Little had Mrs. Dashwood or her daughters imagined when they first

came into Devonshire, that so many engagements would arise to occupy

their time as shortly presented themselves, or that they should have

such frequent invitations and such constant visitors as to leave them

little leisure for serious employment. Yet such was the case. When

Marianne was recovered, the schemes of amusement at home and abroad,

which Sir John had been previously forming, were put into execution.

The private balls at the park then began; and parties on the water

were made and accomplished as often as a showery October would allow.

In every meeting of the kind Willoughby was included; and the ease and

familiarity which naturally attended these parties were exactly

calculated to give increasing intimacy to his acquaintance with the

Dashwoods, to afford him opportunity of witnessing the excellencies of

Marianne, of marking his animated admiration of her, and of receiving,

in her behaviour to himself, the most pointed assurance of her

affection.

Elinor could not be surprised at their attachment. She only wished

that it were less openly shown; and once or twice did venture to

suggest the propriety of some self-command to Marianne. But Marianne

abhorred all concealment where no real disgrace could attend

unreserve; and to aim at the restraint of sentiments which were not in

themselves illaudable, appeared to her not merely an unnecessary

effort, but a disgraceful subjection of reason to common-place and

mistaken notions. Willoughby thought the same; and their behaviour at

all times, was an illustration of their opinions.

When he was present she had no eyes for any one else. Every thing he

did, was right. Every thing he said, was clever. If their evenings at

the park were concluded with cards, he cheated himself and all the

rest of the party to get her a good hand. If dancing formed the

amusement of the night, they were partners for half the time; and when

obliged to separate for a couple of dances, were careful to stand

together and scarcely spoke a word to any body else. Such conduct made

them of course most exceedingly laughed at; but ridicule could not

shame, and seemed hardly to provoke them.

Mrs. Dashwood entered into all their feelings with a warmth which left

her no inclination for checking this excessive display of them. To her

it was but the natural consequence of a strong affection in a young

and ardent mind.

This was the season of happiness to Marianne. Her heart was devoted to

Willoughby, and the fond attachment to Norland, which she brought with

her from Sussex, was more likely to be softened than she had thought

it possible before, by the charms which his society bestowed on her

present home.

Elinor's happiness was not so great. Her heart was not so much at

ease, nor her satisfaction in their amusements so pure. They afforded

her no companion that could make amends for what she had left behind,

nor that could teach her to think of Norland with less regret than

ever. Neither Lady Middleton nor Mrs. Jennings could supply to her the

conversation she missed; although the latter was an everlasting

talker, and from the first had regarded her with a kindness which

ensured her a large share of her discourse. She had already repeated

her own history to Elinor three or four times; and had Elinor's memory

been equal to her means of improvement, she might have known very

early in their acquaintance all the particulars of Mr. Jennings's last

illness, and what he said to his wife a few minutes before he died.

Lady Middleton was more agreeable than her mother only in being more

silent. Elinor needed little observation to perceive that her reserve

was a mere calmness of manner with which sense had nothing to do.

Towards her husband and mother she was the same as to them; and

intimacy was therefore neither to be looked for nor desired. She had

nothing to say one day that she had not said the day before. Her

insipidity was invariable, for even her spirits were always the same;

and though she did not oppose the parties arranged by her husband,

provided every thing were conducted in style and her two eldest

children attended her, she never appeared to receive more enjoyment

from them than she might have experienced in sitting at home; and so

little did her presence add to the pleasure of the others, by any

share in their conversation, that they were sometimes only reminded of

her being amongst them by her solicitude about her troublesome boys.

In Colonel Brandon alone, of all her new acquaintance, did Elinor find

a person who could in any degree claim the respect of abilities,

excite the interest of friendship, or give pleasure as a companion.

Willoughby was out of the question. Her admiration and regard, even

her sisterly regard, was all his own; but he was a lover; his

attentions were wholly Marianne's, and a far less agreeable man might

have been more generally pleasing. Colonel Brandon, unfortunately for

himself, had no such encouragement to think only of Marianne, and in

conversing with Elinor he found the greatest consolation for the

indifference of her sister.

Elinor's compassion for him increased, as she had reason to suspect

that the misery of disappointed love had already been known to him.

This suspicion was given by some words which accidentally dropped from

him one evening at the park, when they were sitting down together by

mutual consent, while the others were dancing. His eyes were fixed on

Marianne, and, after a silence of some minutes, he said, with a faint

smile, "Your sister, I understand, does not approve of second

attachments."

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

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

"I believe she does. But how she contrives it without reflecting on

the character of her own father, who had himself two wives, I know

not. A few years however will settle her opinions on the reasonable

basis of common sense and observation; and then they may be more easy

to define and to justify than they now are, by any body but herself."

"This will probably be the case," he replied; "and yet there is

something so amiable in the prejudices of a young mind, that one is

sorry to see them give way to the reception of more general opinions."

"I cannot agree with you there," said Elinor. "There are

inconveniences attending such feelings as Marianne's, which all the

charms of enthusiasm and ignorance of the world cannot atone for. Her

systems have all the unfortunate tendency of setting propriety at

nought; and a better acquaintance with the world is what I look

forward to as her greatest possible advantage."

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

"Does your sister make no distinction in her objections against a

second attachment? or is it equally criminal in every body? Are those

who have been disappointed in their first choice, whether from the

inconstancy of its object, or the perverseness of circumstances, to be

equally indifferent during the rest of their lives?"

"Upon my word, I am not acquainted with the minutiae of her principles.

I only know that I never yet heard her admit any instance of a second

attachment's being pardonable."

"This," said he, "cannot hold; but a change, a total change of

sentiments--No, no, do not desire it; for when the romantic

refinements of a young mind are obliged to give way, how frequently

are they succeeded by such opinions as are but too common, and too

dangerous! I speak from experience. I once knew a lady who in temper

and mind greatly resembled your sister, who thought and judged like

her, but who from an enforced change--from a series of unfortunate

circumstances--" Here he stopped suddenly; appeared to think that he

had said too much, and by his countenance gave rise to conjectures,

which might not otherwise have entered Elinor's head. The lady would

probably have passed without suspicion, had he not convinced Miss

Dashwood that what concerned her ought not to escape his lips. As it

was, it required but a slight effort of fancy to connect his emotion

with the tender recollection of past regard. Elinor attempted no more.

But Marianne, in her place, would not have done so little. The whole

story would have been speedily formed under her active imagination;

and every thing established in the most melancholy order of disastrous

love.

CHAPTER XII

As Elinor and Marianne were walking together the next morning the

latter communicated a piece of news to her sister, which in spite of

all that she knew before of Marianne's imprudence and want of thought,

surprised her by its extravagant testimony of both. Marianne told her,

with the greatest delight, that Willoughby had given her a horse, one

that he had bred himself on his estate in Somersetshire, and which was

exactly calculated to carry a woman. Without considering that it was

not in her mother's plan to keep any horse, that if she were to alter

her resolution in favour of this gift, she must buy another for the

servant, and keep a servant to ride it, and after all, build a stable

to receive them, she had accepted the present without hesitation, and

told her sister of it in raptures.

"He intends to send his groom into Somersetshire immediately for it,"

she added, "and when it arrives we will ride every day. You shall

share its use with me. Imagine to yourself, my dear Elinor, the

delight of a gallop on some of these downs."

Most unwilling was she to awaken from such a dream of felicity to

comprehend all the unhappy truths which attended the affair; and for

some time she refused to submit to them. As to an additional servant,

the expense would be a trifle; Mamma she was sure would never object

to it; and any horse would do for _him_; he might always get one at

the park; as to a stable, the merest shed would be sufficient. Elinor

then ventured to doubt the propriety of her receiving such a present

from a man so little, or at least so lately known to her. This was too

much.

"You are mistaken, Elinor," said she warmly, "in supposing I know very

little of Willoughby. I have not known him long indeed, but I am much

better acquainted with him, than I am with any other creature in the

world, except yourself and mama. It is not time or opportunity that is

to determine intimacy; it is disposition alone. Seven years would be

insufficient to make some people acquainted with each other, and seven

days are more than enough for others. I should hold myself guilty of

greater impropriety in accepting a horse from my brother, than from

Willoughby. Of John I know very little, though we have lived together

for years; but of Willoughby my judgment has long been formed."

Elinor thought it wisest to touch that point no more. She knew her

sister's temper. Opposition on so tender a subject would only attach

her the more to her own opinion. But by an appeal to her affection for

her mother, by representing the inconveniences which that indulgent

mother must draw on herself, if (as would probably be the case) she

consented to this increase of establishment, Marianne was shortly

subdued; and she promised not to tempt her mother to such imprudent

kindness by mentioning the offer, and to tell Willoughby when she saw

him next, that it must be declined.

She was faithful to her word; and when Willoughby called at the

cottage, the same day, Elinor heard her express her disappointment to

him in a low voice, on being obliged to forego the acceptance of his

present. The reasons for this alteration were at the same time

related, and they were such as to make further entreaty on his side

impossible. His concern however was very apparent; and after

expressing it with earnestness, he added, in the same low voice, "But,

Marianne, the horse is still yours, though you cannot use it now. I

shall keep it only till you can claim it. When you leave Barton to

form your own establishment in a more lasting home, Queen Mab shall

receive you."

This was all overheard by Miss Dashwood; and in the whole of the

sentence, in his manner of pronouncing it, and in his addressing her

sister by her Christian name alone, she instantly saw an intimacy so

decided, a meaning so direct, as marked a perfect agreement between

them. From that moment she doubted not of their being engaged to each

other; and the belief of it created no other surprise than that she,

or any of their friends, should be left by tempers so frank, to

discover it by accident.

Margaret related something to her the next day, which placed this

matter in a still clearer light. Willoughby had spent the preceding

evening with them, and Margaret, by being left some time in the

parlour with only him and Marianne, had had opportunity for

observations, which, with a most important face, she communicated to

her eldest sister, when they were next by themselves.

"Oh, Elinor!" she cried, "I have such a secret to tell you about

Marianne. I am sure she will be married to Mr. Willoughby very soon."

"You have said so," replied Elinor, "almost every day since they first

met on High-church Down; and they had not known each other a week, I

believe, before you were certain that Marianne wore his picture round

her neck; but it turned out to be only the miniature of our great

uncle."

"But indeed this is quite another thing. I am sure they will be

married very soon, for he has got a lock of her hair."

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

_his_."

"But, indeed, Elinor, it is Marianne's. I am almost sure it is, for I

saw him cut it off. Last night after tea, when you and mama went out

of the room, they were whispering and talking together as fast as

could be, and he seemed to be begging something of her, and presently

he took up her scissors and cut off a long lock of her hair, for it

was all tumbled down her back; and he kissed it, and folded it up in a

piece of white paper; and put it into his pocket-book."

