In her earnest meditations on the contents of the letter, on the

depravity of that mind which could dictate it, and probably, on the

very different mind of a very different person, who had no other

connection whatever with the affair than what her heart gave him with

every thing that passed, Elinor forgot the immediate distress of her

sister, forgot that she had three letters on her lap yet unread, and

so entirely forgot how long she had been in the room, that when on

hearing a carriage drive up to the door, she went to the window to see

who could be coming so unreasonably early, she was all astonishment to

perceive Mrs. Jennings's chariot, which she knew had not been ordered

till one. Determined not to quit Marianne, though hopeless of

contributing, at present, to