Happy for all her maternal feelings was the day on which Mrs. Bennet got
rid of her two most deserving daughters. With what delighted pride
she afterwards visited Mrs. Bingley, and talked of Mrs. Darcy, may
be guessed. I wish I could say, for the sake of her family, that the
accomplishment of her earnest desire in the establishment of so many
of her children produced so happy an effect as to make her a sensible,
amiable, well-informed woman for the rest of her life; though perhaps it
was lucky for her husband, who might not have relished domestic felicity
in so unusual a form, that she still was occasionally nervous and
invariably silly.
Mr. Bennet missed his second daughter exceedingly; his affection for her
drew him oftener from home than anything else could do. He delighted in
going to Pemberley, especially when he was least expected.
Mr. Bingley and Jane remained at Netherfield only a twelvemonth. So near
a vicinity to her mother and Meryton relations was not desirable even to
_his_ easy temper, or _her_ affectionate heart. The darling wish of his
sisters was then gratified; he bought an estate in a neighbouring county
to Derbyshire, and Jane and Elizabeth, in addition to every other source
of happiness, were within thirty miles of each other.
Kitty, to her very material advantage, spent the chief of her time with
her two elder sisters. In society so superior to what she had generally
known, her improvement was great. She was not of so ungovernable a
temper as Lydia; and, removed from the influence of Lydia's example,
she became, by proper attention and management, less irritable, less
ignorant, and less insipid. From the further disadvantage of Lydia's
society she was of course carefully kept, and though Mrs. Wickham
frequently invited her to come and stay with her, with the promise of
balls and young men, her father would never consent to her going.
Mary was the only daughter who remained at home; and she was necessarily
drawn from the pursuit of accomplishments by Mrs. Bennet's being quite
unable to sit alone. Mary was obliged to mix more with the world, but
she could still moralize over every morning visit; and as she was no
longer mortified by comparisons between her sisters' beauty and her own,
it was suspected by her father that she submitted to the change without
much reluctance.
As for Wickham and Lydia, their characters suffered no revolution from
the marriage of her sisters. He bore with philosophy the conviction that
Elizabeth must now become acquainted with whatever of his ingratitude
and falsehood had before been unknown to her; and in spite of every
thing, was not wholly without hope that Darcy might yet be prevailed on
to make his fortune. The congratulatory letter which Elizabeth received
from Lydia on her marriage, explained to her that, by his wife at least,
if not by himself, such a hope was cherished. The letter was to this
effect:
"MY DEAR LIZZY,
"I wish you joy. If you love Mr. Darcy half as well as I do my dear
Wickham, you must be very happy. It is a great comfort to have you so
rich, and when you have nothing else to do, I hope you will think of us.
I am sure Wickham would like a place at court very much, and I do not
think we shall have quite money enough to live upon without some help.
Any place would do, of about three or four hundred a year; but however,
do not speak to Mr. Darcy about it, if you had rather not.
"Yours, etc."
As it happened that Elizabeth had _much_ rather not, she endeavoured in
her answer to put an end to every entreaty and expectation of the kind.
Such relief, however, as it was in her power to afford, by the practice
of what might be called economy in her own private expences, she
frequently sent them. It had always been evident to her that such an
income as theirs, under the direction of two persons so extravagant in
their wants, and heedless of the future, must be very insufficient to
their support; and whenever they changed their quarters, either Jane or
herself were sure of being applied to for some little assistance
towards discharging their bills. Their manner of living, even when the
restoration of peace dismissed them to a home, was unsettled in the
extreme. They were always moving from place to place in quest of a cheap
situation, and always spending more than they ought. His affection for
her soon sunk into indifference; hers lasted a little longer; and
in spite of her youth and her manners, she retained all the claims to
reputation which her marriage had given her.
Though Darcy could never receive _him_ at Pemberley, yet, for
Elizabeth's sake, he assisted him further in his profession. Lydia was
occasionally a visitor there, when her husband was gone to enjoy himself
in London or Bath; and with the Bingleys they both of them frequently
staid so long, that even Bingley's good humour was overcome, and he
proceeded so far as to talk of giving them a hint to be gone.
Miss Bingley was very deeply mortified by Darcy's marriage; but as she
thought it advisable to retain the right of visiting at Pemberley, she
dropt all her resentment; was fonder than ever of Georgiana, almost as
attentive to Darcy as heretofore, and paid off every arrear of civility
to Elizabeth.
Pemberley was now Georgiana's home; and the attachment of the sisters
was exactly what Darcy had hoped to see. They were able to love each
other even as well as they intended. Georgiana had the highest opinion
in the world of Elizabeth; though at first she often listened with
an astonishment bordering on alarm at her lively, sportive, manner of
talking to her brother. He, who had always inspired in herself a respect
which almost overcame her affection, she now saw the object of open
pleasantry. Her mind received knowledge which had never before fallen
in her way. By Elizabeth's instructions, she began to comprehend that
a woman may take liberties with her husband which a brother will not
always allow in a sister more than ten years younger than himself.
Lady Catherine was extremely indignant on the marriage of her nephew;
and as she gave way to all the genuine frankness of her character in
her reply to the letter which announced its arrangement, she sent him
language so very abusive, especially of Elizabeth, that for some time
all intercourse was at an end. But at length, by Elizabeth's persuasion,
he was prevailed on to overlook the offence, and seek a reconciliation;
and, after a little further resistance on the part of his aunt, her
resentment gave way, either to her affection for him, or her curiosity
to see how his wife conducted herself; and she condescended to wait
on them at Pemberley, in spite of that pollution which its woods had
received, not merely from the presence of such a mistress, but the
visits of her uncle and aunt from the city.
With the Gardiners, they were always on the most intimate terms.
Darcy, as well as Elizabeth, really loved them; and they were both ever
sensible of the warmest gratitude towards the persons who, by bringing
her into Derbyshire, had been the means of uniting them.
SENSE & SENSIBILITY
BY
JANE AUSTEN
WITH AN INTRODUCTION
BY
AUSTIN DOBSON
ILLUSTRATED
BY
HUGH THOMSON
LONDON: MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED
NEW YORK: THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
1902
_First Edition with Hugh Thomson's Illustrations_ 1896
* * * * *
Transcriber's Note:
The Table of Contents is not part of the original book. The illustration
on page 290 is missing from the book. The Introduction ends abruptly.
Seems incomplete.
[Illustration: _Mr. Dashwood introduced him._--P. 219.]
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER XVII
CHAPTER XVIII
CHAPTER XIX
CHAPTER XX
CHAPTER XXI
CHAPTER XXII
CHAPTER XXIII
CHAPTER XXIV
CHAPTER XXV
CHAPTER XXVI
CHAPTER XXVII
CHAPTER XXVIII
CHAPTER XXIX
CHAPTER XXX
CHAPTER XXXI
CHAPTER XXXII
CHAPTER XXXIII
CHAPTER XXXIV
CHAPTER XXXV
CHAPTER XXXVI
CHAPTER XXXVII
CHAPTER XXXVIII
CHAPTER XXXIX
CHAPTER XL
CHAPTER XLI
CHAPTER XLII
CHAPTER XLIII
CHAPTER XLIV
CHAPTER XLV
CHAPTER XLVI
CHAPTER XLVII
CHAPTER XLVIII
CHAPTER XLIX
CHAPTER L
* * * * *
INTRODUCTION
With the title of _Sense and Sensibility_ is connected one of those minor
problems which delight the cummin-splitters of criticism. In the _Cecilia_
of Madame D'Arblay--the forerunner, if not the model, of Miss Austen--is a
sentence which at first sight suggests some relationship to the name of
the book which, in the present series, inaugurated Miss Austen's novels.
'The whole of this unfortunate business'--says a certain didactic Dr.
Lyster, talking in capitals, towards the end of volume three of
_Cecilia_--'has been the result of PRIDE and PREJUDICE,' and looking to
the admitted familiarity of Miss Austen with Madame D'Arblay's work, it
has been concluded that Miss Austen borrowed from _Cecilia_, the title of
her second novel. But here comes in the little problem to which we have
referred. _Pride and Prejudice_ it is true, was written and finished
before _Sense and Sensibility_--its original title for several years being
_First Impressions_. Then, in 1797, the author fell to work upon an older
essay in letters _a la_ Richardson, called _Elinor and Marianne_, which
she re-christened _Sense and Sensibility._ This, as we know, was her first
published book; and whatever may be the connection between the title of
_Pride and Prejudice_ and the passage in _Cecilia_, there is an obvious
connection between the title of _Pride and Prejudice_ and the _title of
Sense and Sensibility_. If Miss Austen re-christened _Elinor and
Marianne_ before she changed the title of _First Impressions_, as she well
may have, it is extremely unlikely that the name of _Pride and Prejudice_
has anything to do with _Cecilia_ (which, besides, had been published at
least twenty years before). Upon the whole, therefore, it is most likely
that the passage in Madame D'Arblay is a mere coincidence; and that in
_Sense and Sensibility_, as well as in the novel that succeeded it in
publication, Miss Austen, after the fashion of the old morality plays,
simply substituted the leading characteristics of her principal personages
for their names. Indeed, in _Sense and Sensibility_ the sense of Elinor,
and the sensibility (or rather _sensiblerie_) of Marianne, are markedly
emphasised in the opening pages of the book But Miss Austen subsequently,
and, as we think, wisely, discarded in her remaining efforts the cheap
attraction of an alliterative title. _Emma_ and _Persuasion, Northanger
Abbey_ and _Mansfield Park_, are names far more in consonance with the
quiet tone of her easy and unobtrusive art.
_Elinor and Marianne_ was originally written about 1792. After the
completion--or partial completion, for it was again revised in
1811--of _First Impressions_ (subsequently _Pride and Prejudice_),
Miss Austen set about recasting _Elinor and Marianne_, then composed
in the form of letters; and she had no sooner accomplished this task,
than she began _Northanger Abbey_. It would be interesting to know to
what extent she remodelled _Sense and Sensibility_ in 1797-98, for we
are told that previous to its publication in 1811 she again devoted a
considerable time to its preparation for the press, and it is clear
that this does not mean the correction of proofs alone, but also a
preliminary revision of MS. Especially would it be interesting if we
could ascertain whether any of its more finished passages, _e.g._ the
admirable conversation between the Miss Dashwoods and Willoughby in
chapter x., were the result of those fallow and apparently barren
years at Bath and Southampton, or whether they were already part of
the second version of 1797-98. But upon this matter the records are
mute. A careful examination of the correspondence published by Lord
Brabourne in 1884 only reveals two definite references to _Sense and
Sensibility_ and these are absolutely unfruitful in suggestion. In
April 1811 she speaks of having corrected two sheets of 'S and S,'
which she has scarcely a hope of getting out in the following June;
and in September, an extract from the diary of another member of the
family indirectly discloses the fact that the book had by that time
been published. This extract is a brief reference to a letter which
had been received from Cassandra Austen, begging her correspondent not
to mention that Aunt Jane wrote _Sense and Sensibility._ Beyond these
minute items of information, and the statement--already referred to in
the Introduction to _Pride and Prejudice_--that she considered herself
overpaid for the labour she had bestowed upon it, absolutely nothing
seems to have been preserved by her descendants respecting her first
printed effort. In the absence of particulars some of her critics have
fallen to speculate upon the reason which made her select it, and not
_Pride and Prejudice_, for her debut; and they have, perhaps
naturally, found in the fact a fresh confirmation of that traditional
blindness of authors to their own best work, which is one of the
commonplaces of literary history. But this is to premise that she
_did_ regard it as her masterpiece, a fact which, apart from this
accident of priority of issue, is, as far as we are aware, nowhere
asserted. A simpler solution is probably that, of the three novels she
had written or sketched by 1811, _Pride and Prejudice_ was languishing
under the stigma of having been refused by one bookseller without the
formality of inspection, while _Northanger Abbey_ was lying _perdu_ in
another bookseller's drawer at Bath. In these circumstances it is
intelligible that she should turn to _Sense and Sensibility_, when, at
length--upon the occasion of a visit to her brother in London in the
spring of 1811--Mr. T. Egerton of the 'Military Library,' Whitehall,
dawned upon the horizon as a practicable publisher.
