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                      CHAPTER XX


AS the Misses Dashwood entered the drawing room of the Park the next
day, at one door, Mrs. Palmer came running in at the other, looking as
good humoured and merry as before. She took them all most affectionately
by the hand, and expressed great delight in seeing them again.

"I am so glad to see you!" said she, seating herself between Elinor and
Marianne; "for it is so bad a day I was afraid you might not come, which
would be a shocking thing, as we go away again to-morrow. We must go,
for the Westons come to us next week, you know. It was quite a sudden
thing our coming at all; and I knew nothing of it till the carriage was
coming to the door, and then Mr. Palmer asked me if I would go with him
to Barton. He is so droll! He never tells me any thing! I am so sorry we
cannot stay longer; however we shall meet again in town very soon, I
hope."

They were obliged to put an end to such an expectation.

"Not go to town!" cried Mrs. Palmer, with a laugh; "I shall be quite
disappointed if you do not. I could get the nicest house in world for
you, next door to ours, in Hanover Square. You must come, indeed. I am
sure I shall be very happy to chaperon you at any time till I am
confined, if Mrs. Dashwood should not like to go into public."

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

"Oh, my love," cried Mrs. Palmer to her husband, who just then entered
the room, "you must help me to persuade the Misses Dashwood to go to
town this winter."

Her love made no answer; and after slightly bowing to the ladies, began
complaining of the weather.

"How horrid all this is!" said he. "Such weather makes everything and
everybody disgusting. Dullness is as much produced within doors as
without, by rain. It makes one detest all one's acquaintance. What the
devil does Sir John mean by not having a billiard room in his house? How
few people know what comfort is! Sir John is as stupid as the weather."

The rest of the company soon dropped in.

"I am afraid, Miss Marianne," said Sir John, "you have not been able to
take your usual walk to Allenham to-day."

Marianne looked very grave, and said nothing.

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

"Much nearer thirty," said her husband.

"Ah, well! there is not much difference. I never was at his house; but
they say it is a sweet, pretty place."

"As vile a spot as I ever saw in my life," said Mr. Palmer.

Marianne remained perfectly silent, though her countenance betrayed her
interest in what was said.

"Is it very ugly?" continued Mrs. Palmer;- "then it must be some other
place that is so pretty, I suppose."

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

"My dear," said he to his lady, "it is very provoking that we should be
so few. Why did not you ask the Gilberts to come to us to-day?"

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

"You and I, Sir John," said Mrs. Jennings, "should not stand upon such
ceremony."

"Then you would be very ill-bred," cried Mr. Palmer.

"My love you contradict everybody," said his wife with her usual laugh.
"Do you know that you are quite rude?"

"I did not know I contradicted anybody in calling your mother ill-bred."

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

Charlotte laughed heartily to think that her husband could not get rid
of her; and exultingly said, she did not care how cross he was to her,
as they must live together. It was impossible for any one to be more
thoroughly good-natured, or more determined to be happy, than Mrs.
Palmer. The studied indifference, insolence, and discontent of her
husband gave her no pain; and when he scolded or abused her, she was
highly diverted.

"Mr. Palmer is so droll!" said she, in a whisper, to Elinor. "He is
always out of humour."

Elinor was not inclined, after a little observation, to give him credit
for being so genuinely and unaffectedly ill-natured or ill-bred as he
wished to appear. His temper might perhaps be a little soured by
finding, like many others of his sex, that through some unaccountable
bias in favour of beauty, he was the husband of a very silly woman,- but
she knew that this kind of blunder was too common for any sensible man
to be lastingly hurt by it. It was rather a wish of distinction, she
believed, which produced his contemptuous treatment of everybody, and
his general abuse of everything before him. It was the desire of
appearing superior to other people. The motive was too common to be
wondered at; but the means, however they might succeed by establishing
his superiority in ill-breeding, were not likely to attach any one to
him except his wife.

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

"Certainly," he replied, with a sneer; "I came into Devonshire with no
other view."

"There now," said his lady, "you see Mr. Palmer expects you; so you
cannot refuse to come."

They both eagerly and resolutely declined her invitation.

"But indeed you must and shall come. I am sure you will like it of all
things. The Westons will be with us, and it will be quite delightful.
You cannot think what a sweet place Cleveland is; and we are so gay now,
for Mr. Palmer is always going about the country canvassing against the
election; and so many people came to dine with us that I never saw
before, it is quite charming! But, poor fellow! it is very fatiguing to
him, for he is forced to make every body like him."

