enjoyment of dancing and music was mutual, and
that it arose from a general conformity of judgment in all that related
to either. Encouraged by this to a further examination of his opinions,
she proceeded to question him on the subject of books: her favourite
authors were brought forward and dwelt upon with so rapturous a delight,
that any young man of five-and-twenty must have been insensible indeed,
not to become an immediate convert to the excellence of such works,
however disregarded before. Their taste was strikingly alike. The same
books, the same passages were 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 of her eyes could be displayed. He
acquiesced in all her decisions, caught all her enthusiasm; and long
before his visit concluded, they conversed with the familiarity of a
long established acquaintance.

"Well, Marianne," said Elinor, as soon as he had left them, "for one
morning I think you have done pretty well. You have already ascertained
Mr. Willoughby's opinion in almost every matter of importance. You know
what he thinks of Cowper and Scott; you are certain of his estimating
their beauties as he ought, and you have received every assurance of his
admiring Pope no more than is proper. But how is your acquaintance to be
long supported, under such extraordinary despatch of every subject for
discourse? You will soon have exhausted each favourite topic. Another
meeting will suffice to explain his sentiments on picturesque beauty,
and second marriages, and then you can have nothing farther to ask."

"Elinor," cried Marianne, "is this fair? is this just? are my ideas so
scanty? But I see what you mean. I have been too much at my ease, too
happy, too frank. I have erred against every common-place notion of
decorum; I have been open and sincere where I ought to have been
reserved, spiritless, dull, and deceitful:- had I talked only of the
weather and the roads, and had I spoken only once in ten minutes, this
reproach would have been spared."

"My love," said her mother, "you must not be offended with Elinor- she
was only in jest. I should scold her myself, if she were capable of
wishing to check the delight of your conversation with our new friend."
Marianne was softened in a moment.

Willoughby, on his side, gave every proof of his pleasure in their
acquaintance, which an evident wish of improving it could offer. He came
to them every day. To enquire after Marianne was at first his excuse;
but the encouragement of his reception, to which every day gave greater
kindness, made such an excuse unnecessary before it had ceased to be
possible, by Marianne's perfect recovery. She was confined for some days
to the house; but never had any confinement been less irksome.
Willoughby was a young man of good abilities, quick imagination, lively
spirits, and open, affectionate manners. He was exactly formed to engage
Marianne's heart; for with all this, he joined not only a captivating
person, but a natural ardour of mind which was now roused and increased
by the example of her own, and which recommended him to her affection
beyond everything else.

His society became gradually her most exquisite enjoyment. They read,
they talked, they sang together; his musical talents were considerable;
and he read with all the sensibility and spirit which Edward had
unfortunately wanted.

In Mrs. Dashwood's estimation he was as faultless as in Marianne's; and
Elinor saw nothing to censure in him but a propensity, in which he
strongly resembled and peculiarly delighted her sister, of saying too
much what he thought on every occasion, without attention to persons or
circumstances. In hastily forming and giving his opinion of other
people, in sacrificing general politeness to the enjoyment of undivided
attention where his heart was engaged, and in slighting too easily the
forms of worldly propriety, he displayed a want of caution which Elinor
could not approve, in spite of all that he and Marianne could say in its
support.

Marianne began now to perceive that the desperation which bad seized her
at sixteen and a half, of ever seeing a man who could satisfy her ideas
of perfection, had been rash and unjustifiable. Willoughby was all that
her fancy had delineated in that unhappy hour, and in every brighter
period, as capable of attaching her; and his behaviour declared his
wishes to be in that respect as earnest as his abilities were strong.

Her mother, too, in whose mind not one speculative thought of their
marriage had been raised, by his prospect of riches, was led before the
end of a week to hope and expect it; and secretly to congratulate
herself on having gained two such sons-in-law as Edward and Willoughby.