By the time _Sense and Sensibility_ left the press, Miss Austen was
again domiciled at Chawton Cottage. For those accustomed to the
swarming reviews of our day, with their Babel of notices, it may seem
strange that there should be no record of the effect produced, seeing
that, as already stated, the book sold well enough to enable its
putter-forth to hand over to its author what Mr. Gargery, in _Great
Expectations_, would have described as 'a cool L150.' Surely Mr.
Egerton, who had visited Miss Austen at Sloane Street, must have later
conveyed to her some intelligence of the way in which her work had
been welcomed by the public. But if he did, it is no longer
discoverable. Mr. Austen Leigh, her first and best biographer, could
find no account either of the publication or of the author's feelings
thereupon. As far as it is possible to judge, the critical verdicts
she obtained were mainly derived from her own relatives and intimate
friends, and some of these latter--if one may trust a little anthology
which she herself collected, and from which Mr. Austen Leigh prints
extracts--must have been more often exasperating than sympathetic. The
long chorus of intelligent approval by which she was afterwards
greeted did not begin to be really audible before her death, and her
'fit audience' during her lifetime must have been emphatically 'few,'
Of two criticisms which came out in the _Quarterly_ early in the
century, she could only have seen one, that of 1815; the other, by
Archbishop Whately, the first which treated her in earnest, did not
appear until she had been three years dead. Dr. Whately deals mainly
with _Mansfield Park_ and _Persuasion_; his predecessor professed to
review _Emma_, though he also gives brief summaries of _Sense and
Sensibility_ and _Pride and Prejudice_. Mr. Austen Leigh, we think,
speaks too contemptuously of this initial notice of 1815. If, at
certain points, it is half-hearted and inadequate, it is still fairly
accurate in its recognition of Miss Austen's supreme merit, as
contrasted with her contemporaries--to wit, her skill in investing the
fortunes of ordinary characters and the narrative of common
occurrences with all the sustained excitement of romance. The Reviewer
points out very justly that this kind of work, 'being deprived of all
that, according to Bayes, goes "to elevate and surprise," must make
amends by displaying depth of knowledge and dexterity of execution.'
And in these qualities, even with such living competitors of her own
sex as Miss Edgeworth and Miss Brunton (whose _Self-control_ came out
in the same year as _Sense and Sensibility_), he does not scruple to
declare that 'Miss Austen stands almost alone.' If he omits to lay
stress upon her judgment, her nice sense of fitness, her restraint,
her fine irony, and the delicacy of her artistic touch, something must
be allowed for the hesitations and reservations which invariably beset
the critical pioneer.
To contend, however, for a moment that the present volume is Miss
Austen's greatest, as it was her first published, novel, would be a
mere exercise in paradox. There are, who swear by _Persuasion_; there
are, who prefer _Emma_ and _Mansfield Park_; there is a large
contingent for _Pride and Prejudice_; and there is even a section
which advocates the pre-eminence of _Northanger Abbey_. But no one, as
far as we can remember, has ever put _Sense and Sensibility_ first,
nor can we believe that its author did so herself. And yet it is she
herself who has furnished the standard by which we judge it, and it is
by comparison with _Pride and Prejudice_, in which the leading
characters are also two sisters, that we assess and depress its merit.
The Elinor and Marianne of _Sense and Sensibility_ are only inferior
when they are contrasted with the Elizabeth and Jane of _Pride and
Prejudice_; and even then, it is probably because we personally like
the handsome and amiable Jane Bennet rather better than the obsolete
survival of the sentimental novel represented by Marianne Dashwood.
Darcy and Bingley again are much more 'likeable' (to use Lady
Queensberry's word) than the colourless Edward Ferrars and the
stiff-jointed Colonel Brandon. Yet it might not unfairly be contended
that there is more fidelity to what Mr. Thomas Hardy has termed
'life's little ironies' in Miss Austen's disposal of the two Miss
Dashwoods than there is in her disposal of the heroines of _Pride and
Prejudice_. Every one does not get a Bingley, or a Darcy (with a
park); but a good many sensible girls like Elinor pair off contentedly
with poor creatures like Edward Ferrars, while not a few enthusiasts
like Marianne decline at last upon middle-aged colonels with flannel
waistcoats. George Eliot, we fancy, would have held that the fates of
Elinor and Marianne were more probable than the fortunes of Jane and
Eliza Bennet. That, of the remaining characters, there is certainly
none to rival Mr. Bennet, or Lady Catherine de Bourgh, or the
ineffable Mr. Collins, of _Pride and Prejudice_, is true; but we
confess to a kindness for vulgar matchmaking Mrs. Jennings with her
still-room 'parmaceti for an inward bruise' in the shape of a glass of
old Constantia; and for the diluted Squire Western, Sir John
Middleton, whose horror of being alone carries him to the point of
rejoicing in the acquisition of _two_ to the population of London.
Excellent again are Mr. Palmer and his wife; excellent, in their
sordid veracity, the self-seeking figures of the Miss Steeles. But the
pearls of the book must be allowed to be that egregious amateur in
toothpick-cases, Mr. Robert Ferrars (with his excursus in chapter
xxxvi. on life in a cottage), and the admirably-matched Mr. and Mrs.
John Dashwood. Miss Austen herself has never done anything better than
the inimitable and oft-quoted chapter wherein is debated between the
last-named pair the momentous matter of the amount to be devoted to
Mrs. Dashwood and her daughters; while the suggestion in chapters
xxxiii. and xxxiv. that the owner of Norland was once within some
thousands of having to sell out at a loss, deserves to be remembered
with that other memorable escape of Sir Roger de Coverley's ancestor,
who was only not killed in the civil wars because 'he was sent out of
the field upon a private message, the day before the battle of
Worcester.'
Of local colouring there is as little in _Sense and Sensibility_ as in
_Pride and Prejudice_. It is not unlikely that some memories of
Steventon may survive in Norland; and it may be noted that there is
actually a Barton Place to the north of Exeter, not far from Lord
Iddesleigh's well-known seat of Upton Pynes. It is scarcely possible,
also, not to believe that, in Mrs. Jennings's description of
Delaford--'a nice place, I can tell you; exactly what I call a nice
old-fashioned place, full of comforts and conveniences; quite shut in
with great garden walls that are covered with the best fruit-trees in
the country; and such a mulberry tree in one corner!'--Miss Austen had
in mind some real Hampshire or Devonshire country house. In any case,
it comes nearer a picture than what we usually get from her pen. 'Then
there is a dovecote, some delightful stew-ponds, and a very pretty
canal; and everything, in short, that one could wish for; and,
moreover, it is close to the church, and only a quarter of a mile
from the turnpike-road, so 'tis never dull, for if you only go and sit
up in an old yew arbour behind the house, you may see all the
carriages that pass along.' The last lines suggest those quaint
'gazebos' and alcoves, which, in the coaching days, were so often to
be found perched at the roadside, where one might sit and watch the
Dover or Canterbury stage go whirling by. Of genteel accomplishments
there is a touch In the 'landscape in coloured silks' which Charlotte
Palmer had worked at school (chap, xxvi.); and of old remedies for the
lost art of swooning, in the 'lavender drops' of chapter xxix. The
mention of a dance as a 'little hop' in chapter ix. reads like a
premature instance of middle Victorian slang. But nothing is new--even
in a novel--and 'hop,' in this sense, is at least as old as _Joseph
Andrews_.
* * * * *
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
Mr. Dashwood introduced him _Frontispiece_
His son's son, a child of four years old
"I cannot imagine how they will spend half of it"
So shy before company
They sang together
He cut off a long lock of her hair
"I have found you out in spite of all your tricks"
Apparently In violent affliction
Begging her to stop
Came to take a survey of the guest
"I declare they are quite charming"
Mischievous tricks
Drinking to her best affections
Amiably bashful
"I can answer for it," said Mrs. Jennings
At that moment she first perceived him
"How fond he was of it!"
Offered him one of Folly's puppies
A very smart beau
Introduced to Mrs. Jennings
Mrs. Jennings assured him directly that she should not stand
upon ceremony
Mrs. Ferrars
Drawing him a little aside
In a whisper
"You have heard, I suppose"
Talking over the business
"She put in the feather last night"
Listening at the door
Both gained considerable amusement
"Of one thing I may assure you"
Showing her child to the housekeeper
The gardener's lamentations
Opened a window-shutter
"I entreat you to stay"
"I was formally dismissed"
"I have entered many a shop to avoid your sight"
"And see how the children go on"
"I suppose you know, ma'am, that Mr. Ferrars is married"
It _was_ Edward
"Everything in such respectable condition"
* * * * *
CHAPTER I
The family of Dashwood had long been settled in Sussex. Their estate
was large, and their residence was at Norland Park, in the centre of
their property, where, for many generations, they had lived in so
respectable a manner as to engage the general good opinion of their
surrounding acquaintance. The late owner of this estate was a single
man, who lived to a very advanced age, and who for many years of his
life, had a constant companion and housekeeper in his sister. But her
death, which happened ten years before his own, produced a great
alteration in his home; for to supply her loss, he invited and
received into his house the family of his nephew Mr. Henry Dashwood,
the legal inheritor of the Norland estate, and the person to whom he
intended to bequeath it. In the society of his nephew and niece, and
their children, the old Gentleman's days were comfortably spent. His
attachment to them all increased. The constant attention of Mr. and
Mrs. Henry Dashwood to his wishes, which proceeded not merely from
interest, but from goodness of heart, gave him every degree of solid
comfort which his age could receive; and the cheerfulness of the
children added a relish to his existence.
By a former marriage, Mr. Henry Dashwood had one son: by his present
lady, three daughters. The son, a steady respectable young man, was
amply provided for by the fortune of his mother, which had been large,
and half of which devolved on him on his coming of age. By his own
marriage, likewise, which happened soon afterwards, he added to his
wealth. To him therefore the succession to the Norland estate was not
so really important as to his sisters; for their fortune, independent
of what might arise to them from their father's inheriting that
property, could be but small. Their mother had nothing, and their
father only seven thousand pounds in his own disposal; for the
remaining moiety of his first wife's fortune was also secured to her
child, and he had only a life-interest in it.
The old gentleman died: his will was read, and like almost every
other will, gave as much disappointment as pleasure. He was neither so
unjust, nor so ungrateful, as to leave his estate from his nephew; but
he left it to him on such terms as destroyed half the value of the
bequest. Mr. Dashwood had wished for it more for the sake of his wife
and daughters than for himself or his son; but to his son, and his
son's son, a child of four years old, it was secured, in such a way,
as to leave to himself no power of providing for those who were most
dear to him, and who most needed a provision by any charge on the
estate, or by any sale of its valuable woods. The whole was tied up
for the benefit of this child, who, in occasional visits with his
father and mother at Norland, had so far gained on the affections of
his uncle, by such attractions as are by no means unusual in children
of two or three years old; an imperfect articulation, an earnest
desire of having his own way, many cunning tricks, and a great deal of
noise, as to outweigh all the value of all the attention which, for
years, he had received from his niece and her daughters. He meant not
to be unkind, however, and, as a mark of his affection for the three
girls, he left them a thousand pounds a-piece.