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

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

Mr. Palmer took no notice of her.

"He cannot bear writing, you know," she continued; "he says it is quite
shocking."

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

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

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

"Certainly," said Elinor; "he seems very agreeable."

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

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

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

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

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

"My dear Mrs. Palmer!"

"Upon my honour I did. I met Colonel Brandon Monday morning in Bond
Street, just before we left town, and he told me of it directly."

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

"But I do assure you it was so, for all that, and I will tell you how it
happened. When we met him, he turned back and walked with us; and so we
began talking of my brother and sister, and one thing and another, and I
said to him, 'So, Colonel, there is a new family come to Barton cottage,
I hear, and mamma sends me word they are very pretty, and that one of
them is going to be married to Mr. Willoughby of Combe Magna. Is it
true, pray? for of course you must know, as you have been in Devonshire
so lately.'"

"And what did the Colonel say?"

"Oh, he did not say much; but he looked as if he knew it to be true, so
from that moment I set it down as certain. It will be quite delightful,
I declare. When is it to take place?"

"Mr. Brandon was very well, I hope?"

"Oh, yes, quite well; and so full of your praises, he did nothing but
say fine things of you."

"I am flattered by his commendation. He seems an excellent man; and I
think him uncommonly pleasing."

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

"Is Mr. Willoughby much known in your part of Somersetshire?" said
Elinor.

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

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

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

"You have been long acquainted with Colonel Brandon, have not you?"

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

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

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

                      CHAPTER XXI


THE Palmers returned to Cleveland the next day, and the two families at
Barton were again left to entertain each other. But this did not last
long; Elinor had hardly got their last visitors out of her head,- had
hardly done wondering at Charlotte's being so happy without a cause, at
Mr. Palmer's acting so simply, with good abilities, and at the strange
unsuitableness which often existed between husband and wife,- before Sir
John's and Mrs. Jennings's active zeal in the cause of society procured
her some other new acquaintance to see and observe.

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

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

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

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

When their promised visit to the Park, and consequent introduction to
these young ladies, took place, they found in the appearance of the
eldest, who was nearly thirty, with a very plain and not a sensible
face, nothing to admire; but in the other, who was not more than two or
three and twenty, they acknowledged considerable beauty: her features
were pretty, and she had a sharp quick eye, and a smartness of air,
which, though it did not give actual elegance or grace, gave distinction
to her person. Their manners were particularly civil, and Elinor soon
allowed them credit for some kind of sense, when she saw with what
constant and judicious attention they were making themselves agreeable
to Lady Middleton. With her children they were in continual raptures,
extolling their beauty, courting their notice, and humouring their
whims; and such of their time as could be spared from the importunate
demands which this politeness made on it was spent in admiration of
whatever her Ladyship was doing, if she happened to be doing anything,
or in taking patterns of some elegant new dress, in which her appearance
the day before had thrown them into unceasing delight. Fortunately for
those who pay their court through such foibles, a fond mother, though,
in pursuit of praise for her children, the most rapacious of human
beings, is likewise the most credulous: her demands are exorbitant; but
she will swallow any thing; and the excessive affection and endurance of
the Misses Steele towards her offspring were viewed, therefore, by Lady
Middleton without the smallest surprise or distrust. She saw with
maternal complacency all the impertinent encroachments and mischievous
tricks to which her cousins submitted. She saw their sashes untied,
their hair pulled about their ears, their work-bags searched, and their
knives and scissors stolen away, and felt no doubt of its being a
reciprocal enjoyment. It suggested no other surprise than that Elinor
and Marianne should sit so composedly by, without claiming a share in
what was passing.

"John is in such spirits to-day!" said she, on his taking Miss Steele's
pocket handkerchief, and throwing it out of window- "he is full of
monkey tricks."

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

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

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

"Poor little creatures!" said Miss Steele, as soon as they were gone;
"it might have been a very sad accident."

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

"What a sweet woman Lady Middleton is!" said Lucy Steele.

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

"And Sir John, too," cried the elder sister, "what a charming man he
is!"

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

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

"I should guess so," said Elinor, with a smile, "from what I have
witnessed this morning."

"I have a notion," said Lucy, "you think the little Middletons rather
too much indulged; perhaps they may be the outside of enough; but it is
so natural in Lady Middleton; and, for my part, I love to see children
full of life and spirits; I cannot bear them if they are tame and
quiet."