For such particulars, stated on such authority, Elinor could not

withhold her credit; nor was she disposed to it, for the circumstance

was in perfect unison with what she had heard and seen herself.

Margaret's sagacity was not always displayed in a way so satisfactory

to her sister. When Mrs. Jennings attacked her one evening at the

park, to give the name of the young man who was Elinor's particular

favourite, which had been long a matter of great curiosity to her,

Margaret answered by looking at her sister, and saying, "I must not

tell, may I, Elinor?"

This of course made every body laugh; and Elinor tried to laugh too.

But the effort was painful. She was convinced that Margaret had fixed

on a person whose name she could not bear with composure to become a

standing joke with Mrs. Jennings.

[Illustration: _He cut off a long lock of her hair._]

Marianne felt for her most sincerely; but she did more harm than good

to the cause, by turning very red and saying in an angry manner to

Margaret--

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

repeat them."

"I never had any conjectures about it," replied Margaret; "it was you

who told me of it yourself."

This increased the mirth of the company, and Margaret was eagerly

pressed to say something more.

"Oh! pray, Miss Margaret, let us know all about it," said Mrs.

Jennings. "What is the gentleman's name?"

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

where he is too."

"Yes, yes, we can guess where he is; at his own house at Norland to be

sure. He is the curate of the parish I dare say."

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

"Margaret," said Marianne with great warmth, "you know that all this

is an invention of your own, and that there is no such person in

existence."

"Well, then, he is lately dead, Marianne, for I am sure there was such

a man once, and his name begins with an F."

Most grateful did Elinor feel to Lady Middleton for observing, at this

moment, "that it rained very hard," though she believed the

interruption to proceed less from any attention to her, than from her

ladyship's great dislike of all such inelegant subjects of raillery as

delighted her husband and mother. The idea however started by her, was

immediately pursued by Colonel Brandon, who was on every occasion

mindful of the feelings of others; and much was said on the subject of

rain by both of them. Willoughby opened the piano-forte, and asked

Marianne to sit down to it; and thus amidst the various endeavours of

different people to quit the topic, it fell to the ground. But not so

easily did Elinor recover from the alarm into which it had thrown her.

A party was formed this evening for going on the following day to see

a very fine place about twelve miles from Barton, belonging to a

brother-in-law of Colonel Brandon, without whose interest it could not

be seen, as the proprietor, who was then abroad, had left strict

orders on that head. The grounds were declared to be highly beautiful,

and Sir John, who was particularly warm in their praise, might be

allowed to be a tolerable judge, for he had formed parties to visit

them, at least, twice every summer for the last ten years. They

contained a noble piece of water--a sail on which was to a form a

great part of the morning's amusement; cold provisions were to be

taken, open carriages only to be employed, and every thing conducted

in the usual style of a complete party of pleasure.

To some few of the company it appeared rather a bold undertaking,

considering the time of year, and that it had rained every day for the

last fortnight; and Mrs. Dashwood, who had already a cold, was

persuaded by Elinor to stay at home.

CHAPTER XIII

Their intended excursion to Whitwell turned out very different from

what Elinor had expected. She was prepared to be wet through,

fatigued, and frightened; but the event was still more unfortunate,

for they did not go at all.

By ten o'clock the whole party was assembled at the park, where they

were to breakfast. The morning was rather favourable, though it had

rained all night, as the clouds were then dispersing across the sky,

and the sun frequently appeared. They were all in high spirits and

good humour, eager to be happy, and determined to submit to the

greatest inconveniences and hardships rather than be otherwise.

While they were at breakfast the letters were brought in. Among the

rest there was one for Colonel Brandon:--he took it, looked at the

direction, changed colour, and immediately left the room.

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

Nobody could tell.

"I hope he has had no bad news," said Lady Middleton. "It must be

something extraordinary that could make Colonel Brandon leave my

breakfast table so suddenly."

In about five minutes he returned.

"No bad news, Colonel, I hope;" said Mrs. Jennings, as soon as he

entered the room.

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

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

worse."

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

"But how came the hand to discompose you so much, if it was only a

letter of business? Come, come, this won't do, Colonel; so let us hear

the truth of it."

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

"Perhaps it is to tell you that your cousin Fanny is married?" said

Mrs. Jennings, without attending to her daughter's reproof.

"No, indeed, it is not."

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

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

"Oh! you know who I mean."

"I am particularly sorry, ma'am," said he, addressing Lady Middleton,

"that I should receive this letter today, for it is on business which

requires my immediate attendance in town."

"In town!" cried Mrs. Jennings. "What can you have to do in town at

this time of year?"

"My own loss is great," he continued, "in being obliged to leave so

agreeable a party; but I am the more concerned, as I fear my presence

is necessary to gain your admittance at Whitwell."

What a blow upon them all was this!

"But if you write a note to the housekeeper, Mr. Brandon," said

Marianne, eagerly, "will it not be sufficient?"

He shook his head.

"We must go," said Sir John. "It shall not be put off when we are so

near it. You cannot go to town till tomorrow, Brandon, that is all."

"I wish it could be so easily settled. But it is not in my power to

delay my journey for one day!"

"If you would but let us know what your business is," said Mrs.

Jennings, "we might see whether it could be put off or not."

"You would not be six hours later," said Willoughby, "if you were to

defer your journey till our return."

"I cannot afford to lose _one_ hour."

Elinor then heard Willoughby say, in a low voice to Marianne, "There

are some people who cannot bear a party of pleasure. Brandon is one of

them. He was afraid of catching cold I dare say, and invented this

trick for getting out of it. I would lay fifty guineas the letter was

of his own writing."

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

"There is no persuading you to change your mind, Brandon, I know of

old," said Sir John, "when once you are determined on anything. But,

however, I hope you will think better of it. Consider, here are the

two Miss Careys come over from Newton, the three Miss Dashwoods walked

up from the cottage, and Mr. Willoughby got up two hours before his

usual time, on purpose to go to Whitwell."

Colonel Brandon again repeated his sorrow at being the cause of

disappointing the party; but at the same time declared it to be

unavoidable.

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

"I hope we shall see you at Barton," added her ladyship, "as soon as

you can conveniently leave town; and we must put off the party to

Whitwell till you return."

"You are very obliging. But it is so uncertain, when I may have it in

my power to return, that I dare not engage for it at all."

"Oh! he must and shall come back," cried Sir John. "If he is not here

by the end of the week, I shall go after him."

"Ay, so do, Sir John," cried Mrs. Jennings, "and then perhaps you may

find out what his business is."

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

something he is ashamed of."

Colonel Brandon's horses were announced.

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

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

"Well, as you are resolved to go, I wish you a good journey. But you

had better change your mind."

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

He then took leave of the whole party.

"Is there no chance of my seeing you and your sisters in town this

winter, Miss Dashwood?"

"I am afraid, none at all."

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

do."

To Marianne, he merely bowed and said nothing.

"Come Colonel," said Mrs. Jennings, "before you go, do let us know

what you are going about."

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

room.

The complaints and lamentations which politeness had hitherto

restrained, now burst forth universally; and they all agreed again and

again how provoking it was to be so disappointed.

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

exultingly.

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

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

"And who is Miss Williams?" asked Marianne.

"What! do not you know who Miss Williams is? I am sure you must have

heard of her before. She is a relation of the Colonel's, my dear; a

very near relation. We will not say how near, for fear of shocking the

young ladies." Then, lowering her voice a little, she said to Elinor,

"She is his natural daughter."

"Indeed!"

"Oh, yes; and as like him as she can stare. I dare say the Colonel

will leave her all his fortune."

When Sir John returned, he joined most heartily in the general regret

on so unfortunate an event; concluding however by observing, that as

they were all got together, they must do something by way of being

happy; and after some consultation it was agreed, that although

happiness could only be enjoyed at Whitwell, they might procure a

tolerable composure of mind by driving about the country. The

carriages were then ordered; Willoughby's was first, and Marianne

never looked happier than when she got into it. He drove through the

park very fast, and they were soon out of sight; and nothing more of

them was seen till their return, which did not happen till after the

return of all the rest. They both seemed delighted with their drive;

but said only in general terms that they had kept in the lanes, while

the others went on the downs.

It was settled that there should be a dance in the evening, and that

every body should be extremely merry all day long. Some more of the

Careys came to dinner, and they had the pleasure of sitting down

nearly twenty to table, which Sir John observed with great

contentment. Willoughby took his usual place between the two elder

Miss Dashwoods. Mrs. Jennings sat on Elinor's right hand; and they had

not been long seated, before she leant behind her and Willoughby, and

said to Marianne, loud enough for them both to hear, "I have found you

out in spite of all your tricks. I know where you spent the morning."

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

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

curricle?"

"Yes, yes, Mr. Impudence, I know that very well, and I was determined

to find out _where_ you had been to. I hope you like your house, Miss

Marianne. It is a very large one, I know; and when I come to see you,

I hope you will have new-furnished it, for it wanted it very much when

I was there six years ago."

Marianne turned away in great confusion. Mrs. Jennings laughed

heartily; and Elinor found that in her resolution to know where they

had been, she had actually made her own woman enquire of Mr.

Willoughby's groom; and that she had by that method been informed that

they had gone to Allenham, and spent a considerable time there in

walking about the garden and going all over the house.

Elinor could hardly believe this to be true, as it seemed very

unlikely that Willoughby should propose, or Marianne consent, to enter

the house while Mrs. Smith was in it, with whom Marianne had not the

smallest acquaintance.

As soon as they left the dining-room, Elinor enquired of her about it;

and great was her surprise when she found that every circumstance

related by Mrs. Jennings was perfectly true. Marianne was quite angry

with her for doubting it.

"Why should you imagine, Elinor, that we did not go there, or that we

did not see the house? Is not it what you have often wished to do

yourself?"

"Yes, Marianne, but I would not go while Mrs. Smith was there, and

with no other companion than Mr. Willoughby."

[Illustration: "_I have found you out in spite of all your tricks._"]

"Mr. Willoughby however is the only person who can have a right to

show that house; and as he went in an open carriage, it was

impossible to have any other companion. I never spent a pleasanter

morning in my life."

"I am afraid," replied Elinor, "that the pleasantness of an employment

does not always evince its propriety."

"On the contrary, nothing can be a stronger proof of it, Elinor; for

if there had been any real impropriety in what I did, I should have

been sensible of it at the time, for we always know when we are acting

wrong, and with such a conviction I could have had no pleasure."

"But, my dear Marianne, as it has already exposed you to some very

impertinent remarks, do you not now begin to doubt the discretion of

your own conduct?"