Mr. Dashwood's disappointment was, at first, severe; but his temper
was cheerful and sanguine; and he might reasonably hope to live many
years, and by living economically, lay by a considerable sum from the
produce of an estate already large, and capable of almost immediate
improvement. But the fortune, which had been so tardy in coming, was
his only one twelvemonth. He survived his uncle no longer; and ten
thousand pounds, including the late legacies, was all that remained
for his widow and daughters.
His son was sent for as soon as his danger was known, and to him Mr.
Dashwood recommended, with all the strength and urgency which illness
could command, the interest of his mother-in-law and sisters.
Mr. John Dashwood had not the strong feelings of the rest of the
family; but he was affected by a recommendation of such a nature at
such a time, and he promised to do every thing in his power to make
them comfortable. His father was rendered easy by such an assurance,
and Mr. John Dashwood had then leisure to consider how much there
might prudently be in his power to do for them.
[Illustration: _His son's son, a child of four years old._]
He was not an ill-disposed young man, unless to be rather cold hearted
and rather selfish is to be ill-disposed: but he was, in general, well
respected; for he conducted himself with propriety in the discharge of
his ordinary duties. Had he married a more amiable woman, he might
have been made still more respectable than he was: he might even have
been made amiable himself; for he was very young when he married, and
very fond of his wife. But Mrs. John Dashwood was a strong caricature
of himself; more narrow-minded and selfish.
When he gave his promise to his father, he meditated within himself to
increase the fortunes of his sisters by the present of a thousand
pounds a-piece. He then really thought himself equal to it. The
prospect of four thousand a-year, in addition to his present income,
besides the remaining half of his own mother's fortune, warmed his
heart, and made him feel capable of generosity. "Yes, he would give
them three thousand pounds: it would be liberal and handsome! It would
be enough to make them completely easy. Three thousand pounds! he
could spare so considerable a sum with little inconvenience." He
thought of it all day long, and for many days successively, and he did
not repent.
No sooner was his father's funeral over, than Mrs. John Dashwood,
without sending any notice of her intention to her mother-in-law,
arrived with her child and their attendants. No one could dispute her
right to come; the house was her husband's from the moment of his
father's decease; but the indelicacy of her conduct was so much the
greater, and to a woman in Mrs. Dashwood's situation, with only common
feelings, must have been highly unpleasing. But in _her_ mind there
was a sense of honor so keen, a generosity so romantic, that any
offence of the kind, by whomsoever given or received, was to her a
source of immovable disgust. Mrs. John Dashwood had never been a
favourite with any of her husband's family; but she had had no
opportunity, till the present, of showing them with how little
attention to the comfort of other people she could act when occasion
required it.
So acutely did Mrs. Dashwood feel this ungracious behaviour, and so
earnestly did she despise her daughter-in-law for it, that, on the
arrival of the latter, she would have quitted the house for ever, had
not the entreaty of her eldest girl induced her first to reflect on
the propriety of going, and her own tender love for all her three
children determined her afterwards to stay, and for their sakes avoid
a breach with their brother.
Elinor, this eldest daughter, whose advice was so effectual, possessed
a strength of understanding, and coolness of judgment, which qualified
her, though only nineteen, to be the counsellor of her mother, and
enabled her frequently to counteract, to the advantage of them all,
that eagerness of mind in Mrs. Dashwood which must generally have led
to imprudence. She had an excellent heart; her disposition was
affectionate, and her feelings were strong; but she knew how to govern
them: it was a knowledge which her mother had yet to learn; and which
one of her sisters had resolved never to be taught.
Marianne's abilities were, in many respects, quite equal to Elinor's.
She was sensible and clever; but eager in everything: her sorrows, her
joys, could have no moderation. She was generous, amiable,
interesting: she was everything but prudent. The resemblance between
her and her mother was strikingly great.
Elinor saw, with concern, the excess of her sister's sensibility; but
by Mrs. Dashwood it was valued and cherished. They encouraged each
other now in the violence of their affliction. The agony of grief
which overpowered them at first, was voluntarily renewed, was sought
for, was created again and again. They gave themselves up wholly to
their sorrow, seeking increase of wretchedness in every reflection
that could afford it, and resolved against ever admitting consolation
in future. Elinor, too, was deeply afflicted; but still she could
struggle, she could exert herself. She could consult with her brother,
could receive her sister-in-law on her arrival, and treat her with
proper attention; and could strive to rouse her mother to similar
exertion, and encourage her to similar forbearance.
Margaret, the other sister, was a good-humored, well-disposed girl;
but as she had already imbibed a good deal of Marianne's romance,
without having much of her sense, she did not, at thirteen, bid fair
to equal her sisters at a more advanced period of life.
CHAPTER II
Mrs. John Dashwood now installed herself mistress of Norland; and her
mother and sisters-in-law were degraded to the condition of visitors.
As such, however, they were treated by her with quiet civility; and by
her husband with as much kindness as he could feel towards anybody
beyond himself, his wife, and their child. He really pressed them,
with some earnestness, to consider Norland as their home; and, as no
plan appeared so eligible to Mrs. Dashwood as remaining there till she
could accommodate herself with a house in the neighbourhood, his
invitation was accepted.
A continuance in a place where everything reminded her of former
delight, was exactly what suited her mind. In seasons of cheerfulness,
no temper could be more cheerful than hers, or possess, in a greater
degree, that sanguine expectation of happiness which is happiness
itself. But in sorrow she must be equally carried away by her fancy,
and as far beyond consolation as in pleasure she was beyond alloy.
Mrs. John Dashwood did not at all approve of what her husband intended
to do for his sisters. To take three thousand pounds from the fortune
of their dear little boy would be impoverishing him to the most
dreadful degree. She begged him to think again on the subject. How
could he answer it to himself to rob his child, and his only child
too, of so large a sum? And what possible claim could the Miss
Dashwoods, who were related to him only by half blood, which she
considered as no relationship at all, have on his generosity to so
large an amount. It was very well known that no affection was ever
supposed to exist between the children of any man by different
marriages; and why was he to ruin himself, and their poor little
Harry, by giving away all his money to his half sisters?
"It was my father's last request to me," replied her husband, "that I
should assist his widow and daughters."
"He did not know what he was talking of, I dare say; ten to one but he
was light-headed at the time. Had he been in his right senses, he
could not have thought of such a thing as begging you to give away
half your fortune from your own child."
"He did not stipulate for any particular sum, my dear Fanny; he only
requested me, in general terms, to assist them, and make their
situation more comfortable than it was in his power to do. Perhaps it
would have been as well if he had left it wholly to myself. He could
hardly suppose I should neglect them. But as he required the promise,
I could not do less than give it; at least I thought so at the time.
The promise, therefore, was given, and must be performed. Something
must be done for them whenever they leave Norland and settle in a new
home."
"Well, then, _let_ something be done for them; but _that_ something
need not be three thousand pounds. Consider," she added, "that when
the money is once parted with, it never can return. Your sisters will
marry, and it will be gone for ever. If, indeed, it could be restored
to our poor little boy--"
"Why, to be sure," said her husband, very gravely, "that would make
great difference. The time may come when Harry will regret that so
large a sum was parted with. If he should have a numerous family, for
instance, it would be a very convenient addition."
"To be sure it would."
"Perhaps, then, it would be better for all parties, if the sum were
diminished one half. Five hundred pounds would be a prodigious
increase to their fortunes!"
"Oh! beyond anything great! What brother on earth would do half so
much for his sisters, even if _really_ his sisters! And as it is--only
half blood! But you have such a generous spirit!"
"I would not wish to do any thing mean," he replied. "One had rather,
on such occasions, do too much than too little. No one, at least, can
think I have not done enough for them: even themselves, they can
hardly expect more."
"There is no knowing what _they_ may expect," said the lady, "but we
are not to think of their expectations: the question is, what you can
afford to do."
"Certainly; and I think I may afford to give them five hundred pounds
a-piece. As it is, without any addition of mine, they will each have
about three thousand pounds on their mother's death--a very
comfortable fortune for any young woman."
"To be sure it is; and, indeed, it strikes me that they can want no
addition at all. They will have ten thousand pounds divided amongst
them. If they marry, they will be sure of doing well, and if they do
not, they may all live very comfortably together on the interest of
ten thousand pounds."
"That is very true, and, therefore, I do not know whether, upon the
whole, it would not be more advisable to do something for their mother
while she lives, rather than for them--something of the annuity kind I
mean. My sisters would feel the good effects of it as well as herself.
A hundred a year would make them all perfectly comfortable."
His wife hesitated a little, however, in giving her consent to this
plan.
"To be sure," said she, "it is better than parting with fifteen
hundred pounds at once. But, then, if Mrs. Dashwood should live
fifteen years we shall be completely taken in."
"Fifteen years! my dear Fanny; her life cannot be worth half that
purchase."
"Certainly not; but if you observe, people always live for ever when
there is an annuity to be paid them; and she is very stout and
healthy, and hardly forty. An annuity is a very serious business; it
comes over and over every year, and there is no getting rid of it. You
are not aware of what you are doing. I have known a great deal of the
trouble of annuities; for my mother was clogged with the payment of
three to old superannuated servants by my father's will, and it is
amazing how disagreeable she found it. Twice every year these
annuities were to be paid; and then there was the trouble of getting
it to them; and then one of them was said to have died, and afterwards
it turned out to be no such thing. My mother was quite sick of it. Her
income was not her own, she said, with such perpetual claims on it;
and it was the more unkind in my father, because, otherwise, the money
would have been entirely at my mother's disposal, without any
restriction whatever. It has given me such an abhorrence of annuities,
that I am sure I would not pin myself down to the payment of one for
all the world."
"It is certainly an unpleasant thing," replied Mr. Dashwood, "to have
those kind of yearly drains on one's income. One's fortune, as your
mother justly says, is _not_ one's own. To be tied down to the regular
payment of such a sum, on every rent day, is by no means desirable: it
takes away one's independence."
"Undoubtedly; and after all you have no thanks for it. They think
themselves secure, you do no more than what is expected, and it raises
no gratitude at all. If I were you, whatever I did should be done at
my own discretion entirely. I would not bind myself to allow them any
thing yearly. It may be very inconvenient some years to spare a
hundred, or even fifty pounds from our own expenses."
"I believe you are right, my love; it will be better that there should
be no annuity in the case; whatever I may give them occasionally will
be of far greater assistance than a yearly allowance, because they
would only enlarge their style of living if they felt sure of a larger
income, and would not be sixpence the richer for it at the end of the
year. It will certainly be much the best way. A present of fifty
pounds, now and then, will prevent their ever being distressed for
money, and will, I think, be amply discharging my promise to my
father."
"To be sure it will. Indeed, to say the truth, I am convinced within
myself that your father had no idea of your giving them any money at
all. The assistance he thought of, I dare say, was only such as might
be reasonably expected of you; for instance, such as looking out for a
comfortable small house for them, helping them to move their things,
and sending them presents of fish and game, and so forth, whenever
they are in season. I'll lay my life that he meant nothing farther;
indeed, it would be very strange and unreasonable if he did. Do but
consider, my dear Mr. Dashwood, how excessively comfortable your
mother-in-law and her daughters may live on the interest of seven
thousand pounds, besides the thousand pounds belonging to each of the
girls, which brings them in fifty pounds a year a-piece, and, of
course, they will pay their mother for their board out of it.
Altogether, they will have five hundred a-year amongst them, and what
on earth can four women want for more than that?--They will live so
cheap! Their housekeeping will be nothing at all. They will have no
carriage, no horses, and hardly any servants; they will keep no
company, and can have no expenses of any kind! Only conceive how
comfortable they will be! Five hundred a year! I am sure I cannot
imagine how they will spend half of it; and as to your giving them
more, it is quite absurd to think of it. They will be much more able
to give _you_ something."