"I confess," replied Elinor, "that while I am at Barton Park I never
think of tame and quiet children with any abhorrence."

A short pause succeeded this speech, which was first broken by Miss
Steele, who seemed very much disposed for conversation, and who now
said, rather abruptly, "And how do you like Devonshire, Miss Dashwood? I
suppose you were very sorry to leave Sussex."

In some surprise at the familiarity of this question, or at least of the
manner in which it was spoken, Elinor replied that she was.

"Norland is a prodigious beautiful place, is not it?" added Miss Steele.

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

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

"And had you a great many smart beaux there? I suppose you have not so
many in this part of the world. For my part, I think they are a vast
addition always."

"But why should you think," said Lucy, looking ashamed of her sister,
"that there are not as many genteel young men in Devonshire as Sussex?"

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

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

"Oh, dear! one never thinks of married men's being beaux- they have
something else to do."

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

This specimen of the Misses Steele was enough. The vulgar freedom and
folly of the eldest left her no recommendation; and as Elinor was not
blinded by the beauty, or the shrewd look of the youngest, to her want
of real elegance and artlessness, she left the house without any wish of
knowing them better.

Not so the Misses Steele. They came from Exeter well provided with
admiration for the use of Sir John Middleton, his family, and all his
relations; and no niggardly proportion was now dealt out to his fair
cousins, whom they declared to be the most beautiful, elegant,
accomplished, and agreeable girls they had ever beheld, and with whom
they were particularly anxious to be better acquainted. And to be better
acquainted, therefore, Elinor soon found was their inevitable lot; for
as Sir Jack was entirely on the side of the Misses Steele, their party
would be too strong for opposition, and that kind of intimacy must be
submitted to, which consists of sitting an hour or two together in the
same room almost every day. Sir John could do no more; but he did not
know that any more was required: to be together was, in his opinion, to
be intimate; and while his continual schemes for their meeting were
effectual, he had not a doubt of their being established friends.

To do him justice, he did every thing in his power to promote their
unreserve, by making the Misses Steele acquainted with whatever he knew
or supposed of his cousins' situations in the most delicate particulars;
and Elinor had not seen them more than twice, before the eldest of them
wished her joy on her sister's having been so lucky as to make a
conquest of a very smart beau since she came to Barton.

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

Elinor could not suppose that Sir John would be more nice in proclaiming
his suspicions of her regard for Edward, than he had been with respect
to Marianne; indeed it was rather his favourite joke of the two, as
being somewhat newer and more conjectual; and since Edward's visit, they
had never dined together without his drinking to her best affections
with so much significancy and so many nods and winks, as to excite
general attention. The letter F had been likewise invariably brought
forward, and found productive of such countless jokes, that its
character, as the wittiest letter in the alphabet, had been long
established with Elinor.

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

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

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

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

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

                      CHAPTER XXII


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

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

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

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

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

"No," returned Elinor, cautious of giving her real opinion of Edward's
mother, and not very desirious of satisfying what seemed impertinent
curiosity; "I know nothing of her."

"I am sure you think me very strange, for enquiring about her in such a
way," said Lucy, eyeing Elinor attentively as she spoke; "but perhaps
there may be reasons- I wish I might venture; but, however, I hope you
will do me the justice of believing that I do not mean to be
impertinent."

Elinor made her a civil reply, and they walked on for a few minutes in
silence. It was broken by Lucy, who renewed the subject again by saying,
with some hesitation,-

"I cannot bear to have you think me impertinently curious. I am sure I
would rather do any thing in the world than be thought so by a person
whose good opinion is so well worth having as yours. And I am sure I
should not have the smallest fear of trusting you; indeed, I should be
very glad of your advice how to manage in such and uncomfortable
situation as I am; but, however, there is no occasion to trouble you. I
am sorry you do not happen to know Mrs. Ferrars."

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

"I dare say you are, and I am sure I do not at all wonder at it. But if
I dared tell you all, you would not be so much surprised. Mrs. Ferrars
is certainly nothing to me at present; but the time may come- how soon
it will come must depend upon herself- when we may be very intimately
connected."

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

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

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

What felt Elinor at that moment? Astonishment, that would have been as
painful as it was strong, had not an immediate disbelief of the
assertion attended it. She turned towards Lucy in silent amazement,
unable to divine the reason or object of such a declaration; and though
her complexion varied, she stood firm in incredulity, and felt in no
danger of an hysterical fit or a swoon.

