"Oh! yes, extremely well; that is, I do not believe many people are

acquainted with him, because Combe Magna is so far off; but they all

think him extremely agreeable I assure you. Nobody is more liked than

Mr. Willoughby wherever he goes, and so you may tell your sister. She

is a monstrous lucky girl to get him, upon my honour; not but that he

is much more lucky in getting her, because she is so very handsome and

agreeable, that nothing can be good enough for her. However, I don't

think her hardly at all handsomer than you, I assure you; for I think

you both excessively pretty, and so does Mr. Palmer too I am sure,

though we could not get him to own it last night."

Mrs. Palmer's information respecting Willoughby was not very material;

but any testimony in his favour, however small, was pleasing to her.

"I am so glad we are got acquainted at last," continued Charlotte.

"And now I hope we shall always be great friends. You can't think how

much I longed to see you! It is so delightful that you should live at

the cottage! Nothing can be like it, to be sure! And I am so glad your

sister is going to be well married! I hope you will be a great deal at

Combe Magna. It is a sweet place, by all accounts."

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

"Yes, a great while; ever since my sister married. He was a particular

friend of Sir John's. I believe," she added in a low voice, "he would

have been very glad to have had me, if he could. Sir John and Lady

Middleton wished it very much. But mama did not think the match good

enough for me, otherwise Sir John would have mentioned it to the

Colonel, and we should have been married immediately."

"Did not Colonel Brandon know of Sir John's proposal to your mother

before it was made? Had he never owned his affection to yourself?"

"Oh, no; but if mama had not objected to it, I dare say he would have

liked it of all things. He had not seen me then above twice, for it

was before I left school. However, I am much happier as I am. Mr.

Palmer is the kind of man I like."

CHAPTER XXI

The Palmers returned to Cleveland the next day, and the two families

at Barton were again left to entertain each other. But this did not

last long; Elinor had hardly got their last visitors out of her head,

had hardly done wondering at Charlotte's being so happy without a

cause, at Mr. Palmer's acting so simply, with good abilities, and at

the strange unsuitableness which often existed between husband and

wife, before Sir John's and Mrs. Jennings's active zeal in the cause

of society, procured her some other new acquaintance to see and

observe.

In a morning's excursion to Exeter, they had met with two young

ladies, whom Mrs. Jennings had the satisfaction of discovering to be

her relations, and this was enough for Sir John to invite them

directly to the park, as soon as their present engagements at Exeter

were over. Their engagements at Exeter instantly gave way before such

an invitation, and Lady Middleton was thrown into no little alarm on

the return of Sir John, by hearing that she was very soon to receive a

visit from two girls whom she had never seen in her life, and of whose

elegance--whose tolerable gentility even--she could have no proof; for

the assurances of her husband and mother on that subject went for

nothing at all. Their being her relations too made it so much the

worse; and Mrs. Jennings's attempts at consolation were therefore

unfortunately founded, when she advised her daughter not to care about

their being so fashionable; because they were all cousins and must put

up with one another. As it was impossible, however, now to prevent

their coming, Lady Middleton resigned herself to the idea of it, with

all the philosophy of a well-bred woman, contenting herself with

merely giving her husband a gentle reprimand on the subject five or

six times every day.

The young ladies arrived: their appearance was by no means ungenteel

or unfashionable. Their dress was very smart, their manners very

civil, they were delighted with the house, and in raptures with the

furniture, and they happened to be so doatingly fond of children that

Lady Middleton's good opinion was engaged in their favour before they

had been an hour at the Park. She declared them to be very agreeable

girls indeed, which for her ladyship was enthusiastic admiration. Sir

John's confidence in his own judgment rose with this animated praise,

and he set off directly for the cottage to tell the Miss Dashwoods of

the Miss Steeles' arrival, and to assure them of their being the

sweetest girls in the world. From such commendation as this, however,

there was not much to be learned; Elinor well knew that the sweetest

girls in the world were to be met with in every part of England, under

every possible variation of form, face, temper and understanding. Sir

John wanted the whole family to walk to the Park directly and look at

his guests. Benevolent, philanthropic man! It was painful to him even

to keep a third cousin to himself.

"Do come now," said he--"pray come--you must come--I declare you shall

come--You can't think how you will like them. Lucy is monstrous

pretty, and so good humoured and agreeable! The children are all

hanging about her already, as if she was an old acquaintance. And they

both long to see you of all things, for they have heard at Exeter that

you are the most beautiful creatures in the world; and I have told

them it is all very true, and a great deal more. You will be delighted

with them I am sure. They have brought the whole coach full of

playthings for the children. How can you be so cross as not to come?

Why they are your cousins, you know, after a fashion. _You_ are my

cousins, and they are my wife's, so you must be related."

But Sir John could not prevail. He could only obtain a promise of

their calling at the Park within a day or two, and then left them in

amazement at their indifference, to walk home and boast anew of their

attractions to the Miss Steeles, as he had been already boasting of

the Miss Steeles to them.

When their promised visit to the Park and consequent introduction to

these young ladies took place, they found in the appearance of the

eldest, who was nearly thirty, with a very plain and not a sensible

face, nothing to admire; but in the other, who was not more than two

or three and twenty, they acknowledged considerable beauty; her

features were pretty, and she had a sharp quick eye, and a smartness

of air, which though it did not give actual elegance or grace, gave

distinction to her person. Their manners were particularly civil, and

Elinor soon allowed them credit for some kind of sense, when she saw

with what constant and judicious attention they were making themselves

agreeable to Lady Middleton. With her children they were in continual

raptures, extolling their beauty, courting their notice, and humouring

their whims; and such of their time as could be spared from the

importunate demands which this politeness made on it, was spent in

admiration of whatever her ladyship was doing, if she happened to be

doing any thing, or in taking patterns of some elegant new dress, in

which her appearance the day before had thrown them into unceasing

delight. Fortunately for those who pay their court through such

foibles, a fond mother, though, in pursuit of praise for her children,

the most rapacious of human beings, is likewise the most credulous;

her demands are exorbitant; but she will swallow any thing; and the

excessive affection and endurance of the Miss Steeles towards her

offspring were viewed therefore by Lady Middleton without the smallest

surprise or distrust. She saw with maternal complacency all the

impertinent encroachments and mischievous tricks to which her cousins

submitted. She saw their sashes untied, their hair pulled about their

ears, their work-bags searched, and their knives and scissors stolen

away, and felt no doubt of its being a reciprocal enjoyment. It

suggested no other surprise than that Elinor and Marianne should sit

so composedly by, without claiming a share in what was passing.

"John is in such spirits today!" said she, on his taking Miss Steele's

pocket handkerchief, and throwing it out of window--"He is full of

monkey tricks."

And soon afterwards, on the second boy's violently pinching one of the

same lady's fingers, she fondly observed, "How playful William is!"

[Illustration: _Mischievous tricks._]

"And here is my sweet little Annamaria," she added, tenderly caressing

a little girl of three years old, who had not made a noise for the

last two minutes; "And she is always so gentle and quiet--Never was

there such a quiet little thing!"

But unfortunately in bestowing these embraces, a pin in her ladyship's

head dress slightly scratching the child's neck, produced from this

pattern of gentleness such violent screams, as could hardly be outdone

by any creature professedly noisy. The mother's consternation was

excessive; but it could not surpass the alarm of the Miss Steeles, and

every thing was done by all three, in so critical an emergency, which

affection could suggest as likely to assuage the agonies of the little

sufferer. She was seated in her mother's lap, covered with kisses, her

wound bathed with lavender-water, by one of the Miss Steeles, who was

on her knees to attend her, and her mouth stuffed with sugar plums by

the other. With such a reward for her tears, the child was too wise to

cease crying. She still screamed and sobbed lustily, kicked her two

brothers for offering to touch her, and all their united soothings

were ineffectual till Lady Middleton luckily remembering that in a

scene of similar distress last week, some apricot marmalade had been

successfully applied for a bruised temple, the same remedy was eagerly

proposed for this unfortunate scratch, and a slight intermission of

screams in the young lady on hearing it, gave them reason to hope that

it would not be rejected. She was carried out of the room therefore in

her mother's arms, in quest of this medicine, and as the two boys

chose to follow, though earnestly entreated by their mother to stay

behind, the four young ladies were left in a quietness which the room

had not known for many hours.

"Poor little creatures!" said Miss Steele, as soon as they were gone.

"It might have been a very sad accident."

"Yet I hardly know how," cried Marianne, "unless it had been under

totally different circumstances. But this is the usual way of

heightening alarm, where there is nothing to be alarmed at in

reality."

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

Marianne was silent; it was impossible for her to say what she did not

feel, however trivial the occasion; and upon Elinor therefore the

whole task of telling lies when politeness required it, always fell.

She did her best when thus called on, by speaking of Lady Middleton

with more warmth than she felt, though with far less than Miss Lucy.

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

is!"

Here too, Miss Dashwood's commendation, being only simple and just,

came in without any eclat. She merely observed that he was perfectly

good humoured and friendly.

"And what a charming little family they have! I never saw such fine

children in my life. I declare I quite doat upon them already, and

indeed I am always distractedly fond of children."

"I should guess so," said Elinor, with a smile, "from what I have

witnessed this morning."

"I have a notion," said Lucy, "you think the little Middletons rather

too much indulged; perhaps they may be the outside of enough; but it

is so natural in Lady Middleton; and for my part, I love to see

children full of life and spirits; I cannot bear them if they are tame

and quiet."

"I confess," replied Elinor, "that while I am at Barton Park, I never

think of tame and quiet children with any abhorrence."

A short pause succeeded this speech, which was first broken by Miss

Steele, who seemed very much disposed for conversation, and who now

said rather abruptly, "And how do you like Devonshire, Miss Dashwood?

I suppose you were very sorry to leave Sussex."

In some surprise at the familiarity of this question, or at least of

the manner in which it was spoken, Elinor replied that she was.

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

Steele.

"We have heard Sir John admire it excessively," said Lucy, who seemed

to think some apology necessary for the freedom of her sister.

"I think every one _must_ admire it," replied Elinor, "who ever saw

the place; though it is not to be supposed that any one can estimate

its beauties as we do."

"And had you a great many smart beaux there? I suppose you have not so

many in this part of the world; for my part, I think they are a vast

addition always."

"But why should you think," said Lucy, looking ashamed of her sister,

"that there are not as many genteel young men in Devonshire as

Sussex?"

"Nay, my dear, I'm sure I don't pretend to say that there an't. I'm

sure there's a vast many smart beaux in Exeter; but you know, how

could I tell what smart beaux there might be about Norland; and I was

only afraid the Miss Dashwoods might find it dull at Barton, if they

had not so many as they used to have. But perhaps you young ladies may

not care about the beaux, and had as lief be without them as with

them. For my part, I think they are vastly agreeable, provided they

dress smart and behave civil. But I can't bear to see them dirty and

nasty. Now there's Mr. Rose at Exeter, a prodigious smart young man,

quite a beau, clerk to Mr. Simpson, you know, and yet if you do but

meet him of a morning, he is not fit to be seen. I suppose your

brother was quite a beau, Miss Dashwood, before he married, as he was

so rich?"

"Upon my word," replied Elinor, "I cannot tell you, for I do not

perfectly comprehend the meaning of the word. But this I can say, that

if he ever was a beau before he married, he is one still for there is

not the smallest alteration in him."

"Oh! dear! one never thinks of married men's being beaux--they have

something else to do."

"Lord! Anne," cried her sister, "you can talk of nothing but

beaux;--you will make Miss Dashwood believe you think of nothing

else." And then to turn the discourse, she began admiring the house

and the furniture.