Colonel Brandon's partiality for Marianne, which had so early been
discovered by his friends, now first became perceptible to Elinor, when
it ceased to be noticed by them. Their attention and wit were drawn off
to his more fortunate rival; and the raillery which the other had
incurred before any partiality arose was removed when his feelings began
really to call for the ridicule so justly annexed to sensibility. Elinor
was obliged, though unwillingly, to believe that the sentiments which
Mrs. Jennings had assigned him for her own satisfaction were now
actually excited by her sister; and that however a general resemblance
of disposition between the parties might forward the affection of Mr.
Willoughby, an equally striking opposition of character was no hindrance
to the regard of Colonel Brandon. She saw it with concern; for what
could a silent man of five-and-thirty hope, when opposed to a very
lively one of five-and-twenty? and as she could not even wish him
successful, she heartily wished him indifferent. She liked him- in spite
of his gravity and reserve, she beheld in him an object of interest. His
manners, though serious, were mild; and his reserve appeared rather the
result of some oppression of spirits than of any natural gloominess of
temper. Sir John had dropped hints of past injuries and disappointments,
which justified her belief of his being an unfortunate man, and she
regarded him with respect and compassion.

Perhaps she pitied and esteemed him the more because he was slighted by
Willoughby and Marianne, who, prejudiced against him for being neither
lively nor young, seemed resolved to undervalue his merits.

"Brandon is just the kind of man," said Willoughby one day, when they
were talking of him together, "whom every body speaks well of and nobody
cares about; whom all are delighted to see, and nobody remembers to talk
to."

"That is exactly what I think of him," cried Marianne.

"Do not boast of it, however," said Elinor, "for it is injustice in both
of you. He is highly esteemed by all the family at the Park, and I never
see him myself without taking pains to converse with him."

"That he is patronised by you," replied Willoughby, "is certainly in his
favour; but as for the esteem of the others, it is a reproach in itself.
Who would submit to the indignity of being approved by such a woman as
Lady Middleton and Mrs. Jennings, that could command the indifference of
any body else?"

"But perhaps the abuse of such people as yourself and Marianne will make
amends for the regard of Lady Middleton and her mother. If their praise
is censure, your censure may be praise, for they are not more
undiscerning, than you are prejudiced and unjust."

"In defence of your protege you can even be saucy."

"My protege, as you call him, is a sensible man; and sense will always
have attractions for me. Yes, Marianne, even in a man between thirty and
forty. He has seen a great deal of the world; has been abroad, has read,
and has a thinking mind. I have found him capable of giving me much
information on various subjects; and he has always answered my enquiries
with readiness of good breeding and good nature."

"That is to say," cried Marianne contemptuously, "he has told you, that
in the East Indies the climate is hot, and the mosquitoes are
troublesome."

"He would have told me so, I doubt not, had I made any such 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 palanquins."

"I may venture to say that his observations have stretched much further
than your candour. But why should you dislike him?"

"I do not dislike him. I consider him, on the contrary as a very
respectable man, who has every body's good word, and nobody's notice;
who, has more money than he can spend, more time than he knows how to
employ, and two new coats every year."

"Add to which," cried Marianne, "that he has neither genius, taste, nor
spirit. That his understanding has no brilliancy, his feelings ardour,
and his voice no expression."

"You decide on his imperfections so much in the mass," replied Elinor,
"and so much on the strength of your own imagination, that the
commendation I am able to give of him is comparatively cold and insipid.
I can only pronounce him to be a sensible man, well-bred, well-informed,
of gentle address, and, I believe, possessing an amiable heart."

"Miss Dashwood," cried Willoughby, "you are now using me unkindly. You
are endeavouring to disarm me by reason, and to convince me against my
will. But it will not do. You shall find me as stubborn as you can be
artful. I have three unanswerable reasons for disliking Colonel Brandon;
he threatened me with rain when I wanted it to be fine; he has found
fault with the hanging of my curricle, and I cannot persuade him to buy
my brown mare. If it will be any satisfaction to you, however, to be
told, that I believe his character to be in other respects
irreproachable, I am ready to confess it. And in return for an
acknowledgment, which must give me some pain, you cannot deny me the
privilege of disliking him as much as ever."