"You may well be surprised," continued Lucy; "for to be sure you could
have had no idea of it before; for I dare say he never dropped the
smallest hint of it to you or any of your family; because it was always
meant to be a great secret, and I am sure has been faithfully kept so by
me to this hour. Not a soul of all my relations know of it but Anne, and
I never should have mentioned it to you, if I had not felt the greatest
dependence in the world upon your secrecy; and I really thought my
behaviour in asking so many questions about Mrs. Ferrars must seem so
odd, that it ought to be explained. And I do not think Mr. Ferrars can
be displeased, when he knows I have trusted you, because I know he has
the highest opinion in the world of all your family, and looks upon
yourself and the other Misses Dashwood quite as his own sisters." She
paused.

Elinor for a few moments remained silent. Her astonishment at what she
heard was at first too great for words; but at length forcing herself to
speak, and to speak cautiously, she said, with calmness of manner which
tolerably well concealed her surprise and solicitude,- "May I ask if
your engagement is of long standing?"

"We have been engaged these four years."

"Four years!"

"Yes."

Elinor, though greatly shocked, still felt unable to believe it.

"I did not know," said she, "that you were even acquainted till the
other day."

"Our acquaintance, however, is of many years' date. He was under my
uncle's care, you know, a considerable while."

"Your uncle!"

"Yes; Mr. Pratt. Did you never hear him talk of Mr. Pratt?"

"I think I have," replied Elinor, with an exertion of spirits, which
increased with her increase of emotion.

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

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

"We can mean no other," cried Lucy, smiling. "Mr. Edward Ferrars, the
eldest son of Mrs. Ferrars, of Park Street, and brother of your
sister-in-law, Mrs. John Dashwood is the person I mean; you must allow
that I am not likely to be deceived as to the name of the man on whom
all my happiness depends."

"It is strange," replied Elinor, in a most painful perplexity, "that I
should never have heard him even mention your name."

"No; considering our situation, it was not strange. Our first care has
been to keep the matter secret. You knew nothing of me, or my family,
and, therefore, there could be no occasion for ever mentioning my name
to you; and, as he was always particularly afraid of his sister's
suspecting any thing, that was reason enough for his not mentioning it."

She was silent. Elinor's security sunk; but her self-command did not
sink with it.

"Four years you have been engaged," said she, with a firm voice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Sometimes." continued Lucy, after wiping her eyes, "I think whether it
would not be better for us both to break off the matter entirely." As
she said this, she looked directly at her companion. "But then, at other
times, I have not resolution enough for it. I cannot bear the thoughts
of making him so miserable, as I know the very mention of such a thing
would do. And on my own account too- so dear as he is to me- I don't
think I could be equal to it. What would you advise me to do in such a
case, Miss Dashwood? What would you do yourself?"

"Pardon me," replied Elinor, startled by the question; "but I can give
you no advice under such circumstances. Your own judgment must direct
you."

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

"Did he come from your uncle's, then, when he visited us?"

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

"No," replied Elinor, most feelingly sensible of every fresh
circumstance in favour of Lucy's veracity; "I remember he told us, that
he had been staying a fortnight with some friends near Plymouth." She
remembered, too, her own surprise at the time, at his mentioning nothing
farther of those friends, at his total silence with respect even to
their names.

"Did not you think him sadly out of spirits?" repeated Lucy.

"We did, indeed, particularly so when he first arrived."

"I begged him to exert himself for fear you should suspect what was the
matter; but it made him so melancholy, not being able to stay more than
a fortnight with us, but it with us, and seeing me so much affected.
Poor fellow! I am afraid it is just the same with him how; for he writes
in wretched spirits. I heard from him just before I left Exeter;" taking
a letter from her pocket, and carelessly showing the direction to
Elinor. "You know his hand, I dare say,- a charming one it is; but that
is not written so well as usual. He was tired, I dare say, for he had
just filled the sheet to me as full as possible."

Elinor saw that it was his hand, and she could doubt no longer. This
picture, she had allowed herself to believe, might have been
accidentally obtained; it might not have been Edward's gift; but a
correspondence between them by letter could subsist only under a
positive engagement, could be authorised by nothing else: for a few
moments she was almost overcome- her heart sunk within her, and she
could hardly stand; but exertion was indispensably necessary; and she
struggled so resolutely against the oppression of her feelings, that her
success was speedy, and for the time complete.