"Upon my word," said Mr. Dashwood, "I believe you are perfectly right.
My father certainly could mean nothing more by his request to me than
what you say. I clearly understand it now, and I will strictly fulfil
my engagement by such acts of assistance and kindness to them as you
have described. When my mother removes into another house my services
shall be readily given to accommodate her as far as I can. Some little
present of furniture too may be acceptable then."
"Certainly," returned Mrs. John Dashwood. "But, however, _one_ thing
must be considered. When your father and mother moved to Norland,
though the furniture of Stanhill was sold, all the china, plate, and
linen was saved, and is now left to your mother. Her house will
therefore be almost completely fitted up as soon as she takes it."
"That is a material consideration undoubtedly. A valuable legacy
indeed! And yet some of the plate would have been a very pleasant
addition to our own stock here."
"Yes; and the set of breakfast china is twice as handsome as what
belongs to this house. A great deal too handsome, in my opinion, for
any place _they_ can ever afford to live in. But, however, so it is.
Your father thought only of _them_ And I must say this: that you owe
no particular gratitude to him, nor attention to his wishes; for we
very well know that if he could, he would have left almost everything
in the world to _them._"
This argument was irresistible. It gave to his intentions whatever of
decision was wanting before; and he finally resolved, that it would be
absolutely unnecessary, if not highly indecorous, to do more for the
widow and children of his father, than such kind of neighbourly acts
as his own wife pointed out.
CHAPTER III
Mrs. Dashwood remained at Norland several months; not from any
disinclination to move when the sight of every well known spot ceased
to raise the violent emotion which it produced for a while; for when
her spirits began to revive, and her mind became capable of some other
exertion than that of heightening its affliction by melancholy
remembrances, she was impatient to be gone, and indefatigable in her
inquiries for a suitable dwelling in the neighbourhood of Norland; for
to remove far from that beloved spot was impossible. But she could
hear of no situation that at once answered her notions of comfort and
ease, and suited the prudence of her eldest daughter, whose steadier
judgment rejected several houses as too large for their income, which
her mother would have approved.
[Illustration: "_I cannot imagine how they will spend half of it._"]
Mrs. Dashwood had been informed by her husband of the solemn promise
on the part of his son in their favour, which gave comfort to his last
earthly reflections. She doubted the sincerity of this assurance no
more than he had doubted it himself, and she thought of it for her
daughters' sake with satisfaction, though as for herself she was
persuaded that a much smaller provision than 7000L would support her
in affluence. For their brother's sake, too, for the sake of his own
heart, she rejoiced; and she reproached herself for being unjust to
his merit before, in believing him incapable of generosity. His
attentive behaviour to herself and his sisters convinced her that
their welfare was dear to him, and, for a long time, she firmly relied
on the liberality of his intentions.
The contempt which she had, very early in their acquaintance, felt for
her daughter-in-law, was very much increased by the farther knowledge
of her character, which half a year's residence in her family
afforded; and perhaps in spite of every consideration of politeness or
maternal affection on the side of the former, the two ladies might
have found it impossible to have lived together so long, had not a
particular circumstance occurred to give still greater eligibility,
according to the opinions of Mrs. Dashwood, to her daughters'
continuance at Norland.
This circumstance was a growing attachment between her eldest girl and
the brother of Mrs. John Dashwood, a gentlemanlike and pleasing young
man, who was introduced to their acquaintance soon after his sister's
establishment at Norland, and who had since spent the greatest part of
his time there.
Some mothers might have encouraged the intimacy from motives of
interest, for Edward Ferrars was the eldest son of a man who had died
very rich; and some might have repressed it from motives of prudence,
for, except a trifling sum, the whole of his fortune depended on the
will of his mother. But Mrs. Dashwood was alike uninfluenced by either
consideration. It was enough for her that he appeared to be amiable,
that he loved her daughter, and that Elinor returned the partiality.
It was contrary to every doctrine of her's that difference of fortune
should keep any couple asunder who were attracted by resemblance of
disposition; and that Elinor's merit should not be acknowledged by
every one who knew her, was to her comprehension impossible.
Edward Ferrars was not recommended to their good opinion by any
peculiar graces of person or address. He was not handsome, and his
manners required intimacy to make them pleasing. He was too diffident
to do justice to himself; but when his natural shyness was overcome,
his behaviour gave every indication of an open, affectionate heart.
His understanding was good, and his education had given it solid
improvement. But he was neither fitted by abilities nor disposition to
answer the wishes of his mother and sister, who longed to see him
distinguished as--they hardly knew what. They wanted him to make a
fine figure in the world in some manner or other. His mother wished to
interest him in political concerns, to get him into parliament, or to
see him connected with some of the great men of the day. Mrs. John
Dashwood wished it likewise; but in the mean while, till one of these
superior blessings could be attained, it would have quieted her
ambition to see him driving a barouche. But Edward had no turn for
great men or barouches. All his wishes centered in domestic comfort
and the quiet of private life. Fortunately he had a younger brother
who was more promising.
Edward had been staying several weeks in the house before he engaged
much of Mrs. Dashwood's attention; for she was, at that time, in such
affliction as rendered her careless of surrounding objects. She saw
only that he was quiet and unobtrusive, and she liked him for it. He
did not disturb the wretchedness of her mind by ill-timed
conversation. She was first called to observe and approve him farther,
by a reflection which Elinor chanced one day to make on the
difference between him and his sister. It was a contrast which
recommended him most forcibly to her mother.
"It is enough," said she; "to say that he is unlike Fanny is enough.
It implies everything amiable. I love him already."
"I think you will like him," said Elinor, "when you know more of him."
"Like him!" replied her mother with a smile. "I feel no sentiment of
approbation inferior to love."
"You may esteem him."
"I have never yet known what it was to separate esteem and love."
Mrs. Dashwood now took pains to get acquainted with him. Her manners
were attaching, and soon banished his reserve. She speedily
comprehended all his merits; the persuasion of his regard for Elinor
perhaps assisted her penetration; but she really felt assured of his
worth: and even that quietness of manner, which militated against all
her established ideas of what a young man's address ought to be, was
no longer uninteresting when she knew his heart to be warm and his
temper affectionate.
No sooner did she perceive any symptom of love in his behaviour to
Elinor, than she considered their serious attachment as certain, and
looked forward to their marriage as rapidly approaching.
"In a few months, my dear Marianne," said she, "Elinor will, in all
probability be settled for life. We shall miss her; but _she_ will be
happy."
"Oh! Mamma, how shall we do without her?"
"My love, it will be scarcely a separation. We shall live within a few
miles of each other, and shall meet every day of our lives. You will
gain a brother--a real, affectionate brother. I have the highest
opinion in the world of Edward's heart. But you look grave, Marianne;
do you disapprove your sister's choice?"
"Perhaps," said Marianne, "I may consider it with some surprise.
Edward is very amiable, and I love him tenderly. But yet--he is not
the kind of young man; there is something wanting--his figure is not
striking; it has none of that grace which I should expect in the man
who could seriously attach my sister. His eyes want all that spirit,
that fire, which at once announce virtue and intelligence. And besides
all this, I am afraid, Mamma, he has no real taste. Music seems
scarcely to attract him, and though he admires Elinor's drawings very
much, it is not the admiration of a person who can understand their
worth. It is evident, in spite of his frequent attention to her while
she draws, that in fact he knows nothing of the matter. He admires as
a lover, not as a connoisseur. To satisfy me, those characters must be
united. I could not be happy with a man whose taste did not in every
point coincide with my own. He must enter into all my feelings; the
same books, the same music must charm us both. Oh! mama, how
spiritless, how tame was Edward's manner in reading to us last night!
I felt for my sister most severely. Yet she bore it with so much
composure, she seemed scarcely to notice it. I could hardly keep my
seat. To hear those beautiful lines which have frequently almost
driven me wild, pronounced with such impenetrable calmness, such
dreadful indifference!"
"He would certainly have done more justice to simple and elegant
prose. I thought so at the time; but you _would_ give him Cowper."
"Nay, Mamma, if he is not to be animated by Cowper!--but we must allow
for difference of taste. Elinor has not my feelings, and therefore she
may overlook it, and be happy with him. But it would have broke _my_
heart, had I loved him, to hear him read with so little sensibility.
Mama, the more I know of the world, the more am I convinced that I
shall never see a man whom I can really love. I require so much! He
must have all Edward's virtues, and his person and manners must
ornament his goodness with every possible charm."
"Remember, my love, that you are not seventeen. It is yet too early in
life to despair of such a happiness. Why should you be less fortunate
than your mother? In one circumstance only, my Marianne, may your
destiny be different from her's!"
CHAPTER IV
"What a pity it is, Elinor," said Marianne, "that Edward should have
no taste for drawing."
"No taste for drawing!" replied Elinor, "why should you think so? He
does not draw himself, indeed, but he has great pleasure in seeing the
performances of other people, and I assure you he is by no means
deficient in natural taste, though he has not had opportunities of
improving it. Had he ever been in the way of learning, I think he
would have drawn very well. He distrusts his own judgment in such
matters so much, that he is always unwilling to give his opinion on
any picture; but he has an innate propriety and simplicity of taste,
which in general direct him perfectly right."
Marianne was afraid of offending, and said no more on the subject; but
the kind of approbation which Elinor described as excited in him by
the drawings of other people, was very far from that rapturous
delight, which, in her opinion, could alone be called taste. Yet,
though smiling within herself at the mistake, she honoured her sister
for that blind partiality to Edward which produced it.
"I hope, Marianne," continued Elinor, "you do not consider him as
deficient in general taste. Indeed, I think I may say that you cannot,
for your behaviour to him is perfectly cordial, and if _that_ were
your opinion, I am sure you could never be civil to him."
Marianne hardly knew what to say. She would not wound the feelings of
her sister on any account, and yet to say what she did not believe was
impossible. At length she replied:
"Do not be offended, Elinor, if my praise of him is not in every thing
equal to your sense of his merits. I have not had so many
opportunities of estimating the minuter propensities of his mind, his
inclinations and tastes, as you have; but I have the highest opinion
in the world of his goodness and sense. I think him every thing that
is worthy and amiable."
"I am sure," replied Elinor, with a smile, "that his dearest friends
could not be dissatisfied with such commendation as that. I do not
perceive how you could express yourself more warmly."
Marianne was rejoiced to find her sister so easily pleased.
"Of his sense and his goodness," continued Elinor, "no one can, I
think, be in doubt, who has seen him often enough to engage him in
unreserved conversation. The excellence of his understanding and his
principles can be concealed only by that shyness which too often keeps
him silent. You know enough of him to do justice to his solid worth.
But of his minuter propensities, as you call them you have from
peculiar circumstances been kept more ignorant than myself. He and I
have been at times thrown a good deal together, while you have been
wholly engrossed on the most affectionate principle by my mother. I
have seen a great deal of him, have studied his sentiments and heard
his opinion on subjects of literature and taste; and, upon the whole,
I venture to pronounce that his mind is well-informed, enjoyment of
books exceedingly great, his imagination lively, his observation just
and correct, and his taste delicate and pure. His abilities in every
respect improve as much upon acquaintance as his manners and person.
At first sight, his address is certainly not striking; and his person
can hardly be called handsome, till the expression of his eyes, which
are uncommonly good, and the general sweetness of his countenance, is
perceived. At present, I know him so well, that I think him really
handsome; or at least, almost so. What say you, Marianne?"