"If the impertinent remarks of Mrs. Jennings are to be the proof of

impropriety in conduct, we are all offending every moment of our

lives. I value not her censure any more than I should do her

commendation. I am not sensible of having done anything wrong in

walking over Mrs. Smith's grounds, or in seeing her house. They will

one day be Mr. Willoughby's, and--"

"If they were one day to be your own, Marianne, you would not be

justified in what you have done."

She blushed at this hint; but it was even visibly gratifying to her;

and after a ten minutes' interval of earnest thought, she came to her

sister again, and said with great good humour, "Perhaps, Elinor, it

_was_ rather ill-judged in me to go to Allenham; but Mr. Willoughby

wanted particularly to show me the place; and it is a charming house,

I assure you. There is one remarkably pretty sitting room up stairs;

of a nice comfortable size for constant use, and with modern furniture

it would be delightful. It is a corner room, and has windows on two

sides. On one side you look across the bowling-green, behind the

house, to a beautiful hanging wood, and on the other you have a view

of the church and village, and, beyond them, of those fine bold hills

that we have so often admired. I did not see it to advantage, for

nothing could be more forlorn than the furniture; but if it were newly

fitted up--a couple of hundred pounds, Willoughby says, would make it

one of the pleasantest summer-rooms in England."

Could Elinor have listened to her without interruption from the

others, she would have described every room in the house with equal

delight.

CHAPTER XIV

The sudden termination of Colonel Brandon's visit at the park, with

his steadiness in concealing its cause, filled the mind, and raised

the wonder of Mrs. Jennings for two or three days; she was a great

wonderer, as every one must be who takes a very lively interest in all

the comings and goings of all their acquaintance. She wondered, with

little intermission what could be the reason of it; was sure there

must be some bad news, and thought over every kind of distress that

could have befallen him, with a fixed determination that he should not

escape them all.

"Something very melancholy must be the matter, I am sure," said she.

"I could see it in his face. Poor man! I am afraid his circumstances

may be bad. The estate at Delaford was never reckoned more than two

thousand a year, and his brother left everything sadly involved. I do

think he must have been sent for about money matters, for what else

can it be? I wonder whether it is so. I would give anything to know

the truth of it. Perhaps it is about Miss Williams and, by the bye, I

dare say it is, because he looked so conscious when I mentioned her.

May be she is ill in town; nothing in the world more likely, for I

have a notion she is always rather sickly. I would lay any wager it is

about Miss Williams. It is not so very likely he should be distressed

in his circumstances _now_, for he is a very prudent man, and to be

sure must have cleared the estate by this time. I wonder what it can

be! May be his sister is worse at Avignon, and has sent for him over.

His setting off in such a hurry seems very like it. Well, I wish him

out of all his trouble with all my heart, and a good wife into the

bargain."

So wondered, so talked Mrs. Jennings. Her opinion varying with every

fresh conjecture, and all seeming equally probable as they arose.

Elinor, though she felt really interested in the welfare of Colonel

Brandon, could not bestow all the wonder on his going so suddenly

away, which Mrs. Jennings was desirous of her feeling; for besides

that the circumstance did not in her opinion justify such lasting

amazement or variety of speculation, her wonder was otherwise

disposed of. It was engrossed by the extraordinary silence of her

sister and Willoughby on the subject, which they must know to be

peculiarly interesting to them all. As this silence continued, every

day made it appear more strange and more incompatible with the

disposition of both. Why they should not openly acknowledge to her

mother and herself, what their constant behaviour to each other

declared to have taken place, Elinor could not imagine.

She could easily conceive that marriage might not be immediately in

their power; for though Willoughby was independent, there was no

reason to believe him rich. His estate had been rated by Sir John at

about six or seven hundred a year; but he lived at an expense to which

that income could hardly be equal, and he had himself often complained

of his poverty. But for this strange kind of secrecy maintained by

them relative to their engagement, which in fact concealed nothing at

all, she could not account; and it was so wholly contradictory to

their general opinions and practice, that a doubt sometimes entered

her mind of their being really engaged, and this doubt was enough to

prevent her making any inquiry of Marianne.

Nothing could be more expressive of attachment to them all, than

Willoughby's behaviour. To Marianne it had all the distinguishing

tenderness which a lover's heart could give, and to the rest of the

family it was the affectionate attention of a son and a brother. The

cottage seemed to be considered and loved by him as his home; many

more of his hours were spent there than at Allenham; and if no general

engagement collected them at the park, the exercise which called him

out in the morning was almost certain of ending there, where the rest

of the day was spent by himself at the side of Marianne, and by his

favourite pointer at her feet.

One evening in particular, about a week after Colonel Brandon left the

country, his heart seemed more than usually open to every feeling of

attachment to the objects around him; and on Mrs. Dashwood's happening

to mention her design of improving the cottage in the spring, he

warmly opposed every alteration of a place which affection had

established as perfect with him.

"What!" he exclaimed, "Improve this dear cottage! No. _That_ I will

never consent to. Not a stone must be added to its walls, not an inch

to its size, if my feelings are regarded."

"Do not be alarmed," said Miss Dashwood, "nothing of the kind will be

done; for my mother will never have money enough to attempt it."

"I am heartily glad of it," he cried. "May she always be poor, if she

can employ her riches no better."

"Thank you, Willoughby. But you may be assured that I would not

sacrifice one sentiment of local attachment of yours, or of any one

whom I loved, for all the improvements in the world. Depend upon it

that whatever unemployed sum may remain, when I make up my accounts in

the spring, I would even rather lay it uselessly by than dispose of it

in a manner so painful to you. But are you really so attached to this

place as to see no defect in it?"

"I am," said he. "To me it is faultless. Nay, more, I consider it as

the only form of building in which happiness is attainable, and were I

rich enough I would instantly pull Combe down, and build it up again

in the exact plan of this cottage."

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

Elinor.

"Yes," cried he in the same eager tone, "with all and every thing

belonging to it--in no one convenience or inconvenience about it,

should the least variation be perceptible. Then, and then only, under

such a roof, I might perhaps be as happy at Combe as I have been at

Barton."

"I flatter myself," replied Elinor, "that even under the disadvantage

of better rooms and a broader staircase, you will hereafter find your

own house as faultless as you now do this."

"There certainly are circumstances," said Willoughby, "which might

greatly endear it to me; but this place will always have one claim of

my affection, which no other can possibly share."

Mrs. Dashwood looked with pleasure at Marianne, whose fine eyes were

fixed so expressively on Willoughby, as plainly denoted how well she

understood him.

"How often did I wish," added he, "when I was at Allenham this time

twelvemonth, that Barton cottage were inhabited! I never passed within

view of it without admiring its situation, and grieving that no one

should live in it. How little did I then think that the very first

news I should hear from Mrs. Smith, when I next came into the country,

would be that Barton cottage was taken: and I felt an immediate

satisfaction and interest in the event, which nothing but a kind of

prescience of what happiness I should experience from it, can account

for. Must it not have been so, Marianne?" speaking to her in a lowered

voice. Then continuing his former tone, he said, "And yet this house

you would spoil, Mrs. Dashwood? You would rob it of its simplicity by

imaginary improvement! and this dear parlour in which our acquaintance

first began, and in which so many happy hours have been since spent by

us together, you would degrade to the condition of a common entrance,

and every body would be eager to pass through the room which has

hitherto contained within itself more real accommodation and comfort

than any other apartment of the handsomest dimensions in the world

could possibly afford."

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

be attempted.

"You are a good woman," he warmly replied. "Your promise makes me

easy. Extend it a little farther, and it will make me happy. Tell me

that not only your house will remain the same, but that I shall ever

find you and yours as unchanged as your dwelling; and that you will

always consider me with the kindness which has made everything

belonging to you so dear to me."

The promise was readily given, and Willoughby's behaviour during the

whole of the evening declared at once his affection and happiness.

"Shall we see you tomorrow to dinner?" said Mrs. Dashwood, when he was

leaving them. "I do not ask you to come in the morning, for we must

walk to the park, to call on Lady Middleton."

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

CHAPTER XV

Mrs. Dashwood's visit to Lady Middleton took place the next day, and

two of her daughters went with her; but Marianne excused herself from

being of the party, under some trifling pretext of employment; and her

mother, who concluded that a promise had been made by Willoughby the

night before of calling on her while they were absent, was perfectly

satisfied with her remaining at home.

On their return from the park they found Willoughby's curricle and

servant in waiting at the cottage, and Mrs. Dashwood was convinced

that her conjecture had been just. So far it was all as she had

foreseen; but on entering the house she beheld what no foresight had

taught her to expect. They were no sooner in the passage than Marianne

came hastily out of the parlour apparently in violent affliction, with

her handkerchief at her eyes; and without noticing them ran up stairs.

Surprised and alarmed they proceeded directly into the room she had

just quitted, where they found only Willoughby, who was leaning

against the mantelpiece with his back towards them. He turned round

on their coming in, and his countenance showed that he strongly

partook of the emotion which overpowered Marianne.

"Is anything the matter with her?" cried Mrs. Dashwood as she

entered:--"is she ill?"

"I hope not," he replied, trying to look cheerful; and with a forced

smile presently added, "It is I who may rather expect to be ill--for I

am now suffering under a very heavy disappointment!"

"Disappointment?"

"Yes, for I am unable to keep my engagement with you. Mrs. Smith has

this morning exercised the privilege of riches upon a poor dependent

cousin, by sending me on business to London. I have just received my

dispatches, and taken my farewell of Allenham; and by way of

exhilaration I am now come to take my farewell of you."

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

"Almost this moment."

[Illustration: _Apparently in violent affliction._]

"This is very unfortunate. But Mrs. Smith must be obliged, and her

business will not detain you from us long I hope."

He coloured as he replied, "You are very kind, but I have no idea of

returning into Devonshire immediately. My visits to Mrs. Smith are

never repeated within the twelvemonth."

"And is Mrs. Smith your only friend? Is Allenham the only house in the

neighbourhood to which you will be welcome? For shame, Willoughby, can

you wait for an invitation here?"

His colour increased; and with his eyes fixed on the ground he only

replied, "You are too good."

Mrs. Dashwood looked at Elinor with surprise. Elinor felt equal

amazement. For a few moments every one was silent. Mrs. Dashwood first

spoke.

"I have only to add, my dear Willoughby, that at Barton cottage you

will always be welcome; for I will not press you to return here

immediately, because you only can judge how far _that_ might be

pleasing to Mrs. Smith; and on this head I shall be no more disposed

to question your judgment than to doubt your inclination."

"My engagements at present," replied Willoughby, confusedly, "are of

such a nature--that--I dare not flatter myself--"

He stopped. Mrs. Dashwood was too much astonished to speak, and

another pause succeeded. This was broken by Willoughby, who said with

a faint smile, "It is folly to linger in this manner. I will not

torment myself any longer by remaining among friends whose society it

is impossible for me now to enjoy."