This specimen of the Miss Steeles was enough. The vulgar freedom and

folly of the eldest left her no recommendation, and as Elinor was not

blinded by the beauty, or the shrewd look of the youngest, to her want

of real elegance and artlessness, she left the house without any wish

of knowing them better.

Not so the Miss Steeles. They came from Exeter, well provided with

admiration for the use of Sir John Middleton, his family, and all his

relations, and no niggardly proportion was now dealt out to his fair

cousins, whom they declared to be the most beautiful, elegant,

accomplished, and agreeable girls they had ever beheld, and with whom

they were particularly anxious to be better acquainted. And to be

better acquainted therefore, Elinor soon found was their inevitable

lot, for as Sir John was entirely on the side of the Miss Steeles,

their party would be too strong for opposition, and that kind of

intimacy must be submitted to, which consists of sitting an hour or

two together in the same room almost every day. Sir John could do no

more; but he did not know that any more was required: to be together

was, in his opinion, to be intimate, and while his continual schemes

for their meeting were effectual, he had not a doubt of their being

established friends.

To do him justice, he did every thing in his power to promote their

unreserve, by making the Miss Steeles acquainted with whatever he knew

or supposed of his cousins' situations in the most delicate

particulars,--and Elinor had not seen them more than twice, before the

eldest of them wished her joy on her sister's having been so lucky as

to make a conquest of a very smart beau since she came to Barton.

"'Twill be a fine thing to have her married so young to be sure," said

she, "and I hear he is quite a beau, and prodigious handsome. And I

hope you may have as good luck yourself soon,--but perhaps you may

have a friend in the corner already."

Elinor could not suppose that Sir John would be more nice in

proclaiming his suspicions of her regard for Edward, than he had been

with respect to Marianne; indeed it was rather his favourite joke of

the two, as being somewhat newer and more conjectural; and since

Edward's visit, they had never dined together without his drinking to

her best affections with so much significancy and so many nods and

winks, as to excite general attention. The letter F had been likewise

invariably brought forward, and found productive of such countless

jokes, that its character as the wittiest letter in the alphabet had

been long established with Elinor.

The Miss Steeles, as she expected, had now all the benefit of these

jokes, and in the eldest of them they raised a curiosity to know the

name of the gentleman alluded to, which, though often impertinently

expressed, was perfectly of a piece with her general inquisitiveness

into the concerns of their family. But Sir John did not sport long

with the curiosity which he delighted to raise, for he had at least as

much pleasure in telling the name, as Miss Steele had in hearing it.

"His name is Ferrars," said he, in a very audible whisper; "but pray

do not tell it, for it's a great secret."

[Illustration: _Drinking to her best affections._]

"Ferrars!" repeated Miss Steele; "Mr. Ferrars is the happy man, is he?

What! your sister-in-law's brother, Miss Dashwood? a very agreeable

young man to be sure; I know him very well."

"How can you say so, Anne?" cried Lucy, who generally made an

amendment to all her sister's assertions. "Though we have seen him

once or twice at my uncle's, it is rather too much to pretend to know

him very well."

Elinor heard all this with attention and surprise. "And who was this

uncle? Where did he live? How came they acquainted?" She wished very

much to have the subject continued, though she did not choose to join

in it herself; but nothing more of it was said, and for the first time

in her life, she thought Mrs. Jennings deficient either in curiosity

after petty information, or in a disposition to communicate it. The

manner in which Miss Steele had spoken of Edward, increased her

curiosity; for it struck her as being rather ill-natured, and

suggested the suspicion of that lady's knowing, or fancying herself to

know something to his disadvantage. But her curiosity was unavailing,

for no farther notice was taken of Mr. Ferrars's name by Miss Steele

when alluded to, or even openly mentioned by Sir John.

CHAPTER XXII

Marianne, who had never much toleration for any thing like

impertinence, vulgarity, inferiority of parts, or even difference of

taste from herself, was at this time particularly ill-disposed, from

the state of her spirits, to be pleased with the Miss Steeles, or to

encourage their advances; and to the invariable coldness of her

behaviour towards them, which checked every endeavour at intimacy on

their side, Elinor principally attributed that preference of herself

which soon became evident in the manners of both, but especially of

Lucy, who missed no opportunity of engaging her in conversation, or of

striving to improve their acquaintance by an easy and frank

communication of her sentiments.

Lucy was naturally clever; her remarks were often just and amusing;

and as a companion for half an hour Elinor frequently found her

agreeable; but her powers had received no aid from education: she was

ignorant and illiterate; and her deficiency of all mental improvement,

her want of information in the most common particulars, could not be

concealed from Miss Dashwood, in spite of her constant endeavour to

appear to advantage. Elinor saw, and pitied her for, the neglect of

abilities which education might have rendered so respectable; but she

saw, with less tenderness of feeling, the thorough want of delicacy,

of rectitude, and integrity of mind, which her attentions, her

assiduities, her flatteries at the Park betrayed; and she could have

no lasting satisfaction in the company of a person who joined

insincerity with ignorance; whose want of instruction prevented their

meeting in conversation on terms of equality, and whose conduct toward

others made every show of attention and deference towards herself

perfectly valueless.

"You will think my question an odd one, I dare say," said Lucy to her

one day, as they were walking together from the park to the

cottage--"but pray, are you personally acquainted with your

sister-in-law's mother, Mrs. Ferrars?"

Elinor _did_ think the question a very odd one, and her countenance

expressed it, as she answered that she had never seen Mrs. Ferrars.

"Indeed!" replied Lucy; "I wonder at that, for I thought you must have

seen her at Norland sometimes. Then, perhaps, you cannot tell me what

sort of a woman she is?"

"No," returned Elinor, cautious of giving her real opinion of Edward's

mother, and not very desirous of satisfying what seemed impertinent

curiosity; "I know nothing of her."

"I am sure you think me very strange, for enquiring about her in such

a way," said Lucy, eyeing Elinor attentively as she spoke; "but

perhaps there may be reasons--I wish I might venture; but however I

hope you will do me the justice of believing that I do not mean to be

impertinent."

Elinor made her a civil reply, and they walked on for a few minutes in

silence. It was broken by Lucy, who renewed the subject again by

saying, with some hesitation--

"I cannot bear to have you think me impertinently curious. I am sure I

would rather do any thing in the world than be thought so by a person

whose good opinion is so well worth having as yours. And I am sure I

should not have the smallest fear of trusting _you_; indeed, I should

be very glad of your advice how to manage in such and uncomfortable

situation as I am; but, however, there is no occasion to trouble

_you._ I am sorry you do not happen to know Mrs. Ferrars."

"I am sorry I do _not_," said Elinor, in great astonishment, "if it

could be of any use to _you_ to know my opinion of her. But really I

never understood that you were at all connected with that family, and

therefore I am a little surprised, I confess, at so serious an inquiry

into her character."

"I dare say you are, and I am sure I do not at all wonder at it. But

if I dared tell you all, you would not be so much surprised. Mrs.

Ferrars is certainly nothing to me at present--but the time _may_

come--how soon it will come must depend upon herself--when we may be

very intimately connected."

She looked down as she said this, amiably bashful, with only one side

glance at her companion to observe its effect on her.

"Good heavens!" cried Elinor, "what do you mean? Are you acquainted

with Mr. Robert Ferrars? Can you be?" And she did not feel much

delighted with the idea of such a sister-in-law.

"No," replied Lucy, "not to Mr. _Robert_ Ferrars--I never saw him in

my life; but," fixing her eyes upon Elinor, "to his eldest brother."

What felt Elinor at that moment? Astonishment, that would have been as

painful as it was strong, had not an immediate disbelief of the

assertion attended it. She turned towards Lucy in silent amazement,

unable to divine the reason or object of such a declaration; and

though her complexion varied, she stood firm in incredulity, and felt

in no danger of an hysterical fit, or a swoon.

"You may well be surprised," continued Lucy; "for to be sure you could

have had no idea of it before; for I dare say he never dropped the

smallest hint of it to you or any of your family; because it was

always meant to be a great secret, and I am sure has been faithfully

kept so by me to this hour. Not a soul of all my relations know of it

but Anne, and I never should have mentioned it to you, if I had not

felt the greatest dependence in the world upon your secrecy; and I

really thought my behaviour in asking so many questions about Mrs.

Ferrars must seem so odd, that it ought to be explained. And I do not

think Mr. Ferrars can be displeased, when he knows I have trusted

you, because I know he has the highest opinion in the world of all

your family, and looks upon yourself and the other Miss Dashwoods

quite as his own sisters."--She paused.

[Illustration: _Amiably bashful._]

Elinor for a few moments remained silent. Her astonishment at what she

heard was at first too great for words; but at length forcing herself

to speak, and to speak cautiously, she said, with calmness of manner,

which tolerably well concealed her surprise and solicitude--"May I ask

if your engagement is of long standing?"

"We have been engaged these four years."

"Four years!"

"Yes."

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

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

other day."

"Our acquaintance, however, is of many years date. He was under my

uncle's care, you know, a considerable while."

"Your uncle!"

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

"I think I have," replied Elinor, with an exertion of spirits, which

increased with her increase of emotion.

"He was four years with my uncle, who lives at Longstaple, near

Plymouth. It was there our acquaintance begun, for my sister and me

was often staying with my uncle, and it was there our engagement was

formed, though not till a year after he had quitted as a pupil; but he

was almost always with us afterwards. I was very unwilling to enter

into it, as you may imagine, without the knowledge and approbation of

his mother; but I was too young, and loved him too well, to be so

prudent as I ought to have been. Though you do not know him so well as

me, Miss Dashwood, you must have seen enough of him to be sensible he

is very capable of making a woman sincerely attached to him."

"Certainly," answered Elinor, without knowing what she said; but after

a moment's reflection, she added, with revived security of Edward's

honour and love, and her companion's falsehood--"Engaged to Mr. Edward

Ferrars!--I confess myself so totally surprised at what you tell me,

that really--I beg your pardon; but surely there must be some mistake

of person or name. We cannot mean the same Mr. Ferrars."

"We can mean no other," cried Lucy, smiling. "Mr. Edward Ferrars, the

eldest son of Mrs. Ferrars, of Park Street, and brother of your

sister-in-law, Mrs. John Dashwood, is the person I mean; you must

allow that I am not likely to be deceived as to the name of the man on

who all my happiness depends."

"It is strange," replied Elinor, in a most painful perplexity, "that I

should never have heard him even mention your name."

"No; considering our situation, it was not strange. Our first care has

been to keep the matter secret. You knew nothing of me, or my family,

and, therefore, there could be no _occasion_ for ever mentioning my

name to you; and, as he was always particularly afraid of his sister's

suspecting any thing, _that_ was reason enough for his not mentioning

it."

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

sink with it.

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

"Yes; and heaven knows how much longer we may have to wait. Poor

Edward! It puts him quite out of heart." Then taking a small miniature

from her pocket, she added, "To prevent the possibility of mistake, be

so good as to look at this face. It does not do him justice, to be

sure, but yet I think you cannot be deceived as to the person it was

drew for. I have had it above these three years."

She put it into her hands as she spoke; and when Elinor saw the

painting, whatever other doubts her fear of a too hasty decision, or

her wish of detecting falsehood might suffer to linger in her mind,

she could have none of its being Edward's face. She returned it almost

instantly, acknowledging the likeness.

"I have never been able," continued Lucy, "to give him my picture in

return, which I am very much vexed at, for he has been always so

anxious to get it! But I am determined to set for it the very first

opportunity."

"You are quite in the right," replied Elinor calmly. They then

proceeded a few paces in silence. Lucy spoke first.