"I shall very soon think him handsome, Elinor, if I do not now. When
you tell me to love him as a brother, I shall no more see imperfection
in his face, than I now do in his heart."
Elinor started at this declaration, and was sorry for the warmth she
had been betrayed into, in speaking of him. She felt that Edward stood
very high in her opinion. She believed the regard to be mutual; but
she required greater certainty of it to make Marianne's conviction of
their attachment agreeable to her. She knew that what Marianne and her
mother conjectured one moment, they believed the next--that with them,
to wish was to hope, and to hope was to expect. She tried to explain
the real state of the case to her sister.
"I do not attempt to deny," said she, "that I think very highly of
him--that I greatly esteem, that I like him."
Marianne here burst forth with indignation--
"Esteem him! Like him! Cold-hearted Elinor! Oh! worse than
cold-hearted! Ashamed of being otherwise. Use those words again, and I
will leave the room this moment."
Elinor could not help laughing. "Excuse me," said she; "and be assured
that I meant no offence to you, by speaking, in so quiet a way, of my
own feelings. Believe them to be stronger than I have declared;
believe them, in short, to be such as his merit, and the
suspicion--the hope--of his affection for me may warrant, without
imprudence or folly. But farther than this you must not believe. I am
by no means assured of his regard for me. There are moments when the
extent of it seems doubtful; and till his sentiments are fully known,
you cannot wonder at my wishing to avoid any encouragement of my own
partiality, by believing or calling it more than it is. In my heart I
feel little--scarcely any doubt of his preference. But there are other
points to be considered besides his inclination. He is very far from
being independent. What his mother really is we cannot know; but, from
Fanny's occasional mention of her conduct and opinions, we have never
been disposed to think her amiable; and I am very much mistaken if
Edward is not himself aware that there would be many difficulties in
his way, if he were to wish to marry a woman who had not either a
great fortune or high rank."
Marianne was astonished to find how much the imagination of her mother
and herself had outstripped the truth.
"And you really are not engaged to him!" said she. "Yet it certainly
soon will happen. But two advantages will proceed from this delay. I
shall not lose you so soon, and Edward will have greater opportunity
of improving that natural taste for your favourite pursuit which must
be so indispensably necessary to your future felicity. Oh! if he
should be so far stimulated by your genius as to learn to draw
himself, how delightful it would be!"
Elinor had given her real opinion to her sister. She could not
consider her partiality for Edward in so prosperous a state as
Marianne had believed it. There was, at times, a want of spirits about
him which, if it did not denote indifference, spoke of something
almost as unpromising. A doubt of her regard, supposing him to feel
it, need not give him more than inquietude. It would not be likely to
produce that dejection of mind which frequently attended him. A more
reasonable cause might be found in the dependent situation which
forbade the indulgence of his affection. She knew that his mother
neither behaved to him so as to make his home comfortable at present,
nor to give him any assurance that he might form a home for himself,
without strictly attending to her views for his aggrandizement. With
such a knowledge as this, it was impossible for Elinor to feel easy on
the subject. She was far from depending on that result of his
preference of her, which her mother and sister still considered as
certain. Nay, the longer they were together the more doubtful seemed
the nature of his regard; and sometimes, for a few painful minutes,
she believed it to be no more than friendship.
But, whatever might really be its limits, it was enough, when
perceived by his sister, to make her uneasy, and at the same time,
(which was still more common,) to make her uncivil. She took the first
opportunity of affronting her mother-in-law on the occasion, talking
to her so expressively of her brother's great expectations, of Mrs.
Ferrars's resolution that both her sons should marry well, and of the
danger attending any young woman who attempted to _draw him in_, that
Mrs. Dashwood could neither pretend to be unconscious, nor endeavor to
be calm. She gave her an answer which marked her contempt, and
instantly left the room, resolving that, whatever might be the
inconvenience or expense of so sudden a removal, her beloved Elinor
should not be exposed another week to such insinuations.
In this state of her spirits, a letter was delivered to her from the
post, which contained a proposal particularly well timed. It was the
offer of a small house, on very easy terms, belonging to a relation of
her own, a gentleman of consequence and property in Devonshire. The
letter was from this gentleman himself, and written in the true spirit
of friendly accommodation. He understood that she was in need of a
dwelling; and though the house he now offered her was merely a
cottage, he assured her that everything should be done to it which she
might think necessary, if the situation pleased her. He earnestly
pressed her, after giving the particulars of the house and garden, to
come with her daughters to Barton Park, the place of his own
residence, from whence she might judge, herself, whether Barton
Cottage, for the houses were in the same parish, could, by any
alteration, be made comfortable to her. He seemed really anxious to
accommodate them and the whole of his letter was written in so
friendly a style as could not fail of giving pleasure to his cousin;
more especially at a moment when she was suffering under the cold and
unfeeling behaviour of her nearer connections. She needed no time for
deliberation or inquiry. Her resolution was formed as she read. The
situation of Barton, in a county so far distant from Sussex as
Devonshire, which, but a few hours before, would have been a
sufficient objection to outweigh every possible advantage belonging to
the place, was now its first recommendation. To quit the neighbourhood
of Norland was no longer an evil; it was an object of desire; it was a
blessing, in comparison of the misery of continuing her
daughter-in-law's guest; and to remove for ever from that beloved
place would be less painful than to inhabit or visit it while such a
woman was its mistress. She instantly wrote Sir John Middleton her
acknowledgment of his kindness, and her acceptance of his proposal;
and then hastened to show both letters to her daughters, that she
might be secure of their approbation before her answer were sent.
Elinor had always thought it would be more prudent for them to settle
at some distance from Norland, than immediately amongst their present
acquaintance. On _that_ head, therefore, it was not for her to oppose
her mother's intention of removing into Devonshire. The house, too, as
described by Sir John, was on so simple a scale, and the rent so
uncommonly moderate, as to leave her no right of objection on either
point; and, therefore, though it was not a plan which brought any
charm to her fancy, though it was a removal from the vicinity of
Norland beyond her wishes, she made no attempt to dissuade her mother
from sending a letter of acquiescence.
CHAPTER V
No sooner was her answer dispatched, than Mrs. Dashwood indulged
herself in the pleasure of announcing to her son-in-law and his wife
that she was provided with a house, and should incommode them no
longer than till every thing were ready for her inhabiting it. They
heard her with surprise. Mrs. John Dashwood said nothing; but her
husband civilly hoped that she would not be settled far from Norland.
She had great satisfaction in replying that she was going into
Devonshire. Edward turned hastily towards her, on hearing this, and,
in a voice of surprise and concern, which required no explanation to
her, repeated, "Devonshire! Are you, indeed, going there? So far from
hence! And to what part of it?" She explained the situation. It was
within four miles northward of Exeter.
"It is but a cottage," she continued, "but I hope to see many of my
friends in it. A room or two can easily be added; and if my friends
find no difficulty in travelling so far to see me, I am sure I will
find none in accommodating them."
She concluded with a very kind invitation to Mr. and Mrs. John
Dashwood to visit her at Barton; and to Edward she gave one with still
greater affection. Though her late conversation with her
daughter-in-law had made her resolve on remaining at Norland no longer
than was unavoidable, it had not produced the smallest effect on her
in that point to which it principally tended. To separate Edward and
Elinor was as far from being her object as ever; and she wished to
show Mrs. John Dashwood, by this pointed invitation to her brother,
how totally she disregarded her disapprobation of the match.
Mr. John Dashwood told his mother again and again how exceedingly
sorry he was that she had taken a house at such a distance from
Norland as to prevent his being of any service to her in removing her
furniture. He really felt conscientiously vexed on the occasion; for
the very exertion to which he had limited the performance of his
promise to his father was by this arrangement rendered impracticable.
The furniture was all sent around by water. It chiefly consisted of
household linen, plate, china, and books, with a handsome pianoforte
of Marianne's. Mrs. John Dashwood saw the packages depart with a sigh:
she could not help feeling it hard that as Mrs. Dashwood's income
would be so trifling in comparison with their own, she should have any
handsome article of furniture.
Mrs. Dashwood took the house for a twelvemonth; it was ready
furnished, and she might have immediate possession. No difficulty
arose on either side in the agreement; and she waited only for the
disposal of her effects at Norland, and to determine her future
household, before she set off for the west; and this, as she was
exceedingly rapid in the performance of everything that interested
her, was soon done. The horses which were left her by her husband had
been sold soon after his death, and an opportunity now offering of
disposing of her carriage, she agreed to sell that likewise at the
earnest advice of her eldest daughter. For the comfort of her
children, had she consulted only her own wishes, she would have kept
it; but the discretion of Elinor prevailed. _Her_ wisdom too limited
the number of their servants to three; two maids and a man, with whom
they were speedily provided from amongst those who had formed their
establishment at Norland.
The man and one of the maids were sent off immediately into
Devonshire, to prepare the house for their mistress's arrival; for as
Lady Middleton was entirely unknown to Mrs. Dashwood, she preferred
going directly to the cottage to being a visitor at Barton Park; and
she relied so undoubtingly on Sir John's description of the house, as
to feel no curiosity to examine it herself till she entered it as her
own. Her eagerness to be gone from Norland was preserved from
diminution by the evident satisfaction of her daughter-in-law in the
prospect of her removal; a satisfaction which was but feebly attempted
to be concealed under a cold invitation to her to defer her departure.
Now was the time when her son-in-law's promise to his father might
with particular propriety be fulfilled. Since he had neglected to do
it on first coming to the estate, their quitting his house might be
looked on as the most suitable period for its accomplishment. But Mrs.
Dashwood began shortly to give over every hope of the kind, and to be
convinced, from the general drift of his discourse, that his
assistance extended no farther than their maintenance for six months
at Norland. He so frequently talked of the increasing expenses of
housekeeping, and of the perpetual demands upon his purse, which a man
of any consequence in the world was beyond calculation exposed to,
that he seemed rather to stand in need of more money himself than to
have any design of giving money away.
In a very few weeks from the day which brought Sir John Middleton's
first letter to Norland, every thing was so far settled in their
future abode as to enable Mrs. Dashwood and her daughters to begin
their journey.
Many were the tears shed by them in their last adieus to a place so
much beloved. "Dear, dear Norland!" said Marianne, as she wandered
alone before the house, on the last evening of their being there;
"when shall I cease to regret you!--when learn to feel a home
elsewhere! Oh! happy house, could you know what I suffer in now
viewing you from this spot, from whence perhaps I may view you no
more! And you, ye well-known trees!--but you will continue the same.
No leaf will decay because we are removed, nor any branch become
motionless although we can observe you no longer! No; you will
continue the same; unconscious of the pleasure or the regret you
occasion, and insensible of any change in those who walk under your
shade! But who will remain to enjoy you?"
CHAPTER VI
The first part of their journey was performed in too melancholy a
disposition to be otherwise than tedious and unpleasant. But as they
drew towards the end of it, their interest in the appearance of a
country which they were to inhabit overcame their dejection, and a
view of Barton Valley as they entered it gave them cheerfulness. It
was a pleasant fertile spot, well wooded, and rich in pasture. After
winding along it for more than a mile, they reached their own house. A
small green court was the whole of its demesne in front; and a neat
wicket gate admitted them into it.
As a house, Barton Cottage, though small, was comfortable and compact;
but as a cottage it was defective, for the building was regular, the
roof was tiled, the window shutters were not painted green, nor were
the walls covered with honeysuckles. A narrow passage led directly
through the house into the garden behind. On each side of the entrance
was a sitting room, about sixteen feet square; and beyond them were
the offices and the stairs. Four bedrooms and two garrets formed the
rest of the house. It had not been built many years and was in good
repair. In comparison of Norland, it was poor and small indeed!--but
the tears which recollection called forth as they entered the house
were soon dried away. They were cheered by the joy of the servants on
their arrival, and each for the sake of the others resolved to appear
happy. It was very early in September; the season was fine, and from
first seeing the place under the advantage of good weather, they
received an impression in its favour which was of material service in
recommending it to their lasting approbation.