He then hastily took leave of them all and left the room. They saw him

step into his carriage, and in a minute it was out of sight.

Mrs. Dashwood felt too much for speech, and instantly quitted the

parlour to give way in solitude to the concern and alarm which this

sudden departure occasioned.

Elinor's uneasiness was at least equal to her mother's. She thought of

what had just passed with anxiety and distrust. Willoughby's behaviour

in taking leave of them, his embarrassment, and affectation of

cheerfulness, and, above all, his unwillingness to accept her mother's

invitation--a backwardness so unlike a lover, so unlike

himself--greatly disturbed her. One moment she feared that no serious

design had ever been formed on his side; and the next that some

unfortunate quarrel had taken place between him and her sister. The

distress in which Marianne had quitted the room was such as a serious

quarrel could most reasonably account for, though when she considered

what Marianne's love for him was, a quarrel seemed almost impossible.

But whatever might be the particulars of their separation, her

sister's affliction was indubitable; and she thought with the

tenderest compassion of that violent sorrow which Marianne was in all

probability not merely giving way to as a relief, but feeding and

encouraging as a duty.

In about half an hour her mother returned, and though her eyes were

red, her countenance was not uncheerful.

"Our dear Willoughby is now some miles from Barton, Elinor," said she,

as she sat down to work, "and with how heavy a heart does he travel?"

"It is all very strange. So suddenly to be gone! It seems but the work

of a moment. And last night he was with us so happy, so cheerful, so

affectionate? And now, after only ten minutes notice,--gone too

without intending to return! Something more than what he owned to us

must have happened. He did not speak, he did not behave like himself.

_You_ must have seen the difference as well as I. What can it be? Can

they have quarrelled? Why else should he have shown such unwillingness

to accept your invitation here?"

"It was not inclination that he wanted, Elinor; I could plainly see

_that._ He had not the power of accepting it. I have thought it all

over I assure you, and I can perfectly account for every thing that at

first seemed strange to me as well as to you."

"Can you, indeed!"

"Yes. I have explained it to myself in the most satisfactory way; but

you, Elinor, who love to doubt where you can--it will not satisfy

_you_, I know; but you shall not talk _me_ out of my trust in it. I am

persuaded that Mrs. Smith suspects his regard for Marianne,

disapproves of it, (perhaps because she has other views for him,) and

on that account is eager to get him away; and that the business which

she sends him off to transact is invented as an excuse to dismiss

him. This is what I believe to have happened. He is, moreover, aware

that she _does_ disapprove the connection, he dares not therefore at

present confess to her his engagement with Marianne, and he feels

himself obliged, from his dependent situation, to give into her

schemes, and absent himself from Devonshire for a while. You will tell

me, I know, that this may or may _not_ have happened; but I will

listen to no cavil, unless you can point out any other method of

understanding the affair as satisfactory at this. And now, Elinor,

what have you to say?"

"Nothing, for you have anticipated my answer."

"Then you would have told me, that it might or might not have

happened. Oh, Elinor, how incomprehensible are your feelings! You had

rather take evil upon credit than good. You had rather look out for

misery for Marianne, and guilt for poor Willoughby, than an apology

for the latter. You are resolved to think him blamable, because he

took leave of us with less affection than his usual behaviour has

shown. And is no allowance to be made for inadvertence, or for spirits

depressed by recent disappointment? Are no probabilities to be

accepted, merely because they are not certainties? Is nothing due to

the man whom we have all such reason to love, and no reason in the

world to think ill of?--to the possibility of motives unanswerable in

themselves, though unavoidably secret for a while? And, after all,

what is it you suspect him of?"

"I can hardly tell myself. But suspicion of something unpleasant is

the inevitable consequence of such an alteration as we just witnessed

in him. There is great truth, however, in what you have now urged of

the allowances which ought to be made for him, and it is my wish to be

candid in my judgment of every body. Willoughby may undoubtedly have

very sufficient reasons for his conduct, and I will hope that he has.

But it would have been more like Willoughby to acknowledge them at

once. Secrecy may be advisable; but still I cannot help wondering at

its being practiced by him."

"Do not blame him, however, for departing from his character, where

the deviation is necessary. But you really do admit the justice of

what I have said in his defence?--I am happy--and he is acquitted."

"Not entirely. It may be proper to conceal their engagement (if they

_are_ engaged) from Mrs. Smith; and if that is the case, it must be

highly expedient for Willoughby to be but little in Devonshire at

present. But this is no excuse for their concealing it from us."

"Concealing it from us! my dear child, do you accuse Willoughby and

Marianne of concealment? This is strange indeed, when your eyes have

been reproaching them every day for incautiousness."

"I want no proof of their affection," said Elinor; "but of their

engagement I do."

"I am perfectly satisfied of both."

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

them."

"I have not wanted syllables where actions have spoken so plainly. Has

not his behaviour to Marianne and to all of us, for at least the last

fortnight, declared that he loved and considered her as his future

wife, and that he felt for us the attachment of the nearest relation?

Have we not perfectly understood each other? Has not my consent been

daily asked by his looks, his manner, his attentive and affectionate

respect? My Elinor, is it possible to doubt their engagement? How

could such a thought occur to you? How is it to be supposed that

Willoughby, persuaded as he must be of your sister's love, should

leave her, and leave her perhaps for months, without telling her of

his affection,--that they should part without a mutual exchange of

confidence?"

"I confess," replied Elinor, "that every circumstance except _one_ is

in favour of their engagement; but that _one_ is the total silence of

both on the subject, and with me it almost outweighs every other."

"How strange this is! You must think wretchedly indeed of Willoughby,

if, after all that has openly passed between them, you can doubt the

nature of the terms on which they are together. Has he been acting a

part in his behaviour to your sister all this time? Do you suppose him

really indifferent to her?"

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

"But with a strange kind of tenderness, if he can leave her with such

indifference, such carelessness of the future, as you attribute to

him."

"You must remember, my dear mother, that I have never considered this

matter as certain. I have had my doubts, I confess; but they are

fainter than they were, and they may soon be entirely done away. If we

find they correspond, every fear of mine will be removed."

"A mighty concession indeed! If you were to see them at the altar, you

would suppose they were going to be married. Ungracious girl! But I

require no such proof. Nothing in my opinion has ever passed to

justify doubt; no secrecy has been attempted; all has been uniformly

open and unreserved. You cannot doubt your sister's wishes. It must be

Willoughby therefore whom you suspect. But why? Is he not a man of

honour and feeling? Has there been any inconsistency on his side to

create alarm? can he be deceitful?"

"I hope not, I believe not," cried Elinor. "I love Willoughby,

sincerely love him; and suspicion of his integrity cannot be more

painful to yourself than to me. It has been involuntary, and I will

not encourage it. I was startled, I confess, by the alteration in his

manners this morning; he did not speak like himself, and did not

return your kindness with any cordiality. But all this may be

explained by such a situation of his affairs as you have supposed. He

had just parted from my sister, had seen her leave him in the greatest

affliction; and if he felt obliged, from a fear of offending Mrs.

Smith, to resist the temptation of returning here soon, and yet aware

that by declining your invitation, by saying that he was going away

for some time, he should seem to act an ungenerous, a suspicious part

by our family, he might well be embarrassed and disturbed. In such a

case, a plain and open avowal of his difficulties would have been more

to his honour I think, as well as more consistent with his general

character;--but I will not raise objections against any one's conduct

on so illiberal a foundation, as a difference in judgment from myself,

or a deviation from what I may think right and consistent."

"You speak very properly. Willoughby certainly does not deserve to be

suspected. Though _we_ have not known him long, he is no stranger in

this part of the world; and who has ever spoken to his disadvantage?

Had he been in a situation to act independently and marry immediately,

it might have been odd that he should leave us without acknowledging

everything to me at once: but this is not the case. It is an

engagement in some respects not prosperously begun, for their marriage

must be at a very uncertain distance; and even secrecy, as far as it

can be observed, may now be very advisable."

They were interrupted by the entrance of Margaret; and Elinor was then

at liberty to think over the representations of her mother, to

acknowledge the probability of many, and hope for the justice of all.

They saw nothing of Marianne till dinner time, when she entered the

room and took her place at the table without saying a word. Her eyes

were red and swollen; and it seemed as if her tears were even then

restrained with difficulty. She avoided the looks of them all, could

neither eat nor speak, and after some time, on her mother's silently

pressing her hand with tender compassion, her small degree of

fortitude was quite overcome, she burst into tears and left the room.

This violent oppression of spirits continued the whole evening. She

was without any power, because she was without any desire of command

over herself. The slightest mention of anything relative to Willoughby

overpowered her in an instant; and though her family were most

anxiously attentive to her comfort, it was impossible for them, if

they spoke at all, to keep clear of every subject which her feelings

connected with him.

CHAPTER XVI

Marianne would have thought herself very inexcusable had she been able

to sleep at all the first night after parting from Willoughby. She

would have been ashamed to look her family in the face the next

morning, had she not risen from her bed in more need of repose than

when she lay down in it. But the feelings which made such composure a

disgrace, left her in no danger of incurring it. She was awake the

whole night, and she wept the greatest part of it. She got up with a

headache, was unable to talk, and unwilling to take any nourishment;

giving pain every moment to her mother and sisters, and forbidding

all attempt at consolation from either. Her sensibility was potent

enough!

When breakfast was over she walked out by herself, and wandered about

the village of Allenham, indulging the recollection of past enjoyment

and crying over the present reverse for the chief of the morning.

The evening passed off in the equal indulgence of feeling. She played

over every favourite song that she had been used to play to

Willoughby, every air in which their voices had been oftenest joined,

and sat at the instrument gazing on every line of music that he had

written out for her, till her heart was so heavy that no farther

sadness could be gained; and this nourishment of grief was every day

applied. She spent whole hours at the pianoforte alternately singing

and crying; her voice often totally suspended by her tears. In books

too, as well as in music, she courted the misery which a contrast

between the past and present was certain of giving. She read nothing

but what they had been used to read together.

Such violence of affliction indeed could not be supported for ever; it

sunk within a few days into a calmer melancholy; but these

employments, to which she daily recurred, her solitary walks and

silent meditations, still produced occasional effusions of sorrow as

lively as ever.

No letter from Willoughby came; and none seemed expected by Marianne.

Her mother was surprised, and Elinor again became uneasy. But Mrs.

Dashwood could find explanations whenever she wanted them, which at

least satisfied herself.

"Remember, Elinor," said she, "how very often Sir John fetches our

letters himself from the post, and carries them to it. We have already

agreed that secrecy may be necessary, and we must acknowledge that it

could not be maintained if their correspondence were to pass through

Sir John's hands."