"I am sure," said she, "I have no doubt in the world of your

faithfully keeping this secret, because you must know of what

importance it is to us, not to have it reach his mother; for she

would never approve of it, I dare say. I shall have no fortune, and I

fancy she is an exceeding proud woman."

"I certainly did not seek your confidence," said Elinor; "but you do

me no more than justice in imagining that I may be depended on. Your

secret is safe with me; but pardon me if I express some surprise at so

unnecessary a communication. You must at least have felt that my being

acquainted with it could not add to its safety."

As she said this, she looked earnestly at Lucy, hoping to discover

something in her countenance; perhaps the falsehood of the greatest

part of what she had been saying; but Lucy's countenance suffered no

change.

"I was afraid you would think I was taking a great liberty with you,"

said she, "in telling you all this. I have not known you long to be

sure, personally at least, but I have known you and all your family by

description a great while; and as soon as I saw you, I felt almost as

if you was an old acquaintance. Besides in the present case, I really

thought some explanation was due to you after my making such

particular inquiries about Edward's mother; and I am so unfortunate,

that I have not a creature whose advice I can ask. Anne is the only

person that knows of it, and she has no judgment at all; indeed, she

does me a great deal more harm than good, for I am in constant fear of

her betraying me. She does not know how to hold her tongue, as you

must perceive, and I am sure I was in the greatest fright in the world

t'other day, when Edward's name was mentioned by Sir John, lest she

should out with it all. You can't think how much I go through in my

mind from it altogether. I only wonder that I am alive after what I

have suffered for Edward's sake these last four years. Every thing in

such suspense and uncertainty; and seeing him so seldom--we can hardly

meet above twice a-year. I am sure I wonder my heart is not quite

broke."

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

compassionate.

"Sometimes," continued Lucy, after wiping her eyes, "I think whether

it would not be better for us both to break off the matter entirely."

As she said this, she looked directly at her companion. "But then at

other times I have not resolution enough for it. I cannot bear the

thoughts of making him so miserable, as I know the very mention of

such a thing would do. And on my own account too--so dear as he is to

me--I don't think I could be equal to it. What would you advise me to

do in such a case, Miss Dashwood? What would you do yourself?"

"Pardon me," replied Elinor, startled by the question; "but I can give

you no advice under such circumstances. Your own judgment must direct

you."

"To be sure," continued Lucy, after a few minutes silence on both

sides, "his mother must provide for him sometime or other; but poor

Edward is so cast down by it! Did you not think him dreadful

low-spirited when he was at Barton? He was so miserable when he left

us at Longstaple, to go to you, that I was afraid you would think him

quite ill."

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

"Oh, yes; he had been staying a fortnight with us. Did you think he

came directly from town?"

"No," replied Elinor, most feelingly sensible of every fresh

circumstance in favour of Lucy's veracity; "I remember he told us,

that he had been staying a fortnight with some friends near Plymouth."

She remembered too, her own surprise at the time, at his mentioning

nothing farther of those friends, at his total silence with respect

even to their names.

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

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

"I begged him to exert himself for fear you should suspect what was

the matter; but it made him so melancholy, not being able to stay more

than a fortnight with us, and seeing me so much affected. Poor

fellow!--I am afraid it is just the same with him now; for he writes

in wretched spirits. I heard from him just before I left Exeter;"

taking a letter from her pocket and carelessly showing the direction

to Elinor. "You know his hand, I dare say, a charming one it is; but

that is not written so well as usual. He was tired, I dare say, for he

had just filled the sheet to me as full as possible."

Elinor saw that it _was_ his hand, and she could doubt no longer. This

picture, she had allowed herself to believe, might have been

accidentally obtained; it might not have been Edward's gift; but a

correspondence between them by letter, could subsist only under a

positive engagement, could be authorised by nothing else; for a few

moments, she was almost overcome--her heart sunk within her, and she

could hardly stand; but exertion was indispensably necessary; and she

struggled so resolutely against the oppression of her feelings, that

her success was speedy, and for the time complete.

"Writing to each other," said Lucy, returning the letter into her

pocket, "is the only comfort we have in such long separations. Yes, I

have one other comfort in his picture, but poor Edward has not even

_that._ If he had but my picture, he says he should be easy. I gave

him a lock of my hair set in a ring when he was at Longstaple last,

and that was some comfort to him, he said, but not equal to a picture.

Perhaps you might notice the ring when you saw him?"

"I did," said Elinor, with a composure of voice, under which was

concealed an emotion and distress beyond any thing she had ever felt

before. She was mortified, shocked, confounded.

Fortunately for her, they had now reached the cottage, and the

conversation could be continued no farther. After sitting with them a

few minutes, the Miss Steeles returned to the Park, and Elinor was

then at liberty to think and be wretched.

CHAPTER XXIII

However small Elinor's general dependence on Lucy's veracity might be,

it was impossible for her on serious reflection to suspect it in the

present case, where no temptation could be answerable to the folly of

inventing a falsehood of such a description. What Lucy had asserted to

be true, therefore, Elinor could not, dared not longer doubt;

supported as it was too on every side by such probabilities and

proofs, and contradicted by nothing but her own wishes. Their

opportunity of acquaintance in the house of Mr. Pratt was a foundation

for the rest, at once indisputable and alarming; and Edward's visit

near Plymouth, his melancholy state of mind, his dissatisfaction at

his own prospects, his uncertain behaviour towards herself, the

intimate knowledge of the Miss Steeles as to Norland and their family

connections, which had often surprised her, the picture, the letter,

the ring, formed altogether such a body of evidence, as overcame

every fear of condemning him unfairly, and established as a fact,

which no partiality could set aside, his ill-treatment of herself. Her

resentment of such behaviour, her indignation at having been its dupe,

for a short time made her feel only for herself; but other ideas,

other considerations, soon arose. Had Edward been intentionally

deceiving her? Had he feigned a regard for her which he did not feel?

Was his engagement to Lucy an engagement of the heart? No; whatever it

might once have been, she could not believe it such at present. His

affection was all her own. She could not be deceived in that. Her

mother, sisters, Fanny, all had been conscious of his regard for her

at Norland; it was not an illusion of her own vanity. He certainly

loved her. What a softener of the heart was this persuasion! How much

could it not tempt her to forgive! He had been blamable, highly

blamable, in remaining at Norland after he first felt her influence

over him to be more than it ought to be. In that, he could not be

defended; but if he had injured her, how much more had he injured

himself; if her case were pitiable, his was hopeless. His imprudence

had made her miserable for a while; but it seemed to have deprived

himself of all chance of ever being otherwise. She might in time

regain tranquillity; but _he_, what had he to look forward to? Could

he ever be tolerably happy with Lucy Steele; could he, were his

affection for herself out of the question, with his integrity, his

delicacy, and well-informed mind, be satisfied with a wife like

her--illiterate, artful, and selfish?

The youthful infatuation of nineteen would naturally blind him to

every thing but her beauty and good nature; but the four succeeding

years--years, which if rationally spent, give such improvement to the

understanding, must have opened his eyes to her defects of education,

while the same period of time, spent on her side in inferior society

and more frivolous pursuits, had perhaps robbed her of that simplicity

which might once have given an interesting character to her beauty.

If in the supposition of his seeking to marry herself, his

difficulties from his mother had seemed great, how much greater were

they now likely to be, when the object of his engagement was

undoubtedly inferior in connections, and probably inferior in fortune

to herself. These difficulties, indeed, with a heart so alienated

from Lucy, might not press very hard upon his patience; but melancholy

was the state of the person by whom the expectation of family

opposition and unkindness, could be felt as a relief!

As these considerations occurred to her in painful succession, she

wept for him, more than for herself. Supported by the conviction of

having done nothing to merit her present unhappiness, and consoled by

the belief that Edward had done nothing to forfeit her esteem, she

thought she could even now, under the first smart of the heavy blow,

command herself enough to guard every suspicion of the truth from her

mother and sisters. And so well was she able to answer her own

expectations, that when she joined them at dinner only two hours after

she had first suffered the extinction of all her dearest hopes, no one

would have supposed from the appearance of the sisters, that Elinor

was mourning in secret over obstacles which must divide her for ever

from the object of her love, and that Marianne was internally dwelling

on the perfections of a man, of whose whole heart she felt thoroughly

possessed, and whom she expected to see in every carriage which drove

near their house.

The necessity of concealing from her mother and Marianne, what had

been entrusted in confidence to herself, though it obliged her to

unceasing exertion, was no aggravation of Elinor's distress. On the

contrary it was a relief to her, to be spared the communication of

what would give such affliction to them, and to be saved likewise from

hearing that condemnation of Edward, which would probably flow from

the excess of their partial affection for herself, and which was more

than she felt equal to support.

From their counsel, or their conversation, she knew she could receive

no assistance, their tenderness and sorrow must add to her distress,

while her self-command would neither receive encouragement from their

example nor from their praise. She was stronger alone, and her own

good sense so well supported her, that her firmness was as unshaken,

her appearance of cheerfulness as invariable, as with regrets so

poignant and so fresh, it was possible for them to be.

Much as she had suffered from her first conversation with Lucy on the

subject, she soon felt an earnest wish of renewing it; and this for

more reasons than one. She wanted to hear many particulars of their

engagement repeated again, she wanted more clearly to understand what

Lucy really felt for Edward, whether there were any sincerity in her

declaration of tender regard for him, and she particularly wanted to

convince Lucy, by her readiness to enter on the matter again, and her

calmness in conversing on it, that she was no otherwise interested in

it than as a friend, which she very much feared her involuntary

agitation, in their morning discourse, must have left at least

doubtful. That Lucy was disposed to be jealous of her appeared very

probable: it was plain that Edward had always spoken highly in her

praise, not merely from Lucy's assertion, but from her venturing to

trust her on so short a personal acquaintance, with a secret so

confessedly and evidently important. And even Sir John's joking

intelligence must have had some weight. But indeed, while Elinor

remained so well assured within herself of being really beloved by

Edward, it required no other consideration of probabilities to make it

natural that Lucy should be jealous; and that she was so, her very

confidence was a proof. What other reason for the disclosure of the

affair could there be, but that Elinor might be informed by it of

Lucy's superior claims on Edward, and be taught to avoid him in

future? She had little difficulty in understanding thus much of her

rival's intentions, and while she was firmly resolved to act by her as

every principle of honour and honesty directed, to combat her own

affection for Edward and to see him as little as possible; she could

not deny herself the comfort of endeavouring to convince Lucy that her

heart was unwounded. And as she could now have nothing more painful to

hear on the subject than had already been told, she did not mistrust

her own ability of going through a repetition of particulars with

composure.

But it was not immediately that an opportunity of doing so could be

commanded, though Lucy was as well disposed as herself to take

advantage of any that occurred; for the weather was not often fine

enough to allow of their joining in a walk, where they might most

easily separate themselves from the others; and though they met at

least every other evening either at the park or cottage, and chiefly

at the former, they could not be supposed to meet for the sake of

conversation. Such a thought would never enter either Sir John or

Lady Middleton's head; and therefore very little leisure was ever

given for a general chat, and none at all for particular discourse.

They met for the sake of eating, drinking, and laughing together,

playing at cards, or consequences, or any other game that was

sufficiently noisy.

One or two meetings of this kind had taken place, without affording

Elinor any chance of engaging Lucy in private, when Sir John called at

the cottage one morning, to beg, in the name of charity, that they

would all dine with Lady Middleton that day, as he was obliged to

attend the club at Exeter, and she would otherwise be quite alone,

except her mother and the two Miss Steeles. Elinor, who foresaw a

fairer opening for the point she had in view, in such a party as this

was likely to be, more at liberty among themselves under the tranquil

and well-bred direction of Lady Middleton than when her husband united

them together in one noisy purpose, immediately accepted the

invitation; Margaret, with her mother's permission, was equally

compliant, and Marianne, though always unwilling to join any of their

parties, was persuaded by her mother, who could not bear to have her

seclude herself from any chance of amusement, to go likewise.