The situation of the house was good. High hills rose immediately
behind, and at no great distance on each side; some of which were open
downs, the others cultivated and woody. The village of Barton was
chiefly on one of these hills, and formed a pleasant view from the
cottage windows. The prospect in front was more extensive; it
commanded the whole of the valley, and reached into the country
beyond. The hills which surrounded the cottage terminated the valley
in that direction; under another name, and in another course, it
branched out again between two of the steepest of them.
With the size and furniture of the house Mrs. Dashwood was upon the
whole well satisfied; for though her former style of life rendered
many additions to the latter indispensable, yet to add and improve was
a delight to her; and she had at this time ready money enough to
supply all that was wanted of greater elegance to the apartments. "As
for the house itself, to be sure," said she, "it is too small for our
family, but we will make ourselves tolerably comfortable for the
present, as it is too late in the year for improvements. Perhaps in
the spring, if I have plenty of money, as I dare say I shall, we may
think about building. These parlors are both too small for such
parties of our friends as I hope to see often collected here; and I
have some thoughts of throwing the passage into one of them with
perhaps a part of the other, and so leave the remainder of that other
for an entrance; this, with a new drawing room which may be easily
added, and a bed-chamber and garret above, will make it a very snug
little cottage. I could wish the stairs were handsome. But one must
not expect every thing; though I suppose it would be no difficult
matter to widen them. I shall see how much I am before-hand with the
world in the spring, and we will plan our improvements accordingly."
In the mean time, till all these alterations could be made from the
savings of an income of five hundred a-year by a woman who never
saved in her life, they were wise enough to be contented with the
house as it was; and each of them was busy in arranging their
particular concerns, and endeavoring, by placing around them books and
other possessions, to form themselves a home. Marianne's pianoforte
was unpacked and properly disposed of; and Elinor's drawings were
affixed to the walls of their sitting room.
In such employments as these they were interrupted soon after
breakfast the next day by the entrance of their landlord, who called
to welcome them to Barton, and to offer them every accommodation from
his own house and garden in which theirs might at present be
deficient. Sir John Middleton was a good looking man about forty. He
had formerly visited at Stanhill, but it was too long for his young
cousins to remember him. His countenance was thoroughly good-humoured;
and his manners were as friendly as the style of his letter. Their
arrival seemed to afford him real satisfaction, and their comfort to
be an object of real solicitude to him. He said much of his earnest
desire of their living in the most sociable terms with his family, and
pressed them so cordially to dine at Barton Park every day till they
were better settled at home, that, though his entreaties were carried
to a point of perseverance beyond civility, they could not give
offence. His kindness was not confined to words; for within an hour
after he left them, a large basket full of garden stuff and fruit
arrived from the park, which was followed before the end of the day by
a present of game. He insisted, moreover, on conveying all their
letters to and from the post for them, and would not be denied the
satisfaction of sending them his newspaper every day.
Lady Middleton had sent a very civil message by him, denoting her
intention of waiting on Mrs. Dashwood as soon as she could be assured
that her visit would be no inconvenience; and as this message was
answered by an invitation equally polite, her ladyship was introduced
to them the next day.
[Illustration: _So shy before company._]
They were, of course, very anxious to see a person on whom so much of
their comfort at Barton must depend; and the elegance of her
appearance was favourable to their wishes. Lady Middleton was not more
than six or seven and twenty; her face was handsome, her figure tall
and striking, and her address graceful. Her manners had all the
elegance which her husband's wanted. But they would have been improved
by some share of his frankness and warmth; and her visit was long
enough to detract something from their first admiration, by showing
that, though perfectly well-bred, she was reserved, cold, and had
nothing to say for herself beyond the most common-place inquiry or
remark.
Conversation however was not wanted, for Sir John was very chatty, and
Lady Middleton had taken the wise precaution of bringing with her
their eldest child, a fine little boy about six years old, by which
means there was one subject always to be recurred to by the ladies in
case of extremity, for they had to enquire his name and age, admire
his beauty, and ask him questions which his mother answered for him,
while he hung about her and held down his head, to the great surprise
of her ladyship, who wondered at his being so shy before company, as
he could make noise enough at home. On every formal visit a child
ought to be of the party, by way of provision for discourse. In the
present case it took up ten minutes to determine whether the boy were
most like his father or mother, and in what particular he resembled
either, for of course every body differed, and every body was
astonished at the opinion of the others.
An opportunity was soon to be given to the Dashwoods of debating on
the rest of the children, as Sir John would not leave the house
without securing their promise of dining at the park the next day.
CHAPTER VII
Barton Park was about half a mile from the cottage. The ladies had
passed near it in their way along the valley, but it was screened from
their view at home by the projection of a hill. The house was large
and handsome; and the Middletons lived in a style of equal hospitality
and elegance. The former was for Sir John's gratification, the latter
for that of his lady. They were scarcely ever without some friends
staying with them in the house, and they kept more company of every
kind than any other family in the neighbourhood. It was necessary to
the happiness of both; for however dissimilar in temper and outward
behaviour, they strongly resembled each other in that total want of
talent and taste which confined their employments, unconnected with
such as society produced, within a very narrow compass. Sir John was a
sportsman, Lady Middleton a mother. He hunted and shot, and she
humoured her children; and these were their only resources. Lady
Middleton had the advantage of being able to spoil her children all
the year round, while Sir John's independent employments were in
existence only half the time. Continual engagements at home and
abroad, however, supplied all the deficiencies of nature and
education; supported the good spirits of Sir John, and gave exercise
to the good breeding of his wife.
Lady Middleton piqued herself upon the elegance of her table, and of
all her domestic arrangements; and from this kind of vanity was her
greatest enjoyment in any of their parties. But Sir John's
satisfaction in society was much more real; he delighted in collecting
about him more young people than his house would hold, and the noisier
they were the better was he pleased. He was a blessing to all the
juvenile part of the neighbourhood, for in summer he was for ever
forming parties to eat cold ham and chicken out of doors, and in
winter his private balls were numerous enough for any young lady who
was not suffering under the insatiable appetite of fifteen.
The arrival of a new family in the country was always a matter of joy
to him, and in every point of view he was charmed with the inhabitants
he had now procured for his cottage at Barton. The Miss Dashwoods were
young, pretty, and unaffected. It was enough to secure his good
opinion; for to be unaffected was all that a pretty girl could want to
make her mind as captivating as her person. The friendliness of his
disposition made him happy in accommodating those, whose situation
might be considered, in comparison with the past, as unfortunate. In
showing kindness to his cousins therefore he had the real satisfaction
of a good heart; and in settling a family of females only in his
cottage, he had all the satisfaction of a sportsman; for a sportsman,
though he esteems only those of his sex who are sportsmen likewise, is
not often desirous of encouraging their taste by admitting them to a
residence within his own manor.
Mrs. Dashwood and her daughters were met at the door of the house by
Sir John, who welcomed them to Barton Park with unaffected sincerity;
and as he attended them to the drawing room repeated to the young
ladies the concern which the same subject had drawn from him the day
before, at being unable to get any smart young men to meet them. They
would see, he said, only one gentleman there besides himself; a
particular friend who was staying at the park, but who was neither
very young nor very gay. He hoped they would all excuse the smallness
of the party, and could assure them it should never happen so again.
He had been to several families that morning in hopes of procuring
some addition to their number, but it was moonlight and every body was
full of engagements. Luckily Lady Middleton's mother had arrived at
Barton within the last hour, and as she was a very cheerful agreeable
woman, he hoped the young ladies would not find it so very dull as
they might imagine. The young ladies, as well as their mother, were
perfectly satisfied with having two entire strangers of the party, and
wished for no more.
Mrs. Jennings, Lady Middleton's mother, was a good-humoured, merry,
fat, elderly woman, who talked a great deal, seemed very happy, and
rather vulgar. She was full of jokes and laughter, and before dinner
was over had said many witty things on the subject of lovers and
husbands; hoped they had not left their hearts behind them in Sussex,
and pretended to see them blush whether they did or not. Marianne was
vexed at it for her sister's sake, and turned her eyes towards Elinor
to see how she bore these attacks, with an earnestness which gave
Elinor far more pain than could arise from such common-place raillery
as Mrs. Jennings's.
Colonel Brandon, the friend of Sir John, seemed no more adapted by
resemblance of manner to be his friend, than Lady Middleton was to be
his wife, or Mrs. Jennings to be Lady Middleton's mother. He was
silent and grave. His appearance however was not unpleasing, in spite
of his being in the opinion of Marianne and Margaret an absolute old
bachelor, for he was on the wrong side of five and thirty; but though
his face was not handsome, his countenance was sensible, and his
address was particularly gentlemanlike.
There was nothing in any of the party which could recommend them as
companions to the Dashwoods; but the cold insipidity of Lady Middleton
was so particularly repulsive, that in comparison of it the gravity
of Colonel Brandon, and even the boisterous mirth of Sir John and his
mother-in-law was interesting. Lady Middleton seemed to be roused to
enjoyment only by the entrance of her four noisy children after
dinner, who pulled her about, tore her clothes, and put an end to
every kind of discourse except what related to themselves.
In the evening, as Marianne was discovered to be musical, she was
invited to play. The instrument was unlocked, every body prepared to
be charmed, and Marianne, who sang very well, at their request went
through the chief of the songs which Lady Middleton had brought into
the family on her marriage, and which perhaps had lain ever since in
the same position on the pianoforte, for her ladyship had celebrated
that event by giving up music, although by her mother's account, she
had played extremely well, and by her own was very fond of it.
Marianne's performance was highly applauded. Sir John was loud in his
admiration at the end of every song, and as loud in his conversation
with the others while every song lasted. Lady Middleton frequently
called him to order, wondered how any one's attention could be
diverted from music for a moment, and asked Marianne to sing a
particular song which Marianne had just finished. Colonel Brandon
alone, of all the party, heard her without being in raptures. He paid
her only the compliment of attention; and she felt a respect for him
on the occasion, which the others had reasonably forfeited by their
shameless want of taste. His pleasure in music, though it amounted not
to that ecstatic delight which alone could sympathize with her own,
was estimable when contrasted against the horrible insensibility of
the others; and she was reasonable enough to allow that a man of five
and thirty might well have outlived all acuteness of feeling and every
exquisite power of enjoyment. She was perfectly disposed to make every
allowance for the colonel's advanced state of life which humanity
required.
CHAPTER VIII
Mrs. Jennings was a widow with an ample jointure. She had only two
daughters, both of whom she had lived to see respectably married, and
she had now therefore nothing to do but to marry all the rest of the
world. In the promotion of this object she was zealously active, as
far as her ability reached; and missed no opportunity of projecting
weddings among all the young people of her acquaintance. She was
remarkably quick in the discovery of attachments, and had enjoyed the
advantage of raising the blushes and the vanity of many a young lady
by insinuations of her power over such a young man; and this kind of
discernment enabled her soon after her arrival at Barton decisively to
pronounce that Colonel Brandon was very much in love with Marianne
Dashwood. She rather suspected it to be so, on the very first evening
of their being together, from his listening so attentively while she
sang to them; and when the visit was returned by the Middletons'
dining at the cottage, the fact was ascertained by his listening to
her again. It must be so. She was perfectly convinced of it. It would
be an excellent match, for _he_ was rich, and _she_ was handsome. Mrs.