Elinor could not deny the truth of this, and she tried to find in it a

motive sufficient for their silence. But there was one method so

direct, so simple, and in her opinion so eligible of knowing the real

state of the affair, and of instantly removing all mystery, that she

could not help suggesting it to her mother.

"Why do you not ask Marianne at once," said she, "whether she is or

she is not engaged to Willoughby? From you, her mother, and so kind,

so indulgent a mother, the question could not give offence. It would

be the natural result of your affection for her. She used to be all

unreserve, and to you more especially."

"I would not ask such a question for the world. Supposing it possible

that they are not engaged, what distress would not such an enquiry

inflict! At any rate it would be most ungenerous. I should never

deserve her confidence again, after forcing from her a confession of

what is meant at present to be unacknowledged to any one. I know

Marianne's heart: I know that she dearly loves me, and that I shall

not be the last to whom the affair is made known, when circumstances

make the revealment of it eligible. I would not attempt to force the

confidence of any one; of a child much less; because a sense of duty

would prevent the denial which her wishes might direct."

Elinor thought this generosity overstrained, considering her sister's

youth, and urged the matter farther, but in vain; common sense, common

care, common prudence, were all sunk in Mrs. Dashwood's romantic

delicacy.

It was several days before Willoughby's name was mentioned before

Marianne by any of her family; Sir John and Mrs. Jennings, indeed,

were not so nice; their witticisms added pain to many a painful hour;

but one evening, Mrs. Dashwood, accidentally taking up a volume of

Shakespeare, exclaimed--

"We have never finished _Hamlet_, Marianne; our dear Willoughby went

away before we could get through it. We will put it by, that when he

comes again--; But it may be months, perhaps, before _that_ happens."

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

Mrs. Dashwood was sorry for what she had said; but it gave Elinor

pleasure, as it produced a reply from Marianne so expressive of

confidence in Willoughby and knowledge of his intentions.

One morning, about a week after his leaving the country, Marianne was

prevailed on to join her sisters in their usual walk, instead of

wandering away by herself. Hitherto she had carefully avoided every

companion in her rambles. If her sisters intended to walk on the

downs, she directly stole away towards the lanes; if they talked of

the valley, she was as speedy in climbing the hills, and could never

be found when the others set off. But at length she was secured by the

exertions of Elinor, who greatly disapproved such continual seclusion.

They walked along the road through the valley, and chiefly in silence,

for Marianne's _mind_ could not be controlled, and Elinor, satisfied

with gaining one point, would not then attempt more. Beyond the

entrance of the valley, where the country, though still rich, was less

wild and more open, a long stretch of the road which they had

travelled on first coming to Barton, lay before them; and on reaching

that point, they stopped to look around them, and examine a prospect

which formed the distance of their view from the cottage, from a spot

which they had never happened to reach in any of their walks before.

Amongst the objects in the scene, they soon discovered an animated

one; it was a man on horseback riding towards them. In a few minutes

they could distinguish him to be a gentleman; and in a moment

afterwards Marianne rapturously exclaimed--

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

when Elinor cried out--

"Indeed, Marianne, I think you are mistaken. It is not Willoughby. The

person is not tall enough for him, and has not his air."

"He has, he has," cried Marianne, "I am sure he has. His air, his

coat, his horse. I knew how soon he would come."

She walked eagerly on as she spoke; and Elinor, to screen Marianne

from particularity, as she felt almost certain of its not being

Willoughby, quickened her pace and kept up with her. They were soon

within thirty yards of the gentleman. Marianne looked again; her heart

sunk within her; and abruptly turning round, she was hurrying back,

when the voices of both her sisters were raised to detain her; a

third, almost as well known as Willoughby's, joined them in begging

her to stop, and she turned round with surprise to see and welcome

Edward Ferrars.

[Illustration: _Begging her to stop._]

He was the only person in the world who could at that moment be

forgiven for not being Willoughby; the only one who could have gained

a smile from her; but she dispersed her tears to smile on _him_, and

in her sister's happiness forgot for a time her own disappointment.

He dismounted, and giving his horse to his servant, walked back with

them to Barton, whither he was purposely coming to visit them.

He was welcomed by them all with great cordiality, but especially by

Marianne, who showed more warmth of regard in her reception of him

than even Elinor herself. To Marianne, indeed, the meeting between

Edward and her sister was but a continuation of that unaccountable

coldness which she had often observed at Norland in their mutual

behaviour. On Edward's side, more particularly, there was a deficiency

of all that a lover ought to look and say on such an occasion. He was

confused, seemed scarcely sensible of pleasure in seeing them, looked

neither rapturous nor gay, said little but what was forced from him by

questions, and distinguished Elinor by no mark of affection. Marianne

saw and listened with increasing surprise. She began almost to feel a

dislike of Edward; and it ended, as every feeling must end with her,

by carrying back her thoughts to Willoughby, whose manners formed a

contrast sufficiently striking to those of his brother elect.

After a short silence which succeeded the first surprise and enquiries

of meeting, Marianne asked Edward if he came directly from London. No,

he had been in Devonshire a fortnight.

"A fortnight!" she repeated, surprised at his being so long in the

same county with Elinor without seeing her before.

He looked rather distressed as he added, that he had been staying with

some friends near Plymouth.

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

"I was at Norland about a month ago."

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

"Dear, dear Norland," said Elinor, "probably looks much as it always

does at this time of the year--the woods and walks thickly covered

with dead leaves."

"Oh," cried Marianne, "with what transporting sensation have I

formerly seen them fall! How have I delighted, as I walked, to see

them driven in showers about me by the wind! What feelings have they,

the season, the air altogether inspired! Now there is no one to regard

them. They are seen only as a nuisance, swept hastily off, and driven

as much as possible from the sight."

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

leaves."

"No; my feelings are not often shared, not often understood. But

_sometimes_ they are." As she said this, she sunk into a reverie for a

few moments; but rousing herself again, "Now, Edward," said she,

calling his attention to the prospect, "here is Barton valley. Look up

to it, and be tranquil if you can. Look at those hills! Did you ever

see their equals? To the left is Barton park, amongst those woods and

plantations. You may see the end of the house. And there, beneath that

farthest hill, which rises with such grandeur, is our cottage."

"It is a beautiful country," he replied; "but these bottoms must be

dirty in winter."

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

"Because," replied he, smiling, "among the rest of the objects before

me, I see a very dirty lane."

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

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

people?"

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

situated."

"Marianne," cried her sister, "how can you say so? How can you be so

unjust? They are a very respectable family, Mr. Ferrars; and towards

us have behaved in the friendliest manner. Have you forgot, Marianne,

how many pleasant days we have owed to them?"

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

Elinor took no notice of this; and directing her attention to their

visitor, endeavoured to support something like discourse with him, by

talking of their present residence, its conveniences, &c. extorting

from him occasional questions and remarks. His coldness and reserve

mortified her severely; she was vexed and half angry; but resolving to

regulate her behaviour to him by the past rather than the present,

she avoided every appearance of resentment or displeasure, and treated

him as she thought he ought to be treated from the family connection.

CHAPTER XVII

Mrs. Dashwood was surprised only for a moment at seeing him; for his

coming to Barton was, in her opinion, of all things the most natural.

Her joy and expression of regard long outlived her wonder. He received

the kindest welcome from her; and shyness, coldness, reserve could not

stand against such a reception. They had begun to fail him before he

entered the house, and they were quite overcome by the captivating

manners of Mrs. Dashwood. Indeed a man could not very well be in love

with either of her daughters, without extending the passion to her;

and Elinor had the satisfaction of seeing him soon become more like

himself. His affections seemed to reanimate towards them all, and his

interest in their welfare again became perceptible. He was not in

spirits, however; he praised their house, admired its prospect, was

attentive, and kind; but still he was not in spirits. The whole family

perceived it, and Mrs. Dashwood, attributing it to some want of

liberality in his mother, sat down to table indignant against all

selfish parents.

"What are Mrs. Ferrars's views for you at present, Edward?" said she,

when dinner was over and they had drawn round the fire; "are you still

to be a great orator in spite of yourself?"

"No. I hope my mother is now convinced that I have no more talents

than inclination for a public life!"

"But how is your fame to be established? for famous you must be to

satisfy all your family; and with no inclination for expense, no

affection for strangers, no profession, and no assurance, you may find

it a difficult matter."

"I shall not attempt it. I have no wish to be distinguished; and have

every reason to hope I never shall. Thank Heaven! I cannot be forced

into genius and eloquence."

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

"As moderate as those of the rest of the world, I believe. I wish as

well as every body else to be perfectly happy; but, like every body

else it must be in my own way. Greatness will not make me so."

"Strange that it would!" cried Marianne. "What have wealth or grandeur

to do with happiness?"

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

with it."

"Elinor, for shame!" said Marianne, "money can only give happiness

where there is nothing else to give it. Beyond a competence, it can

afford no real satisfaction, as far as mere self is concerned."

"Perhaps," said Elinor, smiling, "we may come to the same point.

_Your_ competence and _my_ wealth are very much alike, I dare say; and

without them, as the world goes now, we shall both agree that every

kind of external comfort must be wanting. Your ideas are only more

noble than mine. Come, what is your competence?"

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

Elinor laughed. "_Two_ thousand a year! _One_ is my wealth! I guessed

how it would end."

"And yet two thousand a-year is a very moderate income," said

Marianne. "A family cannot well be maintained on a smaller. I am sure

I am not extravagant in my demands. A proper establishment of

servants, a carriage, perhaps two, and hunters, cannot be supported on

less."

Elinor smiled again, to hear her sister describing so accurately their

future expenses at Combe Magna.

"Hunters!" repeated Edward; "but why must you have hunters? Every body

does not hunt."

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

"I wish," said Margaret, striking out a novel thought, "that somebody

would give us all a large fortune a-piece!"

"Oh that they would!" cried Marianne, her eyes sparkling with

animation, and her cheeks glowing with the delight of such imaginary

happiness.

"We are all unanimous in that wish, I suppose," said Elinor, "in spite

of the insufficiency of wealth."

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

should do with it!"

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

"I should be puzzled to spend so large a fortune myself," said Mrs.

Dashwood, "if my children were all to be rich without my help."

"You must begin your improvements on this house," observed Elinor,

"and your difficulties will soon vanish."

"What magnificent orders would travel from this family to London,"

said Edward, "in such an event! What a happy day for booksellers,

music-sellers, and print-shops! You, Miss Dashwood, would give a

general commission for every new print of merit to be sent you--and as

for Marianne, I know her greatness of soul, there would not be music

enough in London to content her. And books!--Thomson, Cowper,

Scott--she would buy them all over and over again: she would buy up

every copy, I believe, to prevent their falling into unworthy hands;

and she would have every book that tells her how to admire an old

twisted tree. Should not you, Marianne? Forgive me, if I am very

saucy. But I was willing to show you that I had not forgot our old

disputes."