The young ladies went, and Lady Middleton was happily preserved from

the frightful solitude which had threatened her. The insipidity of the

meeting was exactly such as Elinor had expected; it produced not one

novelty of thought or expression, and nothing could be less

interesting than the whole of their discourse both in the dining

parlour and drawing room: to the latter, the children accompanied

them, and while they remained there, she was too well convinced of the

impossibility of engaging Lucy's attention to attempt it. They quitted

it only with the removal of the tea-things. The card-table was then

placed, and Elinor began to wonder at herself for having ever

entertained a hope of finding time for conversation at the park. They

all rose up in preparation for a round game.

"I am glad," said Lady Middleton to Lucy, "you are not going to finish

poor little Annamaria's basket this evening; for I am sure it must

hurt your eyes to work filigree by candlelight. And we will make the

dear little love some amends for her disappointment to-morrow, and

then I hope she will not much mind it."

This hint was enough, Lucy recollected herself instantly and replied,

"Indeed you are very much mistaken, Lady Middleton; I am only waiting

to know whether you can make your party without me, or I should have

been at my filigree already. I would not disappoint the little angel

for all the world: and if you want me at the card-table now, I am

resolved to finish the basket after supper."

"You are very good, I hope it won't hurt your eyes:--will you ring the

bell for some working candles? My poor little girl would be sadly

disappointed, I know, if the basket was not finished tomorrow, for

though I told her it certainly would not, I am sure she depends upon

having it done."

Lucy directly drew her work table near her and reseated herself with

an alacrity and cheerfulness which seemed to infer that she could

taste no greater delight than in making a filigree basket for a spoilt

child.

Lady Middleton proposed a rubber of Casino to the others. No one made

any objection but Marianne, who with her usual inattention to the

forms of general civility, exclaimed, "Your Ladyship will have the

goodness to excuse _me_--you know I detest cards. I shall go to the

piano-forte; I have not touched it since it was tuned." And without

farther ceremony, she turned away and walked to the instrument.

Lady Middleton looked as if she thanked heaven that _she_ had never

made so rude a speech.

"Marianne can never keep long from that instrument you know, ma'am,"

said Elinor, endeavouring to smooth away the offence; "and I do not

much wonder at it; for it is the very best toned piano-forte I ever

heard."

The remaining five were now to draw their cards.

"Perhaps," continued Elinor, "if I should happen to cut out, I may be

of some use to Miss Lucy Steele, in rolling her papers for her; and

there is so much still to be done to the basket, that it must be

impossible I think for her labour singly, to finish it this evening. I

should like the work exceedingly, if she would allow me a share in

it."

"Indeed I shall be very much obliged to you for your help," cried

Lucy, "for I find there is more to be done to it than I thought there

was; and it would be a shocking thing to disappoint dear Annamaria

after all."

"Oh! that would be terrible, indeed," said Miss Steele. "Dear little

soul, how I do love her!"

"You are very kind," said Lady Middleton to Elinor; "and as you

really like the work, perhaps you will be as well pleased not to cut

in till another rubber, or will you take your chance now?"

Elinor joyfully profited by the first of these proposals, and thus by

a little of that address which Marianne could never condescend to

practise, gained her own end, and pleased Lady Middleton at the same

time. Lucy made room for her with ready attention, and the two fair

rivals were thus seated side by side at the same table, and, with the

utmost harmony, engaged in forwarding the same work. The pianoforte at

which Marianne, wrapped up in her own music and her own thoughts, had

by this time forgotten that any body was in the room besides herself,

was luckily so near them that Miss Dashwood now judged she might

safely, under the shelter of its noise, introduce the interesting

subject, without any risk of being heard at the card-table.

CHAPTER XXIV

In a firm, though cautious tone, Elinor thus began.

"I should be undeserving of the confidence you have honoured me with,

if I felt no desire for its continuance, or no farther curiosity on

its subject. I will not apologize therefore for bringing it forward

again."

"Thank you," cried Lucy warmly, "for breaking the ice; you have set my

heart at ease by it; for I was somehow or other afraid I had offended

you by what I told you that Monday."

"Offended me! How could you suppose so? Believe me," and Elinor spoke

it with the truest sincerity, "nothing could be farther from my

intention than to give you such an idea. Could you have a motive for

the trust, that was not honourable and flattering to me?"

"And yet I do assure you," replied Lucy, her little sharp eyes full of

meaning, "there seemed to me to be a coldness and displeasure in your

manner that made me quite uncomfortable. I felt sure that you was

angry with me; and have been quarrelling with myself ever since, for

having took such a liberty as to trouble you with my affairs. But I am

very glad to find it was only my own fancy, and that you really do not

blame me. If you knew what a consolation it was to me to relieve my

heart speaking to you of what I am always thinking of every moment of

my life, your compassion would make you overlook every thing else I am

sure."

"Indeed, I can easily believe that it was a very great relief to you,

to acknowledge your situation to me, and be assured that you shall

never have reason to repent it. Your case is a very unfortunate one;

you seem to me to be surrounded with difficulties, and you will have

need of all your mutual affection to support you under them. Mr.

Ferrars, I believe, is entirely dependent on his mother."

"He has only two thousand pounds of his own; it would be madness to

marry upon that, though for my own part, I could give up every

prospect of more without a sigh. I have been always used to a very

small income, and could struggle with any poverty for him; but I love

him too well to be the selfish means of robbing him, perhaps, of all

that his mother might give him if he married to please her. We must

wait, it may be for many years. With almost every other man in the

world, it would be an alarming prospect; but Edward's affection and

constancy nothing can deprive me of I know."

"That conviction must be every thing to you; and he is undoubtedly

supported by the same trust in your's. If the strength of your

reciprocal attachment had failed, as between many people, and under

many circumstances it naturally would during a four years' engagement,

your situation would have been pitiable, indeed."

Lucy here looked up; but Elinor was careful in guarding her

countenance from every expression that could give her words a

suspicious tendency.

"Edward's love for me," said Lucy, "has been pretty well put to the

test, by our long, very long absence since we were first engaged, and

it has stood the trial so well, that I should be unpardonable to doubt

it now. I can safely say that he has never gave me one moment's alarm

on that account from the first."

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

Lucy went on. "I am rather of a jealous temper too by nature, and from

our different situations in life, from his being so much more in the

world than me, and our continual separation, I was enough inclined for

suspicion, to have found out the truth in an instant, if there had

been the slightest alteration in his behaviour to me when we met, or

any lowness of spirits that I could not account for, or if he had

talked more of one lady than another, or seemed in any respect less

happy at Longstaple than he used to be. I do not mean to say that I am

particularly observant or quick-sighted in general, but in such a case

I am sure I could not be deceived."

"All this," thought Elinor, "is very pretty; but it can impose upon

neither of us."

"But what," said she after a short silence, "are your views? or have

you none but that of waiting for Mrs. Ferrars's death, which is a

melancholy and shocking extremity?--Is her son determined to submit to

this, and to all the tediousness of the many years of suspense in

which it may involve you, rather than run the risk of her displeasure

for a while by owning the truth?"

"If we could be certain that it would be only for a while! But Mrs.

Ferrars is a very headstrong proud woman, and in her first fit of

anger upon hearing it, would very likely secure every thing to Robert,

and the idea of that, for Edward's sake, frightens away all my

inclination for hasty measures."

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

beyond reason."

Lucy looked at Elinor again, and was silent.

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

"Not at all--I never saw him; but I fancy he is very unlike his

brother--silly and a great coxcomb."

"A great coxcomb!" repeated Miss Steele, whose ear had caught those

words by a sudden pause in Marianne's music. "Oh, they are talking of

their favourite beaux, I dare say."

"No sister," cried Lucy, "you are mistaken there, our favourite beaux

are _not_ great coxcombs."

"I can answer for it that Miss Dashwood's is not," said Mrs. Jennings,

laughing heartily; "for he is one of the modestest, prettiest behaved

young men I ever saw; but as for Lucy, she is such a sly little

creature, there is no finding out who _she_ likes."

[Illustration: "_I can answer for it," said Mrs. Jennings._]

"Oh," cried Miss Steele, looking significantly round at them, "I dare

say Lucy's beau is quite as modest and pretty behaved as Miss

Dashwood's."

Elinor blushed in spite of herself. Lucy bit her lip, and looked

angrily at her sister. A mutual silence took place for some time. Lucy

first put an end to it by saying in a lower tone, though Marianne was

then giving them the powerful protection of a very magnificent

concerto--

"I will honestly tell you of one scheme which has lately come into my

head, for bringing matters to bear; indeed I am bound to let you into

the secret, for you are a party concerned. I dare say you have seen

enough of Edward to know that he would prefer the church to every

other profession; now my plan is that he should take orders as soon as

he can, and then through your interest, which I am sure you would be

kind enough to use out of friendship for him, and I hope out of some

regard to me, your brother might be persuaded to give him Norland

living; which I understand is a very good one, and the present

incumbent not likely to live a great while. That would be enough for

us to marry upon, and we might trust to time and chance for the rest."

"I should always be happy," replied Elinor, "to show any mark of my

esteem and friendship for Mr. Ferrars; but do you not perceive that my

interest on such an occasion would be perfectly unnecessary? He is

brother to Mrs. John Dashwood--_that_ must be recommendation enough to

her husband."

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

orders."

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

They were again silent for many minutes. At length Lucy exclaimed with

a deep sigh--

"I believe it would be the wisest way to put an end to the business at

once by dissolving the engagement. We seem so beset with difficulties

on every side, that though it would make us miserable for a time, we

should be happier perhaps in the end. But you will not give me your

advice, Miss Dashwood?"

"No," answered Elinor, with a smile, which concealed very agitated

feelings, "on such a subject I certainly will not. You know very well

that my opinion would have no weight with you, unless it were on the

side of your wishes."

"Indeed you wrong me," replied Lucy, with great solemnity; "I know

nobody of whose judgment I think so highly as I do of yours; and I do

really believe, that if you was to say to me, 'I advise you by all

means to put an end to your engagement with Edward Ferrars, it will be

more for the happiness of both of you,' I should resolve upon doing it

immediately."

Elinor blushed for the insincerity of Edward's future wife, and

replied, "This compliment would effectually frighten me from giving

any opinion on the subject had I formed one. It raises my influence

much too high; the power of dividing two people so tenderly attached

is too much for an indifferent person."

"'Tis because you are an indifferent person," said Lucy, with some

pique, and laying a particular stress on those words, "that your

judgment might justly have such weight with me. If you could be

supposed to be biased in any respect by your own feelings, your

opinion would not be worth having."

Elinor thought it wisest to make no answer to this, lest they might

provoke each other to an unsuitable increase of ease and unreserve;

and was even partly determined never to mention the subject again.

Another pause therefore of many minutes' duration, succeeded this

speech, and Lucy was still the first to end it.

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

her accustomary complacency.

"Certainly not."

"I am sorry for that," returned the other, while her eyes brightened

at the information, "it would have gave me such pleasure to meet you

there! But I dare say you will go for all that. To be sure, your

brother and sister will ask you to come to them."

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

"How unlucky that is! I had quite depended upon meeting you there.

Anne and me are to go the latter end of January to some relations who

have been wanting us to visit them these several years! But I only go

for the sake of seeing Edward. He will be there in February, otherwise

London would have no charms for me; I have not spirits for it."