                      CHAPTER XI


LITTLE had Mrs. Dashwood or her daughters imagined, when they first came
into Devonshire, that so many engagements would arise to occupy their
time as shortly presented themselves, or that they should have such
frequent invitations and such constant visitors as to leave them little
leisure for serious employment. Yet such was the case. When Marianne was
recovered, the schemes of amusement at home and abroad, which Sir John
had been previously forming, were put into execution. The private balls
at the Park then began and parties on the water were made and
accomplished as often as a showery October would allow. In every meeting
of the kind Willoughby was included; and the ease and familiarity which
naturally attended these parties were exactly calculated to give
increasing intimacy to his acquaintance with the Dashwoods, to afford
him opportunity of witnessing the excellencies of Marianne, of marking
his animated admiration of her, and of receiving, in her behaviour to
himself, the most pointed assurance of her affection.

Elinor could not be surprised at their attachment. She only wished that
it were less openly shown; and once or twice did venture to suggest the
propriety of some self-command to Marianne. But Marianne abhorred all
concealment where no real disgrace could attend unreserve; and to aim at
the restraint of sentiments which were not in themselves illaudable,
appeared to her not merely an unnecessary effort, but a disgraceful
subjection of reason to common-place and mistaken notions. Willoughby
thought the same; and their behaviour at all times, was an illustration
of their opinions.

When he was present she had no eyes for any one else. Every thing he did
was right. Every thing he said was clever. If their evenings at the Park
were concluded with cards, he cheated himself and all the rest of the
party to get her a good hand. If dancing formed the amusement of the
night, they were partners for half the time; and when obliged to
separate for a couple of dances, were careful to stand together, and
scarcely spoke a word to any body else. Such conduct made them, of
course, most exceedingly laughed at; but ridicule could not shame, and
seemed hardly to provoke them.

Mrs. Dashwood entered into all their feelings with a warmth which left
her no inclination for checking this excessive display of them. To her
it was but the natural consequence of a strong affection in a young and
ardent mind.

This was the season of happiness to Marianne. Her heart was devoted to
Willoughby; and the fond attachment to Norland, which she brought with
her from Sussex, was more likely to be softened than she had thought it
possible before by the charms which his society bestowed on her present
home.

Elinor's happiness was not so great. Her heart was not so much at ease,
nor her satisfaction in their amusements so pure. They afforded her no
companion that could make amends for what she had left behind, nor that
could teach her to think of Norland with less regret than ever. Neither
Lady Middleton nor Mrs. Jennings could supply to her the conversation
she missed; although the latter was an everlasting talker, and from the
first had regarded her with a kindness which ensured her a large share
of her discourse. She had already repeated her own history to Elinor
three or four times! and had Elinor's memory been equal to her means of
improvement, she might have known, very early in her acquaintance, all
the particulars of Mr. Jenning's last illness, and what he said to his
wife a few minutes before he died. Lady Middleton was more agreeable
than her mother only in being more silent. Elinor needed little
observation to perceive that her reserve was a mere calmness of manner,
with which sense had nothing to do. Towards her husband and mother she
was the same as to them; and intimacy was, therefore, neither to be
looked for nor desired. She had nothing to say one day that she had not
said the day before. Her insipidity was invariable, for even her spirits
were always the same; and though she did not oppose the parties arranged
by her husband, provided everything were conducted in style, and her two
eldest children attended her, she never appeared to receive more
enjoyment from them than she might have experienced in sitting at home;
and so little did her presence add to the pleasure of the others, by any
share in their conversation, that they were sometimes only reminded of
her being amongst them by her solicitude about her troublesome boys.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                      CHAPTER XII


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                      CHAPTER XIII


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

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

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

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

Nobody could tell.

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

In about five minutes he returned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No, indeed, it is not."

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

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

"Oh! you know who I mean."

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

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

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

What a blow upon them all was this!

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

He shook his head.

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

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

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

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

"I cannot afford to lose one hour."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Colonel Brandon's horses were announced.

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

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

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

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

He then took leave of the whole party.

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

"I am afraid, none at all."

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

To Marianne, he merely bowed and said nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And who is Miss Williams?" asked Marianne.

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

"Indeed!"

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

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

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

Marianne coloured, and replied very hastily, "Where, pray."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                      CHAPTER XIV


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                      CHAPTER XV


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

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

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

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

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

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

"Almost this moment."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He stopt. Mrs. Dashwood was too much astonished to speak, and another
pause succeeded. This was broken by Willoughby, who said, with a faint
smile, "It is folly to linger in this manner. I will not torment myself
any longer by remaining among friends whose society it is impossible for
me now to enjoy."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Can you, indeed!"