Jennings had been anxious to see Colonel Brandon well married, ever
since her connection with Sir John first brought him to her knowledge;
and she was always anxious to get a good husband for every pretty
girl.
The immediate advantage to herself was by no means inconsiderable, for
it supplied her with endless jokes against them both. At the park she
laughed at the colonel, and in the cottage at Marianne. To the former
her raillery was probably, as far as it regarded only himself,
perfectly indifferent; but to the latter it was at first
incomprehensible; and when its object was understood, she hardly knew
whether most to laugh at its absurdity, or censure its impertinence,
for she considered it as an unfeeling reflection on the colonel's
advanced years, and on his forlorn condition as an old bachelor.
Mrs. Dashwood, who could not think a man five years younger than
herself, so exceedingly ancient as he appeared to the youthful fancy
of her daughter, ventured to clear Mrs. Jennings from the probability
of wishing to throw ridicule on his age.
"But at least, Mamma, you cannot deny the absurdity of the accusation,
though you may not think it intentionally ill-natured. Colonel Brandon
is certainly younger than Mrs. Jennings, but he is old enough to be
_my_ father; and if he were ever animated enough to be in love, must
have long outlived every sensation of the kind. It is too ridiculous!
When is a man to be safe from such wit, if age and infirmity will not
protect him?"
"Infirmity!" said Elinor, "do you call Colonel Brandon infirm? I can
easily suppose that his age may appear much greater to you than to my
mother; but you can hardly deceive yourself as to his having the use
of his limbs!"
"Did not you hear him complain of the rheumatism? and is not that the
commonest infirmity of declining life?"
"My dearest child," said her mother, laughing, "at this rate you must
be in continual terror of _my_ decay; and it must seem to you a
miracle that my life has been extended to the advanced age of forty."
"Mamma, you are not doing me justice. I know very well that Colonel
Brandon is not old enough to make his friends yet apprehensive of
losing him in the course of nature. He may live twenty years longer.
But thirty-five has nothing to do with matrimony."
"Perhaps," said Elinor, "thirty-five and seventeen had better not have
any thing to do with matrimony together. But if there should by any
chance happen to be a woman who is single at seven and twenty, I
should not think Colonel Brandon's being thirty-five any objection to
his marrying _her_ ."
"A woman of seven and twenty," said Marianne, after pausing a moment,
"can never hope to feel or inspire affection again, and if her home be
uncomfortable, or her fortune small, I can suppose that she might
bring herself to submit to the offices of a nurse, for the sake of the
provision and security of a wife. In his marrying such a woman
therefore there would be nothing unsuitable. It would be a compact of
convenience, and the world would be satisfied. In my eyes it would be
no marriage at all, but that would be nothing. To me it would seem
only a commercial exchange, in which each wished to be benefited at
the expense of the other."
"It would be impossible, I know," replied Elinor, "to convince you
that a woman of seven and twenty could feel for a man of thirty-five
anything near enough to love, to make him a desirable companion to
her. But I must object to your dooming Colonel Brandon and his wife to
the constant confinement of a sick chamber, merely because he chanced
to complain yesterday (a very cold damp day) of a slight rheumatic
feel in one of his shoulders."
"But he talked of flannel waistcoats," said Marianne; "and with me a
flannel waistcoat is invariably connected with aches, cramps,
rheumatisms, and every species of ailment that can afflict the old and
the feeble."
"Had he been only in a violent fever, you would not have despised him
half so much. Confess, Marianne, is not there something interesting to
you in the flushed cheek, hollow eye, and quick pulse of a fever?"
Soon after this, upon Elinor's leaving the room, "Mamma," said
Marianne, "I have an alarm on the subject of illness which I cannot
conceal from you. I am sure Edward Ferrars is not well. We have now
been here almost a fortnight, and yet he does not come. Nothing but
real indisposition could occasion this extraordinary delay. What else
can detain him at Norland?"
"Had you any idea of his coming so soon?" said Mrs. Dashwood. "I had
none. On the contrary, if I have felt any anxiety at all on the
subject, it has been in recollecting that he sometimes showed a want
of pleasure and readiness in accepting my invitation, when I talked of
his coming to Barton. Does Elinor expect him already?"
"I have never mentioned it to her, but of course she must."
"I rather think you are mistaken, for when I was talking to her
yesterday of getting a new grate for the spare bed-chamber, she
observed that there was no immediate hurry for it, as it was not
likely that the room would be wanted for some time."
"How strange this is! what can be the meaning of it! But the whole of
their behaviour to each other has been unaccountable! How cold, how
composed were their last adieus! How languid their conversation the
last evening of their being together! In Edward's farewell there was
no distinction between Elinor and me: it was the good wishes of an
affectionate brother to both. Twice did I leave them purposely
together in the course of the last morning, and each time did he most
unaccountably follow me out of the room. And Elinor, in quitting
Norland and Edward, cried not as I did. Even now her self-command is
invariable. When is she dejected or melancholy? When does she try to
avoid society, or appear restless and dissatisfied in it?"
CHAPTER IX
The Dashwoods were now settled at Barton with tolerable comfort to
themselves. The house and the garden, with all the objects surrounding
them, were now become familiar, and the ordinary pursuits which had
given to Norland half its charms were engaged in again with far
greater enjoyment than Norland had been able to afford, since the loss
of their father. Sir John Middleton, who called on them every day for
the first fortnight, and who was not in the habit of seeing much
occupation at home, could not conceal his amazement on finding them
always employed.
Their visitors, except those from Barton Park, were not many; for, in
spite of Sir John's urgent entreaties that they would mix more in the
neighbourhood, and repeated assurances of his carriage being always at
their service, the independence of Mrs. Dashwood's spirit overcame the
wish of society for her children; and she was resolute in declining to
visit any family beyond the distance of a walk. There were but few who
could be so classed; and it was not all of them that were attainable.
About a mile and a half from the cottage, along the narrow winding
valley of Allenham, which issued from that of Barton, as formerly
described, the girls had, in one of their earliest walks, discovered
an ancient respectable looking mansion which, by reminding them a
little of Norland, interested their imagination and made them wish to
be better acquainted with it. But they learnt, on enquiry, that its
possessor, an elderly lady of very good character, was unfortunately
too infirm to mix with the world, and never stirred from home.
The whole country about them abounded in beautiful walks. The high
downs which invited them from almost every window of the cottage to
seek the exquisite enjoyment of air on their summits, were a happy
alternative when the dirt of the valleys beneath shut up their
superior beauties; and towards one of these hills did Marianne and
Margaret one memorable morning direct their steps, attracted by the
partial sunshine of a showery sky, and unable longer to bear the
confinement which the settled rain of the two preceding days had
occasioned. The weather was not tempting enough to draw the two others
from their pencil and their book, in spite of Marianne's declaration
that the day would be lastingly fair, and that every threatening cloud
would be drawn off from their hills; and the two girls set off
together.
They gaily ascended the downs, rejoicing in their own penetration at
every glimpse of blue sky; and when they caught in their faces the
animating gales of a high south-westerly wind, they pitied the fears
which had prevented their mother and Elinor from sharing such
delightful sensations.
"Is there a felicity in the world," said Marianne, "superior to
this?--Margaret, we will walk here at least two hours."
Margaret agreed, and they pursued their way against the wind,
resisting it with laughing delight for about twenty minutes longer,
when suddenly the clouds united over their heads, and a driving rain
set full in their face. Chagrined and surprised, they were obliged,
though unwillingly, to turn back, for no shelter was nearer than their
own house. One consolation however remained for them, to which the
exigence of the moment gave more than usual propriety,--it was that of
running with all possible speed down the steep side of the hill which
led immediately to their garden gate.
They set off. Marianne had at first the advantage, but a false step
brought her suddenly to the ground; and Margaret, unable to stop
herself to assist her, was involuntarily hurried along, and reached
the bottom in safety.
A gentleman carrying a gun, with two pointers playing round him, was
passing up the hill and within a few yards of Marianne, when her
accident happened. He put down his gun and ran to her assistance. She
had raised herself from the ground, but her foot had been twisted in
her fall, and she was scarcely able to stand. The gentleman offered
his services; and perceiving that her modesty declined what her
situation rendered necessary, took her up in his arms without farther
delay, and carried her down the hill. Then passing through the garden,
the gate of which had been left open by Margaret, he bore her directly
into the house, whither Margaret was just arrived, and quitted not his
hold till he had seated her in a chair in the parlour.
Elinor and her mother rose up in amazement at their entrance, and
while the eyes of both were fixed on him with an evident wonder and a
secret admiration which equally sprung from his appearance, he
apologized for his intrusion by relating its cause, in a manner so
frank and so graceful that his person, which was uncommonly handsome,
received additional charms from his voice and expression. Had he been
even old, ugly, and vulgar, the gratitude and kindness of Mrs.
Dashwood would have been secured by any act of attention to her child;
but the influence of youth, beauty, and elegance, gave an interest to
the action which came home to her feelings.
She thanked him again and again; and, with a sweetness of address
which always attended her, invited him to be seated. But this he
declined, as he was dirty and wet. Mrs. Dashwood then begged to know
to whom she was obliged. His name, he replied, was Willoughby, and his
present home was at Allenham, from whence he hoped she would allow him
the honour of calling tomorrow to enquire after Miss Dashwood. The
honour was readily granted, and he then departed, to make himself
still more interesting, in the midst of a heavy rain.
His manly beauty and more than common gracefulness were instantly the
theme of general admiration, and the laugh which his gallantry raised
against Marianne received particular spirit from his exterior
attractions. Marianne herself had seen less of his person than the
rest, for the confusion which crimsoned over her face, on his lifting
her up, had robbed her of the power of regarding him after their
entering the house. But she had seen enough of him to join in all the
admiration of the others, and with an energy which always adorned her
praise. His person and air were equal to what her fancy had ever drawn
for the hero of a favourite story; and in his carrying her into the
house with so little previous formality, there was a rapidity of
thought which particularly recommended the action to her. Every
circumstance belonging to him was interesting. His name was good, his
residence was in their favourite village, and she soon found out that
of all manly dresses a shooting-jacket was the most becoming. Her
imagination was busy, her reflections were pleasant, and the pain of a
sprained ankle was disregarded.
Sir John called on them as soon as the next interval of fair weather
that morning allowed him to get out of doors; and Marianne's accident
being related to him, he was eagerly asked whether he knew any
gentleman of the name of Willoughby at Allenham.
"Willoughby!" cried Sir John; "what, is _he_ in the country? That is
good news however; I will ride over tomorrow, and ask him to dinner on
Thursday."
"You know him then," said Mrs. Dashwood.
"Know him! to be sure I do. Why, he is down here every year."
"And what sort of a young man is he?"
"As good a kind of fellow as ever lived, I assure you. A very decent
shot, and there is not a bolder rider in England."
"And is that all you can say for him?" cried Marianne, indignantly.
"But what are his manners on more intimate acquaintance? What his
pursuits, his talents, and genius?"
Sir John was rather puzzled.
"Upon my soul," said he, "I do not know much about him as to all
_that._ But he is a pleasant, good humoured fellow, and has got the
nicest little black bitch of a pointer I ever saw. Was she out with
him today?"
But Marianne could no more satisfy him as to the colour of Mr.
Willoughby's pointer, than he could describe to her the shades of his
mind.
"But who is he?" said Elinor. "Where does he come from? Has he a house
at Allenham?"
On this point Sir John could give more certain intelligence; and he
told them that Mr. Willoughby had no property of his own in the
country; that he resided there only while he was visiting the old lady
at Allenham Court, to whom he was related, and whose possessions he
was to inherit; adding, "Yes, yes, he is very well worth catching I
can tell you, Miss Dashwood; he has a pretty little estate of his own
in Somersetshire besides; and if I were you, I would not give him up
to my younger sister, in spite of all this tumbling down hills. Miss
Marianne must not expect to have all the men to herself. Brandon will
be jealous, if she does not take care."