Elinor was soon called to the card-table by the conclusion of the

first rubber, and the confidential discourse of the two ladies was

therefore at an end, to which both of them submitted without any

reluctance, for nothing had been said on either side to make them

dislike each other less than they had done before; and Elinor sat down

to the card table with the melancholy persuasion that Edward was not

only without affection for the person who was to be his wife; but that

he had not even the chance of being tolerably happy in marriage, which

sincere affection on _her_ side would have given, for self-interest

alone could induce a woman to keep a man to an engagement, of which

she seemed so thoroughly aware that he was weary.

From this time the subject was never revived by Elinor, and when

entered on by Lucy, who seldom missed an opportunity of introducing

it, and was particularly careful to inform her confidante, of her

happiness whenever she received a letter from Edward, it was treated

by the former with calmness and caution, and dismissed as soon as

civility would allow; for she felt such conversations to be an

indulgence which Lucy did not deserve, and which were dangerous to

herself.

The visit of the Miss Steeles at Barton Park was lengthened far beyond

what the first invitation implied. Their favour increased; they could

not be spared; Sir John would not hear of their going; and in spite of

their numerous and long arranged engagements in Exeter, in spite of

the absolute necessity of returning to fulfill them immediately, which

was in full force at the end of every week, they were prevailed on to

stay nearly two months at the park, and to assist in the due

celebration of that festival which requires a more than ordinary share

of private balls and large dinners to proclaim its importance.

CHAPTER XXV

Though Mrs. Jennings was in the habit of spending a large portion of

the year at the houses of her children and friends, she was not

without a settled habitation of her own. Since the death of her

husband, who had traded with success in a less elegant part of the

town, she had resided every winter in a house in one of the streets

near Portman Square. Towards this home, she began on the approach of

January to turn her thoughts, and thither she one day abruptly, and

very unexpectedly by them, asked the elder Misses Dashwood to

accompany her. Elinor, without observing the varying complexion of her

sister, and the animated look which spoke no indifference to the plan,

immediately gave a grateful but absolute denial for both, in which she

believed herself to be speaking their united inclinations. The reason

alleged was their determined resolution of not leaving their mother at

that time of the year. Mrs. Jennings received the refusal with some

surprise, and repeated her invitation immediately.

"Oh, Lord! I am sure your mother can spare you very well, and I _do_

beg you will favour me with your company, for I've quite set my heart

upon it. Don't fancy that you will be any inconvenience to me, for I

shan't put myself at all out of my way for you. It will only be

sending Betty by the coach, and I hope I can afford _that._ We three

shall be able to go very well in my chaise; and when we are in town,

if you do not like to go wherever I do, well and good, you may always

go with one of my daughters. I am sure your mother will not object to

it; for I have had such good luck in getting my own children off my

hands that she will think me a very fit person to have the charge of

you; and if I don't get one of you at least well married before I have

done with you, it shall not be my fault. I shall speak a good word for

you to all the young men, you may depend upon it."

"I have a notion," said Sir John, "that Miss Marianne would not object

to such a scheme, if her elder sister would come into it. It is very

hard indeed that she should not have a little pleasure, because Miss

Dashwood does not wish it. So I would advise you two, to set off for

town, when you are tired of Barton, without saying a word to Miss

Dashwood about it."

"Nay," cried Mrs. Jennings, "I am sure I shall be monstrous glad of

Miss Marianne's company, whether Miss Dashwood will go or not, only

the more the merrier say I, and I thought it would be more comfortable

for them to be together; because, if they got tired of me, they might

talk to one another, and laugh at my old ways behind my back. But one

or the other, if not both of them, I must have. Lord bless me! how do

you think I can live poking by myself, I who have been always used

till this winter to have Charlotte with me. Come, Miss Marianne, let

us strike hands upon the bargain, and if Miss Dashwood will change her

mind by and bye, why so much the better."

"I thank you, ma'am, sincerely thank you," said Marianne, with warmth:

"your invitation has insured my gratitude for ever, and it would give

me such happiness, yes, almost the greatest happiness I am capable of,

to be able to accept it. But my mother, my dearest, kindest mother,--I

feel the justice of what Elinor has urged, and if she were to be made

less happy, less comfortable by our absence--Oh! no, nothing should

tempt me to leave her. It should not, must not be a struggle."

Mrs. Jennings repeated her assurance that Mrs. Dashwood could spare

them perfectly well; and Elinor, who now understood her sister, and

saw to what indifference to almost every thing else she was carried by

her eagerness to be with Willoughby again, made no farther direct

opposition to the plan, and merely referred it to her mother's

decision, from whom however she scarcely expected to receive any

support in her endeavour to prevent a visit, which she could not

approve of for Marianne, and which on her own account she had

particular reasons to avoid. Whatever Marianne was desirous of, her

mother would be eager to promote--she could not expect to influence

the latter to cautiousness of conduct in an affair respecting which

she had never been able to inspire her with distrust; and she dared

not explain the motive of her own disinclination for going to London.

That Marianne, fastidious as she was, thoroughly acquainted with Mrs.

Jennings' manners, and invariably disgusted by them, should overlook

every inconvenience of that kind, should disregard whatever must be

most wounding to her irritable feelings, in her pursuit of one object,

was such a proof, so strong, so full, of the importance of that object

to her, as Elinor, in spite of all that had passed, was not prepared

to witness.

On being informed of the invitation, Mrs. Dashwood, persuaded that

such an excursion would be productive of much amusement to both her

daughters, and perceiving through all her affectionate attention to

herself, how much the heart of Marianne was in it, would not hear of

their declining the offer upon _her_ account; insisted on their both

accepting it directly; and then began to foresee, with her usual

cheerfulness, a variety of advantages that would accrue to them all,

from this separation.

"I am delighted with the plan," she cried, "it is exactly what I could

wish. Margaret and I shall be as much benefited by it as yourselves.

When you and the Middletons are gone, we shall go on so quietly and

happily together with our books and our music! You will find Margaret

so improved when you come back again! I have a little plan of

alteration for your bedrooms too, which may now be performed without

any inconvenience to any one. It is very right that you _should_ go to

town; I would have every young woman of your condition in life

acquainted with the manners and amusements of London. You will be

under the care of a motherly good sort of woman, of whose kindness to

you I can have no doubt. And in all probability you will see your

brother, and whatever may be his faults, or the faults of his wife,

when I consider whose son he is, I cannot bear to have you so wholly

estranged from each other."

"Though with your usual anxiety for our happiness," said Elinor, "you

have been obviating every impediment to the present scheme which

occurred to you, there is still one objection which, in my opinion,

cannot be so easily removed."

Marianne's countenance sunk.

"And what," said Mrs. Dashwood, "is my dear prudent Elinor going to

suggest? What formidable obstacle is she now to bring forward? Do let

me hear a word about the expense of it."

"My objection is this; though I think very well of Mrs. Jennings's

heart, she is not a woman whose society can afford us pleasure, or

whose protection will give us consequence."

"That is very true," replied her mother, "but of her society,

separately from that of other people, you will scarcely have any thing

at all, and you will almost always appear in public with Lady

Middleton."

"If Elinor is frightened away by her dislike of Mrs. Jennings," said

Marianne, "at least it need not prevent _my_ accepting her invitation.

I have no such scruples, and I am sure I could put up with every

unpleasantness of that kind with very little effort."

Elinor could not help smiling at this display of indifference towards

the manners of a person, to whom she had often had difficulty in

persuading Marianne to behave with tolerable politeness; and resolved

within herself, that if her sister persisted in going, she would go

likewise, as she did not think it proper that Marianne should be left

to the sole guidance of her own judgment, or that Mrs. Jennings should

be abandoned to the mercy of Marianne for all the comfort of her

domestic hours. To this determination she was the more easily

reconciled, by recollecting that Edward Ferrars, by Lucy's account,

was not to be in town before February; and that their visit, without

any unreasonable abridgement, might be previously finished.

"I will have you _both_ go," said Mrs. Dashwood; "these objections are

nonsensical. You will have much pleasure in being in London, and

especially in being together; and if Elinor would ever condescend to

anticipate enjoyment, she would foresee it there from a variety of

sources; she would, perhaps, expect some from improving her

acquaintance with her sister-in-law's family."

Elinor had often wished for an opportunity of attempting to weaken her

mother's dependence on the attachment of Edward and herself, that the

shock might be less when the whole truth were revealed, and now on

this attack, though almost hopeless of success, she forced herself to

begin her design by saying, as calmly as she could, "I like Edward

Ferrars very much, and shall always be glad to see him; but as to the

rest of the family, it is a matter of perfect indifference to me,

whether I am ever known to them or not."

Mrs. Dashwood smiled, and said nothing. Marianne lifted up her eyes in

astonishment, and Elinor conjectured that she might as well have held

her tongue.

After very little farther discourse, it was finally settled that the

invitation should be fully accepted. Mrs. Jennings received the

information with a great deal of joy, and many assurances of kindness

and care; nor was it a matter of pleasure merely to her. Sir John was

delighted; for to a man, whose prevailing anxiety was the dread of

being alone, the acquisition of two, to the number of inhabitants in

London, was something. Even Lady Middleton took the trouble of being

delighted, which was putting herself rather out of her way; and as

for the Miss Steeles, especially Lucy, they had never been so happy in

their lives as this intelligence made them.

Elinor submitted to the arrangement which counteracted her wishes with

less reluctance than she had expected to feel. With regard to herself,

it was now a matter of unconcern whether she went to town or not, and

when she saw her mother so thoroughly pleased with the plan, and her

sister exhilarated by it in look, voice, and manner, restored to all

her usual animation, and elevated to more than her usual gaiety, she

could not be dissatisfied with the cause, and would hardly allow

herself to distrust the consequence.

Marianne's joy was almost a degree beyond happiness, so great was the

perturbation of her spirits and her impatience to be gone. Her

unwillingness to quit her mother was her only restorative to calmness;

and at the moment of parting her grief on that score was excessive.

Her mother's affliction was hardly less, and Elinor was the only one

of the three, who seemed to consider the separation as any thing short

of eternal.

Their departure took place in the first week in January. The

Middletons were to follow in about a week. The Miss Steeles kept their

station at the park, and were to quit it only with the rest of the

family.

CHAPTER XXVI

Elinor could not find herself in the carriage with Mrs. Jennings, and

beginning a journey to London under her protection, and as her guest,

without wondering at her own situation, so short had their

acquaintance with that lady been, so wholly unsuited were they in age

and disposition, and so many had been her objections against such a

measure only a few days before! But these objections had all, with

that happy ardour of youth which Marianne and her mother equally

shared, been overcome or overlooked; and Elinor, in spite of every

occasional doubt of Willoughby's constancy, could not witness the

rapture of delightful expectation which filled the whole soul and

beamed in the eyes of Marianne, without feeling how blank was her own

prospect, how cheerless her own state of mind in the comparison, and

how gladly she would engage in the solicitude of Marianne's situation

to have the same animating object in view, the same possibility of

hope. A short, a very short time however must now decide what

Willoughby's intentions were; in all probability he was already in

town. Marianne's eagerness to be gone declared her dependence on

finding him there; and Elinor was resolved not only upon gaining every

new light as to his character which her own observation or the

intelligence of others could give her, but likewise upon watching his

behaviour to her sister with such zealous attention, as to ascertain

what he was and what he meant, before many meetings had taken place.

Should the result of her observations be unfavourable, she was

determined at all events to open the eyes of her sister; should it be

otherwise, her exertions would be of a different nature--she must then

learn to avoid every selfish comparison, and banish every regret which

might lessen her satisfaction in the happiness of Marianne.