"I love to be reminded of the past, Edward--whether it be melancholy

or gay, I love to recall it--and you will never offend me by talking

of former times. You are very right in supposing how my money would be

spent; some of it, at least--my loose cash--would certainly be

employed in improving my collection of music and books."

"And the bulk of your fortune would be laid out in annuities on the

authors or their heirs."

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

"Perhaps, then, you would bestow it as a reward on that person who

wrote the ablest defence of your favourite maxim, that no one can ever

be in love more than once in their life--for your opinion on that

point is unchanged, I presume?"

"Undoubtedly. At my time of life opinions are tolerably fixed. It is

not likely that I should now see or hear any thing to change them."

"Marianne is as steadfast as ever, you see," said Elinor, "she is not

at all altered."

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

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

very gay yourself."

"Why should you think so!" replied he, with a sigh. "But gaiety never

was a part of _my_ character."

"Nor do I think it a part of Marianne's," said Elinor; "I should

hardly call her a lively girl--she is very earnest, very eager in all

she does--sometimes talks a great deal and always with animation--but

she is not often really merry."

"I believe you are right," he replied, "and yet I have always set her

down as a lively girl."

"I have frequently detected myself in such kind of mistakes," said

Elinor, "in a total misapprehension of character in some point or

other: fancying people so much more gay or grave, or ingenious or

stupid than they really are, and I can hardly tell why or in what the

deception originated. Sometimes one is guided by what they say of

themselves, and very frequently by what other people say of them,

without giving oneself time to deliberate and judge."

"But I thought it was right, Elinor," said Marianne, "to be guided

wholly by the opinion of other people. I thought our judgments were

given us merely to be subservient to those of neighbours. This has

always been your doctrine, I am sure."

"No, Marianne, never. My doctrine has never aimed at the subjection of

the understanding. All I have ever attempted to influence has been the

behaviour. You must not confound my meaning. I am guilty, I confess,

of having often wished you to treat our acquaintance in general with

greater attention; but when have I advised you to adopt their

sentiments or to conform to their judgment in serious matters?"

"You have not been able to bring your sister over to your plan of

general civility," said Edward to Elinor, "Do you gain no ground?"

"Quite the contrary," replied Elinor, looking expressively at

Marianne.

"My judgment," he returned, "is all on your side of the question; but

I am afraid my practice is much more on your sister's. I never wish to

offend, but I am so foolishly shy, that I often seem negligent, when I

am only kept back by my natural awkwardness. I have frequently thought

that I must have been intended by nature to be fond of low company, I

am so little at my ease among strangers of gentility!"

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

Elinor.

"She knows her own worth too well for false shame," replied Edward.

"Shyness is only the effect of a sense of inferiority in some way or

other. If I could persuade myself that my manners were perfectly easy

and graceful, I should not be shy."

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

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

"Yes, very."

"I do not understand you," replied he, colouring. "Reserved!--how, in

what manner? What am I to tell you? What can you suppose?"

Elinor looked surprised at his emotion; but trying to laugh off the

subject, she said to him, "Do not you know my sister well enough to

understand what she means? Do not you know she calls every one

reserved who does not talk as fast, and admire what she admires as

rapturously as herself?"

Edward made no answer. His gravity and thoughtfulness returned on him

in their fullest extent--and he sat for some time silent and dull.

CHAPTER XVIII

Elinor saw, with great uneasiness the low spirits of her friend. His

visit afforded her but a very partial satisfaction, while his own

enjoyment in it appeared so imperfect. It was evident that he was

unhappy; she wished it were equally evident that he still

distinguished her by the same affection which once she had felt no

doubt of inspiring; but hitherto the continuance of his preference

seemed very uncertain; and the reservedness of his manner towards her

contradicted one moment what a more animated look had intimated the

preceding one.

He joined her and Marianne in the breakfast-room the next morning

before the others were down; and Marianne, who was always eager to

promote their happiness as far as she could, soon left them to

themselves. But before she was half way upstairs she heard the parlour

door open, and, turning round, was astonished to see Edward himself

come out.

"I am going into the village to see my horses," said he, "as you are

not yet ready for breakfast; I shall be back again presently."

* * * * *

Edward returned to them with fresh admiration of the surrounding

country; in his walk to the village, he had seen many parts of the

valley to advantage; and the village itself, in a much higher

situation than the cottage, afforded a general view of the whole,

which had exceedingly pleased him. This was a subject which ensured

Marianne's attention, and she was beginning to describe her own

admiration of these scenes, and to question him more minutely on the

objects that had particularly struck him, when Edward interrupted her

by saying, "You must not enquire too far, Marianne: remember I have no

knowledge in the picturesque, and I shall offend you by my ignorance

and want of taste if we come to particulars. I shall call hills steep,

which ought to be bold; surfaces strange and uncouth, which ought to

be irregular and rugged; and distant objects out of sight, which ought

only to be indistinct through the soft medium of a hazy atmosphere.

You must be satisfied with such admiration as I can honestly give. I

call it a very fine country,--the hills are steep, the woods seem full

of fine timber, and the valley looks comfortable and snug,--with rich

meadows and several neat farm houses scattered here and there. It

exactly answers my idea of a fine country, because it unites beauty

with utility--and I dare say it is a picturesque one too, because you

admire it; I can easily believe it to be full of rocks and

promontories, grey moss and brush wood, but these are all lost on me.

I know nothing of the picturesque."

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

boast of it?"

"I suspect," said Elinor, "that to avoid one kind of affectation,

Edward here falls into another. Because he believes many people

pretend to more admiration of the beauties of nature than they really

feel, and is disgusted with such pretensions, he affects greater

indifference and less discrimination in viewing them himself than he

possesses. He is fastidious and will have an affectation of his own."

"It is very true," said Marianne, "that admiration of landscape

scenery is become a mere jargon. Every body pretends to feel and tries

to describe with the taste and elegance of him who first defined what

picturesque beauty was. I detest jargon of every kind, and sometimes I

have kept my feelings to myself, because I could find no language to

describe them in but what was worn and hackneyed out of all sense and

meaning."

"I am convinced," said Edward, "that you really feel all the delight

in a fine prospect which you profess to feel. But, in return, your

sister must allow me to feel no more than I profess. I like a fine

prospect, but not on picturesque principles. I do not like crooked,

twisted, blasted trees. I admire them much more if they are tall,

straight, and flourishing. I do not like ruined, tattered cottages. I

am not fond of nettles or thistles, or heath blossoms. I have more

pleasure in a snug farm-house than a watch-tower,--and a troop of

tidy, happy villages please me better than the finest banditti in the

world."

Marianne looked with amazement at Edward, with compassion at her

sister. Elinor only laughed.

The subject was continued no farther; and Marianne remained

thoughtfully silent, till a new object suddenly engaged her attention.

She was sitting by Edward, and in taking his tea from Mrs. Dashwood,

his hand passed so directly before her, as to make a ring, with a

plait of hair in the centre, very conspicuous on one of his fingers.

"I never saw you wear a ring before, Edward," she cried. "Is that

Fanny's hair? I remember her promising to give you some. But I should

have thought her hair had been darker."

Marianne spoke inconsiderately what she really felt; but when she saw

how much she had pained Edward, her own vexation at her want of

thought could not be surpassed by his. He coloured very deeply, and

giving a momentary glance at Elinor, replied, "Yes; it is my sister's

hair. The setting always casts a different shade on it, you know."

Elinor had met his eye, and looked conscious likewise. That the hair

was her own, she instantaneously felt as well satisfied as Marianne;

the only difference in their conclusions was, that what Marianne

considered as a free gift from her sister, Elinor was conscious must

have been procured by some theft or contrivance unknown to herself.

She was not in a humour, however, to regard it as an affront, and

affecting to take no notice of what passed, by instantly talking of

something else, she internally resolved henceforward to catch every

opportunity of eyeing the hair and of satisfying herself, beyond all

doubt, that it was exactly the shade of her own.

Edward's embarrassment lasted some time, and it ended in an absence of

mind still more settled. He was particularly grave the whole morning.

Marianne severely censured herself for what she had said; but her own

forgiveness might have been more speedy, had she known how little

offence it had given her sister.

Before the middle of the day, they were visited by Sir John and Mrs.

Jennings, who, having heard of the arrival of a gentleman at the

cottage, came to take a survey of the guest. With the assistance of

his mother-in-law, Sir John was not long in discovering that the name

of Ferrars began with an F. and this prepared a future mine of

raillery against the devoted Elinor, which nothing but the newness of

their acquaintance with Edward could have prevented from being

immediately sprung. But, as it was, she only learned, from some very

significant looks, how far their penetration, founded on Margaret's

instructions, extended.

Sir John never came to the Dashwoods without either inviting them to

dine at the park the next day, or to drink tea with them that evening.

On the present occasion, for the better entertainment of their

visitor, towards whose amusement he felt himself bound to contribute,

he wished to engage them for both.

"You _must_ drink tea with us to night," said he, "for we shall be

quite alone; and tomorrow you must absolutely dine with us, for we

shall be a large party."

Mrs. Jennings enforced the necessity. "And who knows but you may raise

a dance," said she. "And that will tempt _you_, Miss Marianne."

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

[Illustration: _Came to take a survey of the guest._]

"Who? why yourselves, and the Careys, and Whitakers to be sure.

What! you thought nobody could dance because a certain person that

shall be nameless is gone!"

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

us again."

This, and Marianne's blushing, gave new suspicions to Edward. "And who

is Willoughby?" said he, in a low voice, to Miss Dashwood, by whom he

was sitting.

She gave him a brief reply. Marianne's countenance was more

communicative. Edward saw enough to comprehend, not only the meaning

of others, but such of Marianne's expressions as had puzzled him

before; and when their visitors left them, he went immediately round

her, and said, in a whisper, "I have been guessing. Shall I tell you

my guess?"

"What do you mean?"

"Shall I tell you."

"Certainly."

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

Marianne was surprised and confused, yet she could not help smiling at

the quiet archness of his manner, and after a moment's silence, said--

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

you will like him."

"I do not doubt it," replied he, rather astonished at her earnestness

and warmth; for had he not imagined it to be a joke for the good of

her acquaintance in general, founded only on a something or a nothing

between Mr. Willoughby and herself, he would not have ventured to

mention it.