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

"Nothing, for you have anticipated my answer."

"Then you would have told me, that it might or might not have happened.
Oh, Elinor, how incomprehensible are your feelings! You had rather take
evil upon credit than good. You had rather look out for misery for
Marianne, and guilt for poor Willoughby, than an apology for the latter.
You are resolved to think him blamable, because be took leave of us with
less affection than his usual behaviour has shown. And is no allowance
to be made for inadvertence, or for spirits depressed by recent
disappointment? Are no probabilities to be accepted, merely because they
are not certainties? Is no thing due to the man whom we have all such
reason to love, and no reason in the world to think ill of? To the
possibility of motives unanswerable in themselves, though unavoidably
secret for a while? And, after all, what is it you suspect him of?"

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

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

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

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

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

"I am perfectly satisfied of both."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                      CHAPTER XVI


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I was at Norland about a month ago."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                      CHAPTER XVII


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You have not been able, 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 gentility!"

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

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

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

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

"Yes, very."

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

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

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

                      CHAPTER XVIII


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

He joined her and Marianne in the breakfast-room the next morning before
the others were down; and Marianne, who was always eager to promote
their happiness as far as she could, soon left them to themselves. But
before she was half way 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 be, "as you are not
yet ready for breakfast; I shall be back again presently."


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What do you mean?"

"Shall I tell you."

"Certainly."

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

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

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

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

                      CHAPTER XIX


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Such behaviour as this, so exactly the reverse of her own, appeared no
more meritorious to Marianne, than her own had seemed faulty to her. The
business of self-command she settled very easily:- with strong
affections it was impossible, with calm ones it could have no merit.
That her sister's affections were calm, she dared not deny, though she
blushed to acknowledge it; and of the strength of her own, she gave a
very striking proof, by still loving and respecting that sister, in
spite of this mortifying conviction.

Without shutting herself up from her family, or leaving the house in
determined solitude to avoid them, or lying awake the whole night to
indulge meditation, Elinor found every day afforded her leisure enough
to think of Edward, and of Edward's behaviour, in every possible variety
which the different state of her spirits at different times could
produce,- with tenderness, pity, approbation, censure, and doubt. There
were moments in abundance, when, if not by the absence of her mother and
sisters, at least, by the nature of their employments, conversation was
forbidden among them, and every effect of solitude was produced. Her
mind was inevitably at liberty; her thoughts could not be chained
elsewhere; and the past and the future, on a subject so interesting,
must be before her, must force her attention, and engross her memory,
her reflection, and her fancy.

From a reverie of this kind, as she sat at her drawing-table, she was
roused one morning, soon after Edward's leaving them, by the arrival of
company. She happened to be quite alone. The closing of the little gate,
at the entrance of the green court in front of the house, drew her eyes
to the window, and she saw a large party walking up to the door. Amongst
them were Sir John and Lady Middleton, and Mrs. Jennings, but there were
two others, a gentleman and lady, who were quite unknown to her. She was
sitting near the window; and as soon as Sir John perceived her, he left
the rest of the party to the ceremony of knocking at the door, and
stepping across the turf, obliged her to open the casement to speak to
him, though the space was so short between the door and the window as to
make it hardly possible to speak at one without being heard at the
other.

"Well," said he, "we have brought you some strangers. How do you like
them?"

"Hush! they will hear you."

"Never mind if they do. It is only the Palmers. Charlotte is very
pretty, I can tell you. You may see her if you look this way."

As Elinor was certain of seeing her in a couple of minutes, without
taking that liberty, she begged to be excused.

"Where is Marianne? Has she run away because we are come? I see her
instrument is open."

"She is walking, I believe."