They were three days on their journey, and Marianne's behaviour as

they travelled was a happy specimen of what future complaisance and

companionableness to Mrs. Jennings might be expected to be. She sat in

silence almost all the way, wrapt in her own meditations, and scarcely

ever voluntarily speaking, except when any object of picturesque

beauty within their view drew from her an exclamation of delight

exclusively addressed to her sister. To atone for this conduct

therefore, Elinor took immediate possession of the post of civility

which she had assigned herself, behaved with the greatest attention to

Mrs. Jennings, talked with her, laughed with her, and listened to her

whenever she could; and Mrs. Jennings on her side treated them both

with all possible kindness, was solicitous on every occasion for their

ease and enjoyment, and only disturbed that she could not make them

choose their own dinners at the inn, nor extort a confession of their

preferring salmon to cod, or boiled fowls to veal cutlets. They

reached town by three o'clock the third day, glad to be released,

after such a journey, from the confinement of a carriage, and ready to

enjoy all the luxury of a good fire.

The house was handsome, and handsomely fitted up, and the young

ladies were immediately put in possession of a very comfortable

apartment. It had formerly been Charlotte's, and over the mantelpiece

still hung a landscape in coloured silks of her performance, in proof

of her having spent seven years at a great school in town to some

effect.

As dinner was not to be ready in less than two hours from their

arrival, Elinor determined to employ the interval in writing to her

mother, and sat down for that purpose. In a few moments Marianne did

the same. "I am writing home, Marianne," said Elinor; "had not you

better defer your letter for a day or two?"

"I am _not_ going to write to my mother," replied Marianne, hastily,

and as if wishing to avoid any farther inquiry. Elinor said no more;

it immediately struck her that she must then be writing to Willoughby;

and the conclusion which as instantly followed was, that, however

mysteriously they might wish to conduct the affair, they must be

engaged. This conviction, though not entirely satisfactory, gave her

pleasure, and she continued her letter with greater alacrity.

Marianne's was finished in a very few minutes; in length it could be

no more than a note; it was then folded up, sealed, and directed with

eager rapidity. Elinor thought she could distinguish a large W in the

direction; and no sooner was it complete than Marianne, ringing the

bell, requested the footman who answered it to get that letter

conveyed for her to the two-penny post. This decided the matter at

once.

Her spirits still continued very high; but there was a flutter in them

which prevented their giving much pleasure to her sister, and this

agitation increased as the evening drew on. She could scarcely eat any

dinner, and when they afterwards returned to the drawing room, seemed

anxiously listening to the sound of every carriage.

It was a great satisfaction to Elinor that Mrs. Jennings, by being

much engaged in her own room, could see little of what was passing.

The tea things were brought in, and already had Marianne been

disappointed more than once by a rap at a neighbouring door, when a

loud one was suddenly heard which could not be mistaken for one at any

other house, Elinor felt secure of its announcing Willoughby's

approach, and Marianne, starting up, moved towards the door. Every

thing was silent; this could not be borne many seconds; she opened

the door, advanced a few steps towards the stairs, and after listening

half a minute, returned into the room in all the agitation which a

conviction of having heard him would naturally produce; in the ecstasy

of her feelings at that instant she could not help exclaiming, "Oh,

Elinor, it is Willoughby, indeed it is!" and seemed almost ready to

throw herself into his arms, when Colonel Brandon appeared.

It was too great a shock to be borne with calmness, and she

immediately left the room. Elinor was disappointed too; but at the

same time her regard for Colonel Brandon ensured his welcome with her;

and she felt particularly hurt that a man so partial to her sister

should perceive that she experienced nothing but grief and

disappointment in seeing him. She instantly saw that it was not

unnoticed by him, that he even observed Marianne as she quitted the

room, with such astonishment and concern, as hardly left him the

recollection of what civility demanded towards herself.

"Is your sister ill?" said he.

Elinor answered in some distress that she was, and then talked of

head-aches, low spirits, and over fatigues; and of every thing to

which she could decently attribute her sister's behaviour.

He heard her with the most earnest attention, but seeming to recollect

himself, said no more on the subject, and began directly to speak of

his pleasure at seeing them in London, making the usual inquiries

about their journey, and the friends they had left behind.

In this calm kind of way, with very little interest on either side,

they continued to talk, both of them out of spirits, and the thoughts

of both engaged elsewhere. Elinor wished very much to ask whether

Willoughby were then in town, but she was afraid of giving him pain by

any enquiry after his rival; and at length, by way of saying

something, she asked if he had been in London ever since she had seen

him last. "Yes," he replied, with some embarrassment, "almost ever

since; I have been once or twice at Delaford for a few days, but it

has never been in my power to return to Barton."

This, and the manner in which it was said, immediately brought back to

her remembrance all the circumstances of his quitting that place, with

the uneasiness and suspicions they had caused to Mrs. Jennings, and

she was fearful that her question had implied much more curiosity on

the subject than she had ever felt.

Mrs. Jennings soon came in. "Oh! Colonel," said she, with her usual

noisy cheerfulness, "I am monstrous glad to see you--sorry I could not

come before--beg your pardon, but I have been forced to look about me

a little, and settle my matters; for it is a long while since I have

been at home, and you know one has always a world of little odd things

to do after one has been away for any time; and then I have had

Cartwright to settle with. Lord, I have been as busy as a bee ever

since dinner! But pray, Colonel, how came you to conjure out that I

should be in town today?"

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

dining."

"Oh, you did; well, and how do they all do at their house? How does

Charlotte do? I warrant you she is a fine size by this time."

"Mrs. Palmer appeared quite well, and I am commissioned to tell you,

that you will certainly see her to-morrow."

"Ay, to be sure, I thought as much. Well, Colonel, I have brought two

young ladies with me, you see--that is, you see but one of them now,

but there is another somewhere. Your friend, Miss Marianne, too--which

you will not be sorry to hear. I do not know what you and Mr.

Willoughby will do between you about her. Ay, it is a fine thing to be

young and handsome. Well! I was young once, but I never was very

handsome--worse luck for me. However, I got a very good husband, and I

don't know what the greatest beauty can do more. Ah! poor man! he has

been dead these eight years and better. But Colonel, where have you

been to since we parted? And how does your business go on? Come, come,

let's have no secrets among friends."

He replied with his accustomary mildness to all her inquiries, but

without satisfying her in any. Elinor now began to make the tea, and

Marianne was obliged to appear again.

After her entrance, Colonel Brandon became more thoughtful and silent

than he had been before, and Mrs. Jennings could not prevail on him to

stay long. No other visitor appeared that evening, and the ladies were

unanimous in agreeing to go early to bed.

Marianne rose the next morning with recovered spirits and happy looks.

The disappointment of the evening before seemed forgotten in the

expectation of what was to happen that day. They had not long finished

their breakfast before Mrs. Palmer's barouche stopped at the door, and

in a few minutes she came laughing into the room: so delighted to see

them all, that it was hard to say whether she received most pleasure

from meeting her mother or the Miss Dashwoods again. So surprised at

their coming to town, though it was what she had rather expected all

along; so angry at their accepting her mother's invitation after

having declined her own, though at the same time she would never have

forgiven them if they had not come!

"Mr. Palmer will be so happy to see you," said she; "What do you think

he said when he heard of your coming with Mamma? I forget what it was

now, but it was something so droll!"

After an hour or two spent in what her mother called comfortable chat,

or in other words, in every variety of inquiry concerning all their

acquaintance on Mrs. Jennings's side, and in laughter without cause on

Mrs. Palmer's, it was proposed by the latter that they should all

accompany her to some shops where she had business that morning, to

which Mrs. Jennings and Elinor readily consented, as having likewise

some purchases to make themselves; and Marianne, though declining it

at first was induced to go likewise.

Wherever they went, she was evidently always on the watch. In Bond

Street especially, where much of their business lay, her eyes were in

constant inquiry; and in whatever shop the party were engaged, her

mind was equally abstracted from every thing actually before them,

from all that interested and occupied the others. Restless and

dissatisfied every where, her sister could never obtain her opinion of

any article of purchase, however it might equally concern them both:

she received no pleasure from anything; was only impatient to be at

home again, and could with difficulty govern her vexation at the

tediousness of Mrs. Palmer, whose eye was caught by every thing

pretty, expensive, or new; who was wild to buy all, could determine on

none, and dawdled away her time in rapture and indecision.

It was late in the morning before they returned home; and no sooner

had they entered the house than Marianne flew eagerly up stairs, and

when Elinor followed, she found her turning from the table with a

sorrowful countenance, which declared that no Willoughby had been

there.

"Has no letter been left here for me since we went out?" said she to

the footman who then entered with the parcels. She was answered in the

negative. "Are you quite sure of it?" she replied. "Are you certain

that no servant, no porter has left any letter or note?"

The man replied that none had.

"How very odd!" said she, in a low and disappointed voice, as she

turned away to the window.

"How odd, indeed!" repeated Elinor within herself, regarding her

sister with uneasiness. "If she had not known him to be in town she

would not have written to him, as she did; she would have written to

Combe Magna; and if he is in town, how odd that he should neither come

nor write! Oh! my dear mother, you must be wrong in permitting an

engagement between a daughter so young, a man so little known, to be

carried on in so doubtful, so mysterious a manner! I long to inquire;

and how will _my_ interference be borne."

She determined, after some consideration, that if appearances

continued many days longer as unpleasant as they now were, she would

represent in the strongest manner to her mother the necessity of some

serious enquiry into the affair.

Mrs. Palmer and two elderly ladies of Mrs. Jennings's intimate

acquaintance, whom she had met and invited in the morning, dined with

them. The former left them soon after tea to fulfill her evening

engagements; and Elinor was obliged to assist in making a whist table

for the others. Marianne was of no use on these occasions, as she

would never learn the game; but though her time was therefore at her

own disposal, the evening was by no means more productive of pleasure

to her than to Elinor, for it was spent in all the anxiety of

expectation and the pain of disappointment. She sometimes endeavoured

for a few minutes to read; but the book was soon thrown aside, and she

returned to the more interesting employment of walking backwards and

forwards across the room, pausing for a moment whenever she came to

the window, in hopes of distinguishing the long-expected rap.

CHAPTER XXVII

"If this open weather holds much longer," said Mrs. Jennings, when

they met at breakfast the following morning, "Sir John will not like

leaving Barton next week; 'tis a sad thing for sportsmen to lose a

day's pleasure. Poor souls! I always pity them when they do; they seem

to take it so much to heart."

"That is true," cried Marianne, in a cheerful voice, and walking to

the window as she spoke, to examine the day. "I had not thought of

that. This weather will keep many sportsmen in the country."

It was a lucky recollection, all her good spirits were restored by it.

"It is charming weather for _them_ indeed," she continued, as she sat

down to the breakfast table with a happy countenance. "How much they

must enjoy it! But" (with a little return of anxiety) "it cannot be

expected to last long. At this time of the year, and after such a

series of rain, we shall certainly have very little more of it. Frosts

will soon set in, and in all probability with severity. In another day

or two perhaps; this extreme mildness can hardly last longer--nay,

perhaps it may freeze tonight!"

"At any rate," said Elinor, wishing to prevent Mrs. Jennings from

seeing her sister's thoughts as clearly as she did, "I dare say we

shall have Sir John and Lady Middleton in town by the end of next

week."

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

"And now," silently conjectured Elinor, "she will write to Combe by

this day's post."

But if she _did_, the letter was written and sent away with a privacy

which eluded all her watchfulness to ascertain the fact. Whatever the

truth of it might be, and far as Elinor was from feeling thorough

contentment about it, yet while she saw Marianne in spirits, she could

not be very uncomfortable herself. And Marianne was in spirits; happy

in the mildness of the weather, and still happier in her expectation

of a frost.

The morning was chiefly spent in leaving cards at the houses of Mrs.