CHAPTER XIX

Edward remained a week at the cottage; he was earnestly pressed by

Mrs. Dashwood to stay longer; but, as if he were bent only on

self-mortification, he seemed resolved to be gone when his enjoyment

among his friends was at the height. His spirits, during the last two

or three days, though still very unequal, were greatly improved--he

grew more and more partial to the house and environs--never spoke of

going away without a sigh--declared his time to be wholly

disengaged--even doubted to what place he should go when he left

them--but still, go he must. Never had any week passed so quickly--he

could hardly believe it to be gone. He said so repeatedly; other

things he said too, which marked the turn of his feelings and gave the

lie to his actions. He had no pleasure at Norland; he detested being

in town; but either to Norland or London, he must go. He valued their

kindness beyond any thing, and his greatest happiness was in being

with them. Yet, he must leave them at the end of a week, in spite of

their wishes and his own, and without any restraint on his time.

Elinor placed all that was astonishing in this way of acting to his

mother's account; and it was happy for her that he had a mother whose

character was so imperfectly known to her, as to be the general excuse

for every thing strange on the part of her son. Disappointed, however,

and vexed as she was, and sometimes displeased with his uncertain

behaviour to herself, she was very well disposed on the whole to

regard his actions with all the candid allowances and generous

qualifications, which had been rather more painfully extorted from

her, for Willoughby's service, by her mother. His want of spirits, of

openness, and of consistency, were most usually attributed to his want

of independence, and his better knowledge of Mrs. Ferrars's

disposition and designs. The shortness of his visit, the steadiness of

his purpose in leaving them, originated in the same fettered

inclination, the same inevitable necessity of temporizing with his

mother. The old well-established grievance of duty against will,

parent against child, was the cause of all. She would have been glad

to know when these difficulties were to cease, this opposition was to

yield, when Mrs. Ferrars would be reformed, and her son be at liberty

to be happy. But from such vain wishes she was forced to turn for

comfort to the renewal of her confidence in Edward's affection, to the

remembrance of every mark of regard in look or word which fell from

him while at Barton, and above all to that flattering proof of it

which he constantly wore round his finger.

"I think, Edward," said Mrs. Dashwood, as they were at breakfast the

last morning, "you would be a happier man if you had any profession to

engage your time and give an interest to your plans and actions. Some

inconvenience to your friends, indeed, might result from it--you would

not be able to give them so much of your time. But (with a smile) you

would be materially benefited in one particular at least--you would

know where to go when you left them."

"I do assure you," he replied, "that I have long thought on this

point, as you think now. It has been, and is, and probably will always

be a heavy misfortune to me, that I have had no necessary business to

engage me, no profession to give me employment, or afford me any thing

like independence. But unfortunately my own nicety, and the nicety of

my friends, have made me what I am, an idle, helpless being. We never

could agree in our choice of a profession. I always preferred the

church, as I still do. But that was not smart enough for my family.

They recommended the army. That was a great deal too smart for me. The

law was allowed to be genteel enough; many young men, who had chambers

in the Temple, made a very good appearance in the first circles, and

drove about town in very knowing gigs. But I had no inclination for

the law, even in this less abstruse study of it, which my family

approved. As for the navy, it had fashion on its side, but I was too

old when the subject was first started to enter it; and, at length, as

there was no necessity for my having any profession at all, as I might

be as dashing and expensive without a red coat on my back as with one,

idleness was pronounced on the whole to be most advantageous and

honourable, and a young man of eighteen is not in general so earnestly

bent on being busy as to resist the solicitations of his friends to do

nothing. I was therefore entered at Oxford and have been properly idle

ever since."

"The consequence of which, I suppose, will be," said Mrs. Dashwood,

"since leisure has not promoted your own happiness, that your sons

will be brought up to as many pursuits, employments, professions, and

trades as Columella's."

"They will be brought up," said he, in a serious accent, "to be as

unlike myself as is possible. In feeling, in action, in condition, in

every thing."

"Come, come; this is all an effusion of immediate want of spirits,

Edward. You are in a melancholy humour, and fancy that any one unlike

yourself must be happy. But remember that the pain of parting from

friends will be felt by every body at times, whatever be their

education or state. Know your own happiness. You want nothing but

patience--or give it a more fascinating name, call it hope. Your

mother will secure to you, in time, that independence you are so

anxious for; it is her duty, and it will, it must ere long become her

happiness to prevent your whole youth from being wasted in discontent.

How much may not a few months do?"

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

good to me."

This desponding turn of mind, though it could not be communicated to

Mrs. Dashwood, gave additional pain to them all in the parting, which

shortly took place, and left an uncomfortable impression on Elinor's

feelings especially, which required some trouble and time to subdue.

But as it was her determination to subdue it, and to prevent herself

from appearing to suffer more than what all her family suffered on his

going away, she did not adopt the method so judiciously employed by

Marianne, on a similar occasion, to augment and fix her sorrow, by

seeking silence, solitude and idleness. Their means were as different

as their objects, and equally suited to the advancement of each.

Elinor sat down to her drawing-table as soon as he was out of the

house, busily employed herself the whole day, neither sought nor

avoided the mention of his name, appeared to interest herself almost

as much as ever in the general concerns of the family, and if, by this

conduct, she did not lessen her own grief, it was at least prevented

from unnecessary increase, and her mother and sisters were spared much

solicitude on her account.

Such behaviour as this, so exactly the reverse of her own, appeared no

more meritorious to Marianne, than her own had seemed faulty to her.

The business of self-command she settled very easily;--with strong

affections it was impossible, with calm ones it could have no merit.

That her sister's affections _were_ calm, she dared not deny, though

she blushed to acknowledge it; and of the strength of her own, she

gave a very striking proof, by still loving and respecting that

sister, in spite of this mortifying conviction.

Without shutting herself up from her family, or leaving the house in

determined solitude to avoid them, or lying awake the whole night to

indulge meditation, Elinor found every day afforded her leisure enough

to think of Edward, and of Edward's behaviour, in every possible

variety which the different state of her spirits at different times

could produce,--with tenderness, pity, approbation, censure, and

doubt. There were moments in abundance, when, if not by the absence of

her mother and sisters, at least by the nature of their employments,

conversation was forbidden among them, and every effect of solitude

was produced. Her mind was inevitably at liberty; her thoughts could

not be chained elsewhere; and the past and the future, on a subject so

interesting, must be before her, must force her attention, and engross

her memory, her reflection, and her fancy.

From a reverie of this kind, as she sat at her drawing-table, she was

roused one morning, soon after Edward's leaving them, by the arrival

of company. She happened to be quite alone. The closing of the little

gate, at the entrance of the green court in front of the house, drew

her eyes to the window, and she saw a large party walking up to the

door. Amongst them were Sir John and Lady Middleton and Mrs. Jennings,

but there were two others, a gentleman and lady, who were quite

unknown to her. She was sitting near the window, and as soon as Sir

John perceived her, he left the rest of the party to the ceremony of

knocking at the door, and stepping across the turf, obliged her to

open the casement to speak to him, though the space was so short

between the door and the window, as to make it hardly possible to

speak at one without being heard at the other.

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

them?"

"Hush! they will hear you."

"Never mind if they do. It is only the Palmers. Charlotte is very

pretty, I can tell you. You may see her if you look this way."

As Elinor was certain of seeing her in a couple of minutes, without

taking that liberty, she begged to be excused.

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

instrument is open."

"She is walking, I believe."

They were now joined by Mrs. Jennings, who had not patience enough to

wait till the door was opened before she told _her_ story. She came

hallooing to the window, "How do you do, my dear? How does Mrs.

Dashwood do? And where are your sisters? What! all alone! you will be

glad of a little company to sit with you. I have brought my other son

and daughter to see you. Only think of their coming so suddenly! I

thought I heard a carriage last night, while we were drinking our tea,

but it never entered my head that it could be them. I thought of

nothing but whether it might not be Colonel Brandon come back again;

so I said to Sir John, I do think I hear a carriage; perhaps it is

Colonel Brandon come back again--"

Elinor was obliged to turn from her, in the middle of her story, to

receive the rest of the party; Lady Middleton introduced the two

strangers; Mrs. Dashwood and Margaret came down stairs at the same

time, and they all sat down to look at one another, while Mrs.

Jennings continued her story as she walked through the passage into

the parlour, attended by Sir John.

Mrs. Palmer was several years younger than Lady Middleton, and totally

unlike her in every respect. She was short and plump, had a very

pretty face, and the finest expression of good humour in it that could

possibly be. Her manners were by no means so elegant as her sister's,

but they were much more prepossessing. She came in with a smile,

smiled all the time of her visit, except when she laughed, and smiled

when she went away. Her husband was a grave looking young man of five

or six and twenty, with an air of more fashion and sense than his

wife, but of less willingness to please or be pleased. He entered the

room with a look of self-consequence, slightly bowed to the ladies,

without speaking a word, and, after briefly surveying them and their

apartments, took up a newspaper from the table, and continued to read

it as long as he stayed.

Mrs. Palmer, on the contrary, who was strongly endowed by nature with

a turn for being uniformly civil and happy, was hardly seated before

her admiration of the parlour and every thing in it burst forth.

"Well! what a delightful room this is! I never saw anything so

charming! Only think, Mamma, how it is improved since I was here last!

I always thought it such a sweet place, ma'am! (turning to Mrs.

Dashwood) but you have made it so charming! Only look, sister, how

delightful every thing is! How I should like such a house for myself!

Should not you, Mr. Palmer?"

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

the newspaper.

"Mr. Palmer does not hear me," said she, laughing; "he never does

sometimes. It is so ridiculous!"

This was quite a new idea to Mrs. Dashwood; she had never been used to

find wit in the inattention of any one, and could not help looking

with surprise at them both.

Mrs. Jennings, in the meantime, talked on as loud as she could, and

continued her account of their surprise, the evening before, on seeing

their friends, without ceasing till every thing was told. Mrs. Palmer

laughed heartily at the recollection of their astonishment, and every

body agreed, two or three times over, that it had been quite an

agreeable surprise.

"You may believe how glad we all were to see them," added Mrs.

Jennings, leaning forward towards Elinor, and speaking in a low voice

as if she meant to be heard by no one else, though they were seated on

different sides of the room; "but, however, I can't help wishing they

had not travelled quite so fast, nor made such a long journey of it,

for they came all round by London upon account of some business, for

you know (nodding significantly and pointing to her daughter) it was

wrong in her situation. I wanted her to stay at home and rest this

morning, but she would come with us; she longed so much to see you

all!"

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

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

Lady Middleton could no longer endure such a conversation, and

therefore exerted herself to ask Mr. Palmer if there was any news in

the paper.

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

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

monstrous pretty girl."