"Writing to each other," said Lucy, returning the letter into her
pocket, "is the only comfort we have in such long separations. Yes, I
have one other comfort in his picture, but poor Edward has not even
that. If he had but my picture, he says he should be easy. I gave him a
lock of my hair set in a ring when he was at Longstaple last, and that
was some comfort to him, he said, but not equal to a picture. Perhaps
you might notice the ring when you saw him?"

"I did," said Elinor, with a composure of voice, under which was
concealed an emotion and distress beyond any thing she had ever felt
before. She was mortified, shocked, confounded.

Fortunately for her, they had now reached the cottage, and the
conversation could be continued no farther. After sitting with them a
few minutes, the Misses Steeles returned to the Park, and Elinor was
then at liberty to think and be wretched.

                      CHAPTER XXIII


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lady Middleton looked as if she thanked Heaven that she had never made
so rude a speech.

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

The remaining five were now to draw their cards.

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

"Indeed I shall be very much obliged to you for your help," cried Lucy,
"for I find there is more to be done to it than I thought there was; and
it would be a shocking thing to disappoint dear Anna-Maria after all."

"Oh, that would be terrible, indeed," said Miss Steele. "Dear little
soul, how I do love her!"

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

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

                      CHAPTER XXIV


IN a firm, though cautious tone, Elinor thus began:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"All this," thought Elinor, "is very pretty; but it can impose upon
neither of us."

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

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

"And for your own sake too, or you are carrying your disinterestedness
beyond reason."

Lucy looked at Elinor again, and was silent.

"Do you know Mr. Robert Ferrars?" asked Elinor.

"Not at all- I never saw him; but I fancy he is very unlike his brother-
silly, and a great coxcomb."

"A great coxcomb?" repeated Miss Steele, whose ear had caught those
words by a sudden pause in Marianne's music.

"Oh, they are talking of their favorite beaux, I dare say."

"No sister," cried Lucy, "you are mistaken there- our favorite beaux are
not great coxcombs."

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

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

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

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

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

"But Mrs. John Dashwood would not much approve of Edward's going into
orders."

"Then I rather suspect that my interest would do very little."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Shall you be in town this winter, Miss Dashwood?" said she, with all
her accustomary complacency.

"Certainly not."

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

"It will not be in my power to accept their invitation if they do."

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

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

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

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

                      CHAPTER XXV


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Marianne's countenance sunk.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                      CHAPTER XXVI


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Is your sister ill?" said he.

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

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

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

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

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

"I had the pleasure of hearing it at Mr. Palmer's, where I have been
dining."

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

"Mrs. Palmer appeared quite well; and I am commissioned to tell you,
that you will certainly see her to-morrow."

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

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

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

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

"Mr. Palmer will be so happy to see you," said she:- "What do you think
he said when he heard of your coming with mamma? I forget what it was
now, but it was something so droll!"

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

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

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

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

The man replied that none had.

"How very odd!" said she, in a low and disappointed voice, as she turned
away to the window.

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

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

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

                      CHAPTER XXVII


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"For me!" cried Marianne, stepping hastily forward.

"No, ma'am, for my mistress."

But Marianne, not convinced, took it instantly up.

"It is, indeed, for Mrs. Jennings; how provoking!"

"You are expecting for letter, then?" said Elinor, unable to be longer
silent.

"Yes, a little- not much."

After a short pause. "You have no confidence in me, Marianne."

"Nay, Elinor this reproach from you- you who have confidence in no one!"

"Me!" returned Elinor, in some confusion; "indeed, Marianne, I have
nothing to tell."

"Nor I," answered Marianne with energy; "our situations then are alike.
We have neither of us any thing to tell; you, because you communicate,
and I, because I conceal nothing."

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

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

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

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

"I thought you were both in Devonshire," said he.

"Did you?" replied Elinor.

"When do you go back again?"

"I do not know." And thus ended their discourse.

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

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

"Invited!" cried Marianne.

"So my daughter Middleton told me; for it seems Sir John met him
somewhere in the street this morning."

Marianne said no more, but looked exceedingly hurt. Impatient, in this
situation, to be doing something that might lead to her sister's relief,
Elinor resolved to write the next morning to her mother, and hoped, by
awakening her fears for the health of Marianne, to procure those
enquiries which had been so long delayed; and she was still more eagerly
bent on this measure by perceiving, after breakfast on the morrow, that
Marianne was again writing to Willoughby, for she could not suppose it
to be to any other person.