Jennings's acquaintance to inform them of her being in town; and

Marianne was all the time busy in observing the direction of the wind,

watching the variations of the sky and imagining an alteration in the

air.

"Don't you find it colder than it was in the morning, Elinor? There

seems to me a very decided difference. I can hardly keep my hands warm

even in my muff. It was not so yesterday, I think. The clouds seem

parting too, the sun will be out in a moment, and we shall have a

clear afternoon."

Elinor was alternately diverted and pained; but Marianne persevered,

and saw every night in the brightness of the fire, and every morning

in the appearance of the atmosphere, the certain symptoms of

approaching frost.

The Miss Dashwoods had no greater reason to be dissatisfied with Mrs.

Jennings's style of living, and set of acquaintance, than with her

behaviour to themselves, which was invariably kind. Every thing in her

household arrangements was conducted on the most liberal plan, and

excepting a few old city friends, whom, to Lady Middleton's regret,

she had never dropped, she visited no one to whom an introduction

could at all discompose the feelings of her young companions. Pleased

to find herself more comfortably situated in that particular than she

had expected, Elinor was very willing to compound for the want of much

real enjoyment from any of their evening parties, which, whether at

home or abroad, formed only for cards, could have little to amuse her.

Colonel Brandon, who had a general invitation to the house, was with

them almost every day; he came to look at Marianne and talk to Elinor,

who often derived more satisfaction from conversing with him than from

any other daily occurrence, but who saw at the same time with much

concern his continued regard for her sister. She feared it was a

strengthening regard. It grieved her to see the earnestness with which

he often watched Marianne, and his spirits were certainly worse than

when at Barton.

About a week after their arrival, it became certain that Willoughby

was also arrived. His card was on the table when they came in from the

morning's drive.

"Good God!" cried Marianne, "he has been here while we were out."

Elinor, rejoiced to be assured of his being in London, now ventured

to say, "Depend upon it, he will call again tomorrow." But Marianne

seemed hardly to hear her, and on Mrs. Jennings's entrance, escaped

with the precious card.

This event, while it raised the spirits of Elinor, restored to those

of her sister all, and more than all, their former agitation. From

this moment her mind was never quiet; the expectation of seeing him

every hour of the day, made her unfit for any thing. She insisted on

being left behind, the next morning, when the others went out.

Elinor's thoughts were full of what might be passing in Berkeley

Street during their absence; but a moment's glance at her sister when

they returned was enough to inform her, that Willoughby had paid no

second visit there. A note was just then brought in, and laid on the

table.

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

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

But Marianne, not convinced, took it instantly up.

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

"You are expecting a letter, then?" said Elinor, unable to be longer

silent.

"Yes, a little--not much."

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

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

one!"

"Me!" returned Elinor in some confusion; "indeed, Marianne, I have

nothing to tell."

"Nor I," answered Marianne with energy, "our situations then are

alike. We have neither of us any thing to tell; you, because you do

not communicate, and I, because I conceal nothing."

Elinor, distressed by this charge of reserve in herself, which she was

not at liberty to do away, knew not how, under such circumstances, to

press for greater openness in Marianne.

Mrs. Jennings soon appeared, and the note being given her, she read it

aloud. It was from Lady Middleton, announcing their arrival in Conduit

Street the night before, and requesting the company of her mother and

cousins the following evening. Business on Sir John's part, and a

violent cold on her own, prevented their calling in Berkeley Street.

The invitation was accepted; but when the hour of appointment drew

near, necessary as it was in common civility to Mrs. Jennings, that

they should both attend her on such a visit, Elinor had some

difficulty in persuading her sister to go, for still she had seen

nothing of Willoughby; and therefore was not more indisposed for

amusement abroad, than unwilling to run the risk of his calling again

in her absence.

Elinor found, when the evening was over, that disposition is not

materially altered by a change of abode, for although scarcely settled

in town, Sir John had contrived to collect around him, nearly twenty

young people, and to amuse them with a ball. This was an affair,

however, of which Lady Middleton did not approve. In the country, an

unpremeditated dance was very allowable; but in London, where the

reputation of elegance was more important and less easily attained, it

was risking too much for the gratification of a few girls, to have it

known that Lady Middleton had given a small dance of eight or nine

couple, with two violins, and a mere side-board collation.

Mr. and Mrs. Palmer were of the party; from the former, whom they had

not seen before since their arrival in town, as he was careful to

avoid the appearance of any attention to his mother-in-law, and

therefore never came near her, they received no mark of recognition on

their entrance. He looked at them slightly, without seeming to know

who they were, and merely nodded to Mrs. Jennings from the other side

of the room. Marianne gave one glance round the apartment as she

entered: it was enough--_he_ was not there--and she sat down, equally

ill-disposed to receive or communicate pleasure. After they had been

assembled about an hour, Mr. Palmer sauntered towards the Miss

Dashwoods to express his surprise on seeing them in town, though

Colonel Brandon had been first informed of their arrival at his house,

and he had himself said something very droll on hearing that they were

to come.

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

"Did you?" replied Elinor.

"When do you go back again?"

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

Never had Marianne been so unwilling to dance in her life, as she was

that evening, and never so much fatigued by the exercise. She

complained of it as they returned to Berkeley Street.

"Aye, aye," said Mrs. Jennings, "we know the reason of all that very

well; if a certain person who shall be nameless, had been there, you

would not have been a bit tired: and to say the truth it was not very

pretty of him not to give you the meeting when he was invited."

"Invited!" cried Marianne.

"So my daughter Middleton told me, for it seems Sir John met him

somewhere in the street this morning." Marianne said no more, but

looked exceedingly hurt. Impatient in this situation to be doing

something that might lead to her sister's relief, Elinor resolved to

write the next morning to her mother, and hoped by awakening her fears

for the health of Marianne, to procure those inquiries which had been

so long delayed; and she was still more eagerly bent on this measure

by perceiving after breakfast on the morrow, that Marianne was again

writing to Willoughby, for she could not suppose it to be to any other

person.

About the middle of the day, Mrs. Jennings went out by herself on

business, and Elinor began her letter directly, while Marianne, too

restless for employment, too anxious for conversation, walked from one

window to the other, or sat down by the fire in melancholy meditation.

Elinor was very earnest in her application to her mother, relating all

that had passed, her suspicions of Willoughby's inconstancy, urging

her by every plea of duty and affection to demand from Marianne an

account of her real situation with respect to him.

Her letter was scarcely finished, when a rap foretold a visitor, and

Colonel Brandon was announced. Marianne, who had seen him from the

window, and who hated company of any kind, left the room before he

entered it. He looked more than usually grave, and though expressing

satisfaction at finding Miss Dashwood alone, as if he had somewhat in

particular to tell her, sat for some time without saying a word.

Elinor, persuaded that he had some communication to make in which her

sister was concerned, impatiently expected its opening. It was not the

first time of her feeling the same kind of conviction; for, more than

once before, beginning with the observation of "your sister looks

unwell to-day," or "your sister seems out of spirits," he had

appeared on the point, either of disclosing, or of inquiring,

something particular about her. After a pause of several minutes,

their silence was broken, by his asking her in a voice of some

agitation, when he was to congratulate her on the acquisition of a

brother? Elinor was not prepared for such a question, and having no

answer ready, was obliged to adopt the simple and common expedient, of

asking what he meant? He tried to smile as he replied, "your sister's

engagement to Mr. Willoughby is very generally known."

"It cannot be generally known," returned Elinor, "for her own family

do not know it."

He looked surprised and said, "I beg your pardon, I am afraid my

inquiry has been impertinent; but I had not supposed any secrecy

intended, as they openly correspond, and their marriage is universally

talked of."

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

"By many--by some of whom you know nothing, by others with whom you

are most intimate, Mrs. Jennings, Mrs. Palmer, and the Middletons. But

still I might not have believed it, for where the mind is perhaps

rather unwilling to be convinced, it will always find something to

support its doubts, if I had not, when the servant let me in today,

accidentally seen a letter in his hand, directed to Mr. Willoughby in

your sister's writing. I came to inquire, but I was convinced before I

could ask the question. Is every thing finally settled? Is it

impossible to-? But I have no right, and I could have no chance of

succeeding. Excuse me, Miss Dashwood. I believe I have been wrong in

saying so much, but I hardly know what to do, and on your prudence I

have the strongest dependence. Tell me that it is all absolutely

resolved on, that any attempt, that in short concealment, if

concealment be possible, is all that remains."

These words, which conveyed to Elinor a direct avowal of his love for

her sister, affected her very much. She was not immediately able to

say anything, and even when her spirits were recovered, she debated

for a short time, on the answer it would be most proper to give. The

real state of things between Willoughby and her sister was so little

known to herself, that in endeavouring to explain it, she might be as

liable to say too much as too little. Yet as she was convinced that

Marianne's affection for Willoughby, could leave no hope of Colonel

Brandon's success, whatever the event of that affection might be, and

at the same time wished to shield her conduct from censure, she

thought it most prudent and kind, after some consideration, to say

more than she really knew or believed. She acknowledged, therefore,

that though she had never been informed by themselves of the terms on

which they stood with each other, of their mutual affection she had no

doubt, and of their correspondence she was not astonished to hear.

He listened to her with silent attention, and on her ceasing to speak,

rose directly from his seat, and after saying in a voice of emotion,

"to your sister I wish all imaginable happiness; to Willoughby that he

may endeavour to deserve her,"--took leave, and went away.

Elinor derived no comfortable feelings from this conversation, to

lessen the uneasiness of her mind on other points; she was left, on

the contrary, with a melancholy impression of Colonel Brandon's

unhappiness, and was prevented even from wishing it removed, by her

anxiety for the very event that must confirm it.

CHAPTER XXVIII

Nothing occurred during the next three or four days, to make Elinor

regret what she had done, in applying to her mother; for Willoughby

neither came nor wrote. They were engaged about the end of that time

to attend Lady Middleton to a party, from which Mrs. Jennings was kept

away by the indisposition of her youngest daughter; and for this

party, Marianne, wholly dispirited, careless of her appearance, and

seeming equally indifferent whether she went or staid, prepared,

without one look of hope or one expression of pleasure. She sat by the

drawing-room fire after tea, till the moment of Lady Middleton's

arrival, without once stirring from her seat, or altering her

attitude, lost in her own thoughts, and insensible of her sister's

presence; and when at last they were told that Lady Middleton waited

for them at the door, she started as if she had forgotten that any one

was expected.

They arrived in due time at the place of destination, and as soon as

the string of carriages before them would allow, alighted, ascended

the stairs, heard their names announced from one landing-place to

another in an audible voice, and entered a room splendidly lit up,

quite full of company, and insufferably hot. When they had paid their

tribute of politeness by curtsying to the lady of the house, they were

permitted to mingle in the crowd, and take their share of the heat and

inconvenience, to which their arrival must necessarily add. After some

time spent in saying little or doing less, Lady Middleton sat down to

Cassino, and as Marianne was not in spirits for moving about, she and

Elinor luckily succeeding to chairs, placed themselves at no great

distance from the table.

They had not remained in this manner long, before Elinor perceived

Willoughby, standing within a few yards of them, in earnest

conversation with a very fashionable looking young woman. She soon

caught his eye, and he immediately bowed, but without attempting to

speak to her, or to approach Marianne, though he could not but see

her; and then continued his discourse with the same lady. Elinor

turned involuntarily to Marianne, to see whether it could be

unobserved by her. At that moment she first perceived him, and her

whole countenance glowing with sudden delight, she would have moved

towards him instantly, had not her sister caught hold of her.

"Good heavens!" she exclaimed, "he is there--he is there--Oh! why does

he not look at me? why cannot I speak to him?"