"I do not believe," said Mrs. Dashwood, with a good humoured smile,
"that Mr. Willoughby will be incommoded by the attempts of either of
_my_ daughters towards what you call _catching him._ It is not an
employment to which they have been brought up. Men are very safe with
us, let them be ever so rich. I am glad to find, however, from what
you say, that he is a respectable young man, and one whose
acquaintance will not be ineligible."
"He is as good a sort of fellow, I believe, as ever lived," repeated
Sir John. "I remember last Christmas at a little hop at the park, he
danced from eight o'clock till four, without once sitting down."
"Did he indeed?" cried Marianne with sparkling eyes, "and with
elegance, with spirit?"
"Yes; and he was up again at eight to ride to covert."
"That is what I like; that is what a young man ought to be. Whatever
be his pursuits, his eagerness in them should know no moderation, and
leave him no sense of fatigue."
"Aye, aye, I see how it will be," said Sir John, "I see how it will
be. You will be setting your cap at him now, and never think of poor
Brandon."
"That is an expression, Sir John," said Marianne, warmly, "which I
particularly dislike. I abhor every common-place phrase by which wit
is intended; and 'setting one's cap at a man,' or 'making a conquest,'
are the most odious of all. Their tendency is gross and illiberal; and
if their construction could ever be deemed clever, time has long ago
destroyed all its ingenuity."
Sir John did not much understand this reproof; but he laughed as
heartily as if he did, and then replied--
"Ay, you will make conquests enough, I dare say, one way or other.
Poor Brandon! he is quite smitten already, and he is very well worth
setting your cap at, I can tell you, in spite of all this tumbling
about and spraining of ankles."
CHAPTER X
Marianne's preserver, as Margaret, with more elegance than precision,
styled Willoughby, called at the cottage early the next morning to
make his personal enquiries. He was received by Mrs. Dashwood with
more than politeness; with a kindness which Sir John's account of him
and her own gratitude prompted; and every thing that passed during the
visit tended to assure him of the sense, elegance, mutual affection,
and domestic comfort of the family to whom accident had now introduced
him. Of their personal charms he had not required a second interview
to be convinced.
Miss Dashwood had a delicate complexion, regular features, and a
remarkably pretty figure. Marianne was still handsomer. Her form,
though not so correct as her sister's, in having the advantage of
height, was more striking; and her face was so lovely, that when in
the common cant of praise, she was called a beautiful girl, truth was
less violently outraged than usually happens. Her skin was very brown,
but, from its transparency, her complexion was uncommonly brilliant;
her features were all good; her smile was sweet and attractive; and in
her eyes, which were very dark, there was a life, a spirit, an
eagerness, which could hardily be seen without delight. From
Willoughby their expression was at first held back, by the
embarrassment which the remembrance of his assistance created. But
when this passed away, when her spirits became collected, when she saw
that to the perfect good-breeding of the gentleman, he united
frankness and vivacity, and above all, when she heard him declare,
that of music and dancing he was passionately fond, she gave him such
a look of approbation as secured the largest share of his discourse to
herself for the rest of his stay.
It was only necessary to mention any favourite amusement to engage her
to talk. She could not be silent when such points were introduced, and
she had neither shyness nor reserve in their discussion. They speedily
discovered that their enjoyment of dancing and music was mutual, and
that it arose from a general conformity of judgment in all that
related to either. Encouraged by this to a further examination of his
opinions, she proceeded to question him on the subject of books; her
favourite authors were brought forward and dwelt upon with so
rapturous a delight, that any young man of five and twenty must have
been insensible indeed, not to become an immediate convert to the
excellence of such works, however disregarded before. Their taste was
strikingly alike. The same books, the same passages were idolized by
each; or if any difference appeared, any objection arose, it lasted no
longer than till the force of her arguments and the brightness of her
eyes could be displayed. He acquiesced in all her decisions, caught
all her enthusiasm; and long before his visit concluded, they
conversed with the familiarity of a long-established acquaintance.
"Well, Marianne," said Elinor, as soon as he had left them, "for _one_
morning I think you have done pretty well. You have already
ascertained Mr. Willoughby's opinion in almost every matter of
importance. You know what he thinks of Cowper and Scott; you are
certain of his estimating their beauties as he ought, and you have
received every assurance of his admiring Pope no more than is proper.
But how is your acquaintance to be long supported, under such
extraordinary despatch of every subject for discourse? You will soon
have exhausted each favourite topic. Another meeting will suffice to
explain his sentiments on picturesque beauty, and second marriages,
and then you can have nothing farther to ask."
"Elinor," cried Marianne, "is this fair? is this just? are my ideas so
scanty? But I see what you mean. I have been too much at my ease, too
happy, too frank. I have erred against every common-place notion of
decorum; I have been open and sincere where I ought to have been
reserved, spiritless, dull, and deceitful:--had I talked only of the
weather and the roads, and had I spoken only once in ten minutes, this
reproach would have been spared."
"My love," said her mother, "you must not be offended with Elinor--she
was only in jest. I should scold her myself, if she were capable of
wishing to check the delight of your conversation with our new
friend." Marianne was softened in a moment.
Willoughby, on his side, gave every proof of his pleasure in their
acquaintance, which an evident wish of improving it could offer. He
came to them every day. To enquire after Marianne was at first his
excuse; but the encouragement of his reception, to which every day
gave greater kindness, made such an excuse unnecessary before it had
ceased to be possible, by Marianne's perfect recovery. She was
confined for some days to the house; but never had any confinement
been less irksome. Willoughby was a young man of good abilities, quick
imagination, lively spirits, and open, affectionate manners. He was
exactly formed to engage Marianne's heart, for with all this, he
joined not only a captivating person, but a natural ardour of mind
which was now roused and increased by the example of her own, and
which recommended him to her affection beyond every thing else.
His society became gradually her most exquisite enjoyment. They read,
they talked, they sang together; his musical talents were
considerable; and he read with all the sensibility and spirit which
Edward had unfortunately wanted.
In Mrs. Dashwood's estimation he was as faultless as in Marianne's;
and Elinor saw nothing to censure in him but a propensity, in which he
strongly resembled and peculiarly delighted her sister, of saying too
much what he thought on every occasion, without attention to persons
or circumstances. In hastily forming and giving his opinion of other
people, in sacrificing general politeness to the enjoyment of
undivided attention where his heart was engaged, and in slighting too
easily the forms of worldly propriety, he displayed a want of caution
which Elinor could not approve, in spite of all that he and Marianne
could say in its support.
Marianne began now to perceive that the desperation which had seized
her at sixteen and a half, of ever seeing a man who could satisfy her
ideas of perfection, had been rash and unjustifiable. Willoughby was
all that her fancy had delineated in that unhappy hour and in every
brighter period, as capable of attaching her; and his behaviour
declared his wishes to be in that respect as earnest, as his abilities
were strong.
[Illustration: _They sang together._]
Her mother too, in whose mind not one speculative thought of their
marriage had been raised, by his prospect of riches, was led before
the end of a week to hope and expect it; and secretly to congratulate
herself on having gained two such sons-in-law as Edward and
Willoughby.
Colonel Brandon's partiality for Marianne, which had so
early been discovered by his friends, now first became perceptible to
Elinor, when it ceased to be noticed by them. Their attention and wit
were drawn off to his more fortunate rival; and the raillery which the
other had incurred before any partiality arose, was removed when his
feelings began really to call for the ridicule so justly annexed to
sensibility. Elinor was obliged, though unwillingly, to believe that
the sentiments which Mrs. Jennings had assigned him for her own
satisfaction, were now actually excited by her sister; and that
however a general resemblance of disposition between the parties might
forward the affection of Mr. Willoughby, an equally striking
opposition of character was no hindrance to the regard of Colonel
Brandon. She saw it with concern; for what could a silent man of five
and thirty hope, when opposed to a very lively one of five and twenty?
and as she could not even wish him successful, she heartily wished him
indifferent. She liked him--in spite of his gravity and reserve, she
beheld in him an object of interest. His manners, though serious, were
mild; and his reserve appeared rather the result of some oppression of
spirits than of any natural gloominess of temper. Sir John had dropped
hints of past injuries and disappointments, which justified her belief
of his being an unfortunate man, and she regarded him with respect and
compassion.
Perhaps she pitied and esteemed him the more because he was slighted
by Willoughby and Marianne, who, prejudiced against him for being
neither lively nor young, seemed resolved to undervalue his merits.
"Brandon is just the kind of man," said Willoughby one day, when they
were talking of him together, "whom every body speaks well of, and
nobody cares about; whom all are delighted to see, and nobody
remembers to talk to."
"That is exactly what I think of him," cried Marianne.
"Do not boast of it, however," said Elinor, "for it is injustice in
both of you. He is highly esteemed by all the family at the park, and
I never see him myself without taking pains to converse with him."
"That he is patronised by _you_," replied Willoughby, "is certainly in
his favour; but as for the esteem of the others, it is a reproach in
itself. Who would submit to the indignity of being approved by such a
woman as Lady Middleton and Mrs. Jennings, that could command the
indifference of any body else?"
"But perhaps the abuse of such people as yourself and Marianne will
make amends for the regard of Lady Middleton and her mother. If their
praise is censure, your censure may be praise, for they are not more
undiscerning, than you are prejudiced and unjust."
"In defence of your _protege_ you can even be saucy."
"My _protege_, as you call him, is a sensible man; and sense will
always have attractions for me. Yes, Marianne, even in a man between
thirty and forty. He has seen a great deal of the world; has been
abroad, has read, and has a thinking mind. I have found him capable of
giving me much information on various subjects; and he has always
answered my inquiries with readiness of good-breeding and good
nature."
"That is to say," cried Marianne contemptuously, "he has told you,
that in the East Indies the climate is hot, and the mosquitoes are
troublesome."
"He _would_ have told me so, I doubt not, had I made any such
inquiries, but they happened to be points on which I had been
previously informed."
"Perhaps," said Willoughby, "his observations may have extended to the
existence of nabobs, gold mohrs, and palanquins."
"I may venture to say that _his_ observations have stretched much
further than _your_ candour. But why should you dislike him?"
"I do not dislike him. I consider him, on the contrary, as a very
respectable man, who has every body's good word, and nobody's notice;
who, has more money than he can spend, more time than he knows how to
employ, and two new coats every year."
"Add to which," cried Marianne, "that he has neither genius, taste,
nor spirit. That his understanding has no brilliancy, his feelings no
ardour, and his voice no expression."
"You decide on his imperfections so much in the mass," replied Elinor,
"and so much on the strength of your own imagination, that the
commendation I am able to give of him is comparatively cold and
insipid. I can only pronounce him to be a sensible man, well-bred,
well-informed, of gentle address, and, I believe, possessing an
amiable heart."
"Miss Dashwood," cried Willoughby, "you are now using me unkindly. You
are endeavouring to disarm me by reason, and to convince me against my
will. But it will not do. You shall find me as stubborn as you can be
artful. I have three unanswerable reasons for disliking Colonel
Brandon; he threatened me with rain when I wanted it to be fine; he
has found fault with the hanging of my curricle, and I cannot persuade
him to buy my brown mare. If it will be any satisfaction to you,
however, to be told, that I believe his character to be in other
respects irreproachable, I am ready to confess it. And in return for
an acknowledgment, which must give me some pain, you cannot deny me
the privilege of disliking him as much as ever."
CHAPTER XI