They were now joined by Mrs. Jennings, who had not patience enough to
wait till the door was opened before she told her story. She came
hallooing to the window, "How do you do, my dear? How does Mrs. Dashwood
do? And where are your sisters? What! all alone! you will be glad of a
little company to sit with you. I have brought my other son and daughter
to see you. Only think of their coming so suddenly! I thought I heard a
carriage last night, while we were drinking our tea, but it never
entered my head that it could be them. I thought of nothing but whether
it might not be Colonel Brandon come back again; so I said to Sir John,
I do think I hear a carriage; perhaps it is Colonel Brandon come back
again-"

Elinor was obliged to turn from her, in the middle of her story, to
receive the rest of the party: Lady Middleton introduced the two
strangers; Mrs. Dashwood and Margaret came down stairs at the same time,
and they all sat down to look at one another, while Mrs. Jennings
continued her story as she walked through the passage into the parlour,
attended by Sir John.

Mrs. Palmer was several years younger than Lady Middleton, and totally
unlike her in every respect. She was short and plump, had a very pretty
face, and the finest expression of good humour in it that could possibly
be. Her manners were by no means so elegant as her sister's, but they
were much more prepossessing. She came in with a smile, smiled all the
time of her visit, except when she laughed, and smiled when she went
away. Her husband was a grave looking young man of five or six and
twenty, with an air of more fashion and sense than his wife, but of less
willingness to please or be pleased. He entered the room with a look of
self-consequence, slightly bowed to the ladies, without speaking a word,
and, after briefly surveying them and their apartments, took up a
newspaper from the table, and continued to read it as long as he stayed.

Mrs. Palmer, on the contrary, who was strongly endowed by nature with a
turn for being uniformly civil and happy, was hardly seated before her
admiration of the parlour and everything in it burst forth.

"Well! what a delightful room this is! I never saw anything so charming!
Only think, mamma, how it is improved since I was here last! I always
thought it such a sweet place, ma'am! (turning to Mrs. Dashwood) but you
have made it so charming! Only look, sister, how delightful everything
is! How I should like such a house for myself! Should not you, Mr.
Palmer?"

Mr. Palmer made her no answer, and did not even raise his eyes from the
newspaper.

"Mr. Palmer does not hear me," said she, laughing; "he never does
sometimes. It is so ridiculous!"

This was quite a new idea to Mrs. Dashwood; she had never been used to
find wit in the inattention of any one, and could not help looking with
surprise at them both.

Mrs. Jennings, in the meantime, talked on as loud as she could, and
continued her account of their surprise, the evening before, on seeing
their friends, without ceasing till everything was told. Mrs. Palmer
laughed heartily at the recollection of their astonishment, and
everybody agreed, two or three times over, that it had been quite an
agreeable surprise.

"You may believe how glad we all were to see them," added Mrs. Jennings,
leaning forward towards Elinor, and speaking in a low voice, as if she
meant to be heard by no one else, though they were seated on different
sides of the room; "but, however, I can't help wishing they had not
travelled quite so fast, nor made such a long journey of it, for they
came all round by London upon account of some business, for you know
(nodding significantly and pointing to her daughter) it was wrong in her
situation. I wanted her to stay at home and rest this morning, but she
would come with us; she longed so much to see you all?"

Mrs. Palmer laughed, and said it would not do her any harm.

"She expects to be confined in February," continued Mrs. Jennings.

Lady Middleton could no longer endure such a conversation, and therefore
exerted herself to ask Mr. Palmer if there was any news in the paper.

"No, none at all," he replied, and read on.

"Here comes Marianne," cried Sir John. "Now, Palmer, you shall see a
monstrous pretty girl."

He immediately went into the passage, opened the front door, and ushered
her in himself. Mrs. Jennings asked her, as soon as she appeared, if she
had not been to Allenham; and Mrs. Palmer laughed so heartily at the
question, as to show she understood it. Mr. Palmer looked up on her
entering the room, stared at her some minutes, and then returned to his
newspaper. Mrs. Palmer's eye was now caught by the drawings which hung
round the room. She got up to examine them.

"Oh dear, how beautiful these are! Well, how delightful! Do but look,
mamma, how sweet! I declare they are quite charming; I could look at
them for ever." And then sitting down again, she very soon forgot that
there were any such things in the room.

When Lady Middleton rose to go away, Mr. Palmer rose also, laid down the
newspaper, stretched himself and looked at them all around.

"My love, have you been asleep?" said his wife, laughing.

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

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

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

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