He immediately went into the passage, opened the front door, and

ushered her in himself. Mrs. Jennings asked her, as soon as she

appeared, if she had not been to Allenham; and Mrs. Palmer laughed so

heartily at the question, as to show she understood it. Mr. Palmer

looked up on her entering the room, stared at her some minutes, and

then returned to his newspaper. Mrs. Palmer's eye was now caught by

the drawings which hung round the room. She got up to examine them.

[Illustration: "_I declare they are quite charming_."]

"Oh! dear, how beautiful these are! Well! how delightful! Do but look,

mama, how sweet! I declare they are quite charming; I could look at

them for ever." And then sitting down again, she very soon forgot that

there were any such things in the room.

When Lady Middleton rose to go away, Mr. Palmer rose also, laid down

the newspaper, stretched himself and looked at them all around.

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

He made her no answer; and only observed, after again examining the

room, that it was very low pitched, and that the ceiling was crooked.

He then made his bow, and departed with the rest.

Sir John had been very urgent with them all to spend the next day at

the park. Mrs. Dashwood, who did not choose to dine with them oftener

than they dined at the cottage, absolutely refused on her own account;

her daughters might do as they pleased. But they had no curiosity to

see how Mr. and Mrs. Palmer ate their dinner, and no expectation of

pleasure from them in any other way. They attempted, therefore,

likewise, to excuse themselves; the weather was uncertain, and not

likely to be good. But Sir John would not be satisfied--the carriage

should be sent for them and they must come. Lady Middleton too, though

she did not press their mother, pressed them. Mrs. Jennings and Mrs.

Palmer joined their entreaties, all seemed equally anxious to avoid a

family party; and the young ladies were obliged to yield.

"Why should they ask us?" said Marianne, as soon as they were gone.

"The rent of this cottage is said to be low; but we have it on very

hard terms, if we are to dine at the park whenever any one is staying

either with them, or with us."

"They mean no less to be civil and kind to us now," said Elinor, "by

these frequent invitations, than by those which we received from them

a few weeks ago. The alteration is not in them, if their parties are

grown tedious and dull. We must look for the change elsewhere."

CHAPTER XX

As the Miss Dashwoods entered the drawing-room of the park the next

day, at one door, Mrs. Palmer came running in at the other, looking as

good humoured and merry as before. She took them all most

affectionately by the hand, and expressed great delight in seeing them

again.

"I am so glad to see you!" said she, seating herself between Elinor

and Marianne, "for it is so bad a day I was afraid you might not come,

which would be a shocking thing, as we go away again tomorrow. We must

go, for the Westons come to us next week you know. It was quite a

sudden thing our coming at all, and I knew nothing of it till the

carriage was coming to the door, and then Mr. Palmer asked me if I

would go with him to Barton. He is so droll! He never tells me any

thing! I am so sorry we cannot stay longer; however we shall meet

again in town very soon, I hope."

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

"Not go to town!" cried Mrs. Palmer, with a laugh, "I shall be quite

disappointed if you do not. I could get the nicest house in world for

you, next door to ours, in Hanover-square. You must come, indeed. I am

sure I shall be very happy to chaperon you at any time till I am

confined, if Mrs. Dashwood should not like to go into public."

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

"Oh, my love," cried Mrs. Palmer to her husband, who just then entered

the room--"you must help me to persuade the Miss Dashwoods to go to

town this winter."

Her love made no answer; and after slightly bowing to the ladies,

began complaining of the weather.

"How horrid all this is!" said he. "Such weather makes every thing and

every body disgusting. Dullness is as much produced within doors as

without, by rain. It makes one detest all one's acquaintance. What the

devil does Sir John mean by not having a billiard room in his house?

How few people know what comfort is! Sir John is as stupid as the

weather."

The rest of the company soon dropt in.

"I am afraid, Miss Marianne," said Sir John, "you have not been able

to take your usual walk to Allenham today."

Marianne looked very grave and said nothing.

"Oh, don't be so sly before us," said Mrs. Palmer; "for we know all

about it, I assure you; and I admire your taste very much, for I think

he is extremely handsome. We do not live a great way from him in the

country, you know. Not above ten miles, I dare say."

"Much nearer thirty," said her husband.

"Ah, well! there is not much difference. I never was at his house; but

they say it is a sweet pretty place."

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

Marianne remained perfectly silent, though her countenance betrayed

her interest in what was said.

"Is it very ugly?" continued Mrs. Palmer--"then it must be some other

place that is so pretty I suppose."

When they were seated in the dining room, Sir John observed with

regret that they were only eight all together.

"My dear," said he to his lady, "it is very provoking that we should

be so few. Why did not you ask the Gilberts to come to us today?"

"Did not I tell you, Sir John, when you spoke to me about it before,

that it could not be done? They dined with us last."

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

ceremony."

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

"My love you contradict every body," said his wife with her usual

laugh. "Do you know that you are quite rude?"

"I did not know I contradicted any body in calling your mother

ill-bred."

"Ay, you may abuse me as you please," said the good-natured old lady,

"you have taken Charlotte off my hands, and cannot give her back

again. So there I have the whip hand of you."

Charlotte laughed heartily to think that her husband could not get rid

of her; and exultingly said, she did not care how cross he was to her,

as they must live together. It was impossible for any one to be more

thoroughly good-natured, or more determined to be happy than Mrs.

Palmer. The studied indifference, insolence, and discontent of her

husband gave her no pain; and when he scolded or abused her, she was

highly diverted.

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

always out of humour."

Elinor was not inclined, after a little observation, to give him

credit for being so genuinely and unaffectedly ill-natured or ill-bred

as he wished to appear. His temper might perhaps be a little soured by

finding, like many others of his sex, that through some unaccountable

bias in favour of beauty, he was the husband of a very silly

woman,--but she knew that this kind of blunder was too common for any

sensible man to be lastingly hurt by it. It was rather a wish of

distinction, she believed, which produced his contemptuous treatment

of every body, and his general abuse of every thing before him. It was

the desire of appearing superior to other people. The motive was too

common to be wondered at; but the means, however they might succeed by

establishing his superiority in ill-breeding, were not likely to

attach any one to him except his wife.

"Oh, my dear Miss Dashwood," said Mrs. Palmer soon afterwards, "I have

got such a favour to ask of you and your sister. Will you come and

spend some time at Cleveland this Christmas? Now, pray do,--and come

while the Westons are with us. You cannot think how happy I shall be!

It will be quite delightful!--My love," applying to her husband,

"don't you long to have the Miss Dashwoods come to Cleveland?"

"Certainly," he replied, with a sneer--"I came into Devonshire with no

other view."

"There now,"--said his lady, "you see Mr. Palmer expects you; so you

cannot refuse to come."

They both eagerly and resolutely declined her invitation.

"But indeed you must and shall come. I am sure you will like it of all

things. The Westons will be with us, and it will be quite delightful.

You cannot think what a sweet place Cleveland is; and we are so gay

now, for Mr. Palmer is always going about the country canvassing

against the election; and so many people came to dine with us that I

never saw before, it is quite charming! But, poor fellow! it is very

fatiguing to him! for he is forced to make every body like him."

Elinor could hardly keep her countenance as she assented to the

hardship of such an obligation.

"How charming it will be," said Charlotte, "when he is in

Parliament!--won't it? How I shall laugh! It will be so ridiculous to

see all his letters directed to him with an M.P. But do you know, he

says, he will never frank for me? He declares he won't. Don't you, Mr.

Palmer?"

Mr. Palmer took no notice of her.

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

quite shocking."

"No," said he, "I never said any thing so irrational. Don't palm all

your abuses of languages upon me."

"There now; you see how droll he is. This is always the way with him!

Sometimes he won't speak to me for half a day together, and then he

comes out with something so droll--all about any thing in the world."

She surprised Elinor very much as they returned into the drawing-room,

by asking her whether she did not like Mr. Palmer excessively.

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

"Well--I am so glad you do. I thought you would, he is so pleasant;

and Mr. Palmer is excessively pleased with you and your sisters I can

tell you, and you can't think how disappointed he will be if you don't

come to Cleveland. I can't imagine why you should object to it."

Elinor was again obliged to decline her invitation; and by changing

the subject, put a stop to her entreaties. She thought it probable

that as they lived in the same county, Mrs. Palmer might be able to

give some more particular account of Willoughby's general character,

than could be gathered from the Middletons' partial acquaintance with

him; and she was eager to gain from any one, such a confirmation of

his merits as might remove the possibility of fear from Marianne. She

began by inquiring if they saw much of Mr. Willoughby at Cleveland,

and whether they were intimately acquainted with him.

"Oh dear, yes; I know him extremely well," replied Mrs. Palmer;--"Not

that I ever spoke to him, indeed; but I have seen him for ever in

town. Somehow or other I never happened to be staying at Barton while

he was at Allenham. Mama saw him here once before, but I was with my

uncle at Weymouth. However, I dare say we should have seen a great

deal of him in Somersetshire, if it had not happened very unluckily

that we should never have been in the country together. He is very

little at Combe, I believe; but if he were ever so much there, I do

not think Mr. Palmer would visit him, for he is in the opposition, you

know, and besides it is such a way off. I know why you inquire about

him, very well; your sister is to marry him. I am monstrous glad of

it, for then I shall have her for a neighbour you know."

"Upon my word," replied Elinor, "you know much more of the matter than

I do, if you have any reason to expect such a match."

"Don't pretend to deny it, because you know it is what every body

talks of. I assure you I heard of it in my way through town."

"My dear Mrs. Palmer!"

"Upon my honour I did. I met Colonel Brandon Monday morning in

Bond-street, just before we left town, and he told me of it directly."

"You surprise me very much. Colonel Brandon tell you of it! Surely you

must be mistaken. To give such intelligence to a person who could not

be interested in it, even if it were true, is not what I should expect

Colonel Brandon to do."

"But I do assure you it was so, for all that, and I will tell you how

it happened. When we met him, he turned back and walked with us; and

so we began talking of my brother and sister, and one thing and

another, and I said to him, 'So, Colonel, there is a new family come

to Barton cottage, I hear, and mama sends me word they are very

pretty, and that one of them is going to be married to Mr. Willoughby

of Combe Magna. Is it true, pray? for of course you must know, as you

have been in Devonshire so lately.'"

"And what did the Colonel say?"

"Oh--he did not say much; but he looked as if he knew it to be true,

so from that moment I set it down as certain. It will be quite

delightful, I declare! When is it to take place?"

"Mr. Brandon was very well I hope?"

"Oh! yes, quite well; and so full of your praises, he did nothing but

say fine things of you."

"I am flattered by his commendation. He seems an excellent man; and I

think him uncommonly pleasing."

"So do I. He is such a charming man, that it is quite a pity he should

be so grave and so dull. Mamma says _he_ was in love with your sister

too. I assure you it was a great compliment if he was, for he hardly

ever falls in love with any body."

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

Elinor.