"Pray, pray be composed," cried Elinor, "and do not betray what you

feel to every body present. Perhaps he has not observed you yet."

This however was more than she could believe herself; and to be

composed at such a moment was not only beyond the reach of Marianne,

it was beyond her wish. She sat in an agony of impatience which

affected every feature.

[Illustration: _At that moment she first perceived him._]

At last he turned round again, and regarded them both; she started up,

and pronouncing his name in a tone of affection, held out her hand to

him. He approached, and addressing himself rather to Elinor than

Marianne, as if wishing to avoid her eye, and determined not to

observe her attitude, inquired in a hurried manner after Mrs.

Dashwood, and asked how long they had been in town. Elinor was robbed

of all presence of mind by such an address, and was unable to say a

word. But the feelings of her sister were instantly expressed. Her

face was crimsoned over, and she exclaimed, in a voice of the greatest

emotion, "Good God! Willoughby, what is the meaning of this? Have you

not received my letters? Will you not shake hands with me?"

He could not then avoid it, but her touch seemed painful to him, and

he held her hand only for a moment. During all this time he was

evidently struggling for composure. Elinor watched his countenance and

saw its expression becoming more tranquil. After a moment's pause, he

spoke with calmness.

"I did myself the honour of calling in Berkeley Street last Tuesday,

and very much regretted that I was not fortunate enough to find

yourselves and Mrs. Jennings at home. My card was not lost, I hope."

"But have you not received my notes?" cried Marianne in the wildest

anxiety. "Here is some mistake I am sure--some dreadful mistake. What

can be the meaning of it? Tell me, Willoughby; for heaven's sake tell

me, what is the matter?"

He made no reply; his complexion changed and all his embarrassment

returned; but as if, on catching the eye of the young lady with whom

he had been previously talking, he felt the necessity of instant

exertion, he recovered himself again, and after saying, "Yes, I had

the pleasure of receiving the information of your arrival in town,

which you were so good as to send me," turned hastily away with a

slight bow and joined his friend.

Marianne, now looking dreadfully white, and unable to stand, sunk into

her chair, and Elinor, expecting every moment to see her faint, tried

to screen her from the observation of others, while reviving her with

lavender water.

"Go to him, Elinor," she cried, as soon as she could speak, "and force

him to come to me. Tell him I must see him again--must speak to him

instantly. I cannot rest--I shall not have a moment's peace till this

is explained--some dreadful misapprehension or other. Oh, go to him

this moment."

"How can that be done? No, my dearest Marianne, you must wait. This is

not the place for explanations. Wait only till tomorrow."

With difficulty however could she prevent her from following him

herself; and to persuade her to check her agitation, to wait, at

least, with the appearance of composure, till she might speak to him

with more privacy and more effect, was impossible; for Marianne

continued incessantly to give way in a low voice to the misery of her

feelings, by exclamations of wretchedness. In a short time Elinor saw

Willoughby quit the room by the door towards the staircase, and

telling Marianne that he was gone, urged the impossibility of speaking

to him again that evening, as a fresh argument for her to be calm. She

instantly begged her sister would entreat Lady Middleton to take them

home, as she was too miserable to stay a minute longer.

Lady Middleton, though in the middle of a rubber, on being informed

that Marianne was unwell, was too polite to object for a moment to her

wish of going away, and making over her cards to a friend, they

departed as soon as the carriage could be found. Scarcely a word was

spoken during their return to Berkeley Street. Marianne was in a

silent agony, too much oppressed even for tears; but as Mrs. Jennings

was luckily not come home, they could go directly to their own room,

where hartshorn restored her a little to herself. She was soon

undressed and in bed, and as she seemed desirous of being alone, her

sister then left her, and while she waited the return of Mrs.

Jennings, had leisure enough for thinking over the past.

That some kind of engagement had subsisted between Willoughby and

Marianne she could not doubt, and that Willoughby was weary of it,

seemed equally clear; for however Marianne might still feed her own

wishes, _she_ could not attribute such behaviour to mistake or

misapprehension of any kind. Nothing but a thorough change of

sentiment could account for it. Her indignation would have been still

stronger than it was, had she not witnessed that embarrassment which

seemed to speak a consciousness of his own misconduct, and prevented

her from believing him so unprincipled as to have been sporting with

the affections of her sister from the first, without any design that

would bear investigation. Absence might have weakened his regard, and

convenience might have determined him to overcome it, but that such a

regard had formerly existed she could not bring herself to doubt.

As for Marianne, on the pangs which so unhappy a meeting must already

have given her, and on those still more severe which might await her

in its probable consequence, she could not reflect without the deepest

concern. Her own situation gained in the comparison; for while she

could _esteem_ Edward as much as ever, however they might be divided

in future, her mind might be always supported. But every circumstance

that could embitter such an evil seemed uniting to heighten the misery

of Marianne in a final separation from Willoughby--in an immediate and

irreconcilable rupture with him.

CHAPTER XXIX

Before the housemaid had lit their fire the next day, or the sun

gained any power over a cold, gloomy morning in January, Marianne,

only half dressed, was kneeling against one of the window-seats for

the sake of all the little light she could command from it, and

writing as fast as a continual flow of tears would permit her. In this

situation, Elinor, roused from sleep by her agitation and sobs, first

perceived her; and after observing her for a few moments with silent

anxiety, said, in a tone of the most considerate gentleness--

"Marianne, may I ask--"

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

The sort of desperate calmness with which this was said, lasted no

longer than while she spoke, and was immediately followed by a return

of the same excessive affliction. It was some minutes before she could

go on with her letter, and the frequent bursts of grief which still

obliged her, at intervals, to withhold her pen, were proofs enough of

her feeling how more than probable it was that she was writing for the

last time to Willoughby.

Elinor paid her every quiet and unobtrusive attention in her power;

and she would have tried to sooth and tranquilize her still more, had

not Marianne entreated her, with all the eagerness of the most nervous

irritability, not to speak to her for the world. In such

circumstances, it was better for both that they should not be long

together; and the restless state of Marianne's mind not only prevented

her from remaining in the room a moment after she was dressed, but

requiring at once solitude and continual change of place, made her

wander about the house till breakfast time, avoiding the sight of

every body.

At breakfast she neither ate, nor attempted to eat any thing; and

Elinor's attention was then all employed, not in urging her, not in

pitying her, nor in appearing to regard her, but in endeavouring to

engage Mrs. Jennings's notice entirely to herself.

As this was a favourite meal with Mrs. Jennings, it lasted a

considerable time, and they were just setting themselves, after it,

round the common working table, when a letter was delivered to

Marianne, which she eagerly caught from the servant, and, turning of a

death-like paleness, instantly ran out of the room. Elinor, who saw as

plainly by this, as if she had seen the direction, that it must come

from Willoughby, felt immediately such a sickness at heart as made her

hardly able to hold up her head, and sat in such a general tremor as

made her fear it impossible to escape Mrs. Jennings's notice. That

good lady, however, saw only that Marianne had received a letter from

Willoughby, which appeared to her a very good joke, and which she

treated accordingly, by hoping, with a laugh, that she would find it

to her liking. Of Elinor's distress, she was too busily employed in

measuring lengths of worsted for her rug, to see any thing at all; and

calmly continuing her talk, as soon as Marianne disappeared, she

said--

"Upon my word, I never saw a young woman so desperately in love in my

life! _My_ girls were nothing to her, and yet they used to be foolish

enough; but as for Miss Marianne, she is quite an altered creature. I

hope, from the bottom of my heart, he won't keep her waiting much

longer, for it is quite grievous to see her look so ill and forlorn.

Pray, when are they to be married?"

Elinor, though never less disposed to speak than at that moment,

obliged herself to answer such an attack as this, and, therefore,

trying to smile, replied, "And have you really, Ma'am, talked yourself

into a persuasion of my sister's being engaged to Mr. Willoughby? I

thought it had been only a joke, but so serious a question seems to

imply more; and I must beg, therefore, that you will not deceive

yourself any longer. I do assure you that nothing would surprise me

more than to hear of their being going to be married."

"For shame, for shame, Miss Dashwood! how can you talk so? Don't we

all know that it must be a match, that they were over head and ears in

love with each other from the first moment they met? Did not I see

them together in Devonshire every day, and all day long; and did not I

know that your sister came to town with me on purpose to buy wedding

clothes? Come, come, this won't do. Because you are so sly about it

yourself, you think nobody else has any senses; but it is no such

thing, I can tell you, for it has been known all over town this ever

so long. I tell every body of it and so does Charlotte."

"Indeed, Ma'am," said Elinor, very seriously, "you are mistaken.

Indeed, you are doing a very unkind thing in spreading the report, and

you will find that you have though you will not believe me now."

Mrs. Jennings laughed again, but Elinor had not spirits to say more,

and eager at all events to know what Willoughby had written, hurried

away to their room, where, on opening the door, she saw Marianne

stretched on the bed, almost choked by grief, one letter in her hand,

and two or three others laying by her. Elinor drew near, but without

saying a word; and seating herself on the bed, took her hand, kissed

her affectionately several times, and then gave way to a burst of

tears, which at first was scarcely less violent than Marianne's. The

latter, though unable to speak, seemed to feel all the tenderness of

this behaviour, and after some time thus spent in joint affliction,

she put all the letters into Elinor's hands; and then covering her

face with her handkerchief, almost screamed with agony. Elinor, who

knew that such grief, shocking as it was to witness it, must have its

course, watched by her till this excess of suffering had somewhat

spent itself, and then turning eagerly to Willoughby's letter, read as

follows:--

"Bond Street, January.

"MY DEAR MADAM,

"I have just had the honour of receiving your letter, for

which I beg to return my sincere acknowledgments. I am much

concerned to find there was anything in my behaviour last

night that did not meet your approbation; and though I am

quite at a loss to discover in what point I could be so

unfortunate as to offend you, I entreat your forgiveness of

what I can assure you to have been perfectly unintentional.

I shall never reflect on my former acquaintance with your

family in Devonshire without the most grateful pleasure, and

flatter myself it will not be broken by any mistake or

misapprehension of my actions. My esteem for your whole

family is very sincere; but if I have been so unfortunate as

to give rise to a belief of more than I felt, or meant to

express, I shall reproach myself for not having been more

guarded in my professions of that esteem. That I should ever

have meant more you will allow to be impossible, when you

understand that my affections have been long engaged

elsewhere, and it will not be many weeks, I believe, before

this engagement is fulfilled. It is with great regret that I

obey your commands in returning the letters with which I

have been honoured from you, and the lock of hair, which you

so obligingly bestowed on me.

I am, dear Madam,

Your most obedient humble servant,

"JOHN WILLOUGHBY."

With what indignation such a letter as this must be read by Miss

Dashwood, may be imagined. Though aware, before she began it, that it

must bring a confession of his inconstancy, and confirm their

separation for ever, she was not aware that such language could be

suffered to announce it; nor could she have supposed Willoughby

capable of departing so far from the appearance of every honourable

and delicate feeling--so far from the common decorum of a gentleman,

as to send a letter so impudently cruel: a letter which, instead of

bringing with his desire of a release any professions of regret,

acknowledged no breach of faith, denied all peculiar affection

whatever;--a letter of which every line was an insult, and which

proclaimed its writer to be deep in hardened villainy.

She paused over it for some time with indignant astonishment; then

read it again and again; but every perusal only served to increase

her abhorrence of the man, and so bitter were her feelings against

him, that she dared not trust herself to speak, lest she might wound

Marianne still deeper by treating their disengagement, not as a loss

to her of any possible good but as an escape from the worst and most

irremediable of all evils,--a connection, for life, with an

unprincipled man, as a deliverance the most real, a blessing the most

important.