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

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

"It cannot be generally known," returned Elinor, "for her own family do
not know it."

He looked surprised, and said, "I beg your pardon, I am afraid my
enquiry has been impertinent; but I had not supposed any secresy
intended, as they openly correspond, and their marriage is universally
talked of."

"How can that be? By whom can you have heard it mentioned?"

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

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

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

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

                      CHAPTER XXVIII


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

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

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

"Good heavens!" she exclaimed, "he is there- he is there! Oh, why does
he not look at me? Why cannot I speak to him?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How can that be done? No, my dearest Marianne, you must wait. This is
not the place for explanations. Wait only till to-morrow."

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

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

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

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

                      CHAPTER XXIX


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

"Marianne, may I ask-?"

"No, Elinor," she replied, "ask nothing; you will soon know all."

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

Elinor paid her every quiet and unobtrusive attention in her power; and
she would have tried to sooth and tranquilize her still more, had not
Marianne entreated her, with all the eagerness of the most nervous
irritability, not to speak to her for the world. In such circumstances
it was better for both that they should not be long together; and the
restless state of Marianne's mind not only prevented her from remaining
in the room a moment after she was dressed, but requiring at once
solitude and continual change of place, made her wander about the house
till breakfast-time, avoiding the sight of everybody. At breakfast she
neither ate nor attempted to eat any thing; and Elinor's attention was
then all employed, not in urging her, not in pitying her, nor in
appearing to regard her, but in endeavouring to engage Mrs. Jenning's
notice entirely to herself.

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

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

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

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

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

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


                                   "BOND STREET, January.


  "MY DEAR MADAM,

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

    "I am, dear Madam,

          "Your most obedient

                "humble servant,

                      "JOHN WILLOUGHBY."


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

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

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

"I only wish," replied her sister, "there were anything I could do,
which might be of comfort to you."

This, as everything else would have been, was too much for Marianne, who
could only exclaim, in the anguish of her heart, "Oh, Elinor, I am
miserable, indeed," before her voice was entirely lost in sobs.

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

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

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

"Do you call me happy, Marianne? Ah, if you knew! And can you believe me
to be so, while I see you so wretched?"

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

"Many, many circumstances," said Elinor, solemnly.

"No, no, no," cried Marianne, wildly: "he loves you, and only you. You
can have no grief."

"I can have no pleasure while I see you in this state."

"And you will never see me otherwise. Mine is a misery which nothing can
do away."

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

"Engagement!" cried Marianne, "there has been no engagement."

"No engagement!"

"No, he is not so unworthy as you believe him. He has broken no faith
with me."

"But he told you that he loved you."

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

"Yet you wrote to him?"

"Yes; could that be wrong, after all that had passed? But I cannot
talk."

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


                                    BERKELEY STREET, January.

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

                                                   "M.D."


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


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

                                                   "M.D."


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


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

                                                   "M.D."


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

"I felt myself," she added, "to be as solemnly engaged to him, as if the
strictest legal convenant had bound us to each other."

"I can believe it," said Elinor; "but unfortunately he did not feel the
same."

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

For a moment or two she could say no more; but when this emotion had
passed away, she added, in a firmer tone, "Elinor, I have been cruelly
used; but not by Willoughby."

"Dearest Marianne, who but himself? By whom can he have been
instigated?"

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

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

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

"But for my mother's sake and mine-"

"I would do more than for my own. But to appear happy when I am so
miserable- oh, who can require it?"

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

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

"No, Marianne, in no possible way."

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

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

"Elinor, I must go home. I must go and comfort mamma. Can not we be gone
to-morrow?"

"To-morrow, Marianne!"

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

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

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

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

                      CHAPTER XXX


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The lady, then,- Miss Grey, I think you called her,- is very rich?"

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

"Do you know what kind of a girl Miss Grey is? Is she said to be
amiable?"

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

"And who are the Ellisons?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You had better leave me," was all the notice that her sister received
from her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What did you hear?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You know her disposition, and may believe how eagerly she would still
justify him if she could."

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

                      CHAPTER XXXI


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

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

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

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

With a letter in her out-stretched hand, and countence gaily smiling,
from the persuasion of bringing comfort, she entered their room,
saying,-

"Now, my dear, I bring you something that I am sure will do you good."

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

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

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

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

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

"Who can this be?" cried Elinor. "So early too! I thought we had been
safe."

Marianne moved to the window.

"It is Colonel Brandon!" said she, with vexation. "We are never safe
from him."

"He will not come in, as Mrs. Jennings is from home."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Indeed," answered Elinor, "I have not forgotten it." He looked pleased
by this remembrance, and added,-

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

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

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

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

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

"Good Heavens!" cried Elinor, "could it be- could Willoughby!"-

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

"This is beyond every thing!" exclaimed Elinor.

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

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

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

"Yes," he replied gravely, "once I have. One meeting was unavoidable."

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

"What! have you met him to-"

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

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

"Such," said Colonel Prandon, after a pause, "has been the unhappy
resemblance between the fate of mother and daughter; and so imperfectly
have I discharged my trust."

"Is she still in town?"

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

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

                      CHAPTER XXXII


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Colonel Brandon's delicate, unobtrusive enquiries were never unwelcome
to Miss Dashwood. He had abundantly earned the privilege of intimate
discussion of her sister's disappointment, by the friendly zeal with
which he had endeavoured to soften it, and they always conversed with
confidence. His chief reward for the painful exertion of disclosing past
sorrows and present humiliations was given in the pitying eye with which
Marianne sometimes observed him, and the gentleness of her voice,
whenever (though it did not often happen) she was obliged, or could
oblige herself to speak to him. These assured him that his exertion had
produced an increase of good-will towards himself, and these gave Elinor
hopes of its being farther augmented hereafter; but Mrs. Jennings, who
knew nothing of all this, who knew only that the Colonel continued as
grave as ever, and that she could never prevail on him to make the offer
himself, nor commission her to make it for him, began, at the end of two
days, to think that, instead of Midsummer, they would not be married
till Michaelmas, and by the end of a week that it would not be a match
at all. The good understanding between the Colonel and Miss Dashwood
seemed rather to declare that the honours of the mulberry-tree, the
canal, and the yew arbour, would all be made over to her; and Mrs.
Jennings had, for some time, ceased to think at all of Mr. Ferrars.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Well, my dear," said Mrs. Jennings, "and how did you travel?"

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

"Oh, oh!" cried Mrs. Jennings; "very pretty, indeed! and the Doctor is a
single man, I warrant you."

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

"Ay, ay, that is very pretty talking- but it won't do- the Doctor is the
man, I see."

"No, indeed!" replied her cousin, with affected earnestness, "and I beg
you will contradict it, if you ever hear it talked of."

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

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

"No, I do not think we shall."

"Oh, yes, I dare say you will."

Elinor would not humour her by farther opposition.

"What a charming thing it is that Mrs. Dashwood can spare you both for
so long a time together!"

"Long a time, indeed!" interposed Mrs. Jennings. "Why, their visit is
but just begun!"

Lucy was silenced.

"I am sorry we cannot see your sister, Miss Dashwood," said Miss Steele.
"I am sorry she is not well;" for Marianne had left the room on their
arrival.

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

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

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

"Oh, if that's all," cried Miss Steele, "we can just as well go and see
her."

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

                      CHAPTER XXXIII


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Who is Colonel Brandon? Is he a man of fortune?"

"Yes; he has very good property in Dorsetshire."

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

"Me, brother! What do you mean?"

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

"I believe about two thousand a year."

"Two thousand a year!" and then working himself up to a pitch of
enthusiastic generosity, he added, "Elinor, I wish with all my heart it
were twice as much for your sake."

"Indeed I believe you," replied Elinor; "but I am very sure that Colonel
Brandon has not the smallest wish of marrying me."

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

Elinor would not vouchsafe any answer.

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

"Is Mr. Edward Ferrars," said Elinor, with resolution, "going to be
married?"

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

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

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

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

"More than you think it really and intrinsically worth?"

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

Elinor could only smile.

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

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

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

"Where is the green-house to be?"

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

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

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

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

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

"But it is not to be imagined that she lives up to her income. Few
people of common prudence will do that; and whatever she saves she will
be able to dispose of."

"And do you not think it more likely that she should leave it to her
daughters, than to us?"

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

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

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

"She is not well, she has had a nervous complaint on her, for several
weeks."

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

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

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

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

                      CHAPTER XXXIV


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The parties stood thus-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hum"- said Mrs. Ferrars- "very pretty,"- and without regarding them at
all, returned them to her daughter.

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

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

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

"Beautifully indeed! But she does everything well."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Dear, dear Elinor, don't mind them. Don't let them make you unhappy."

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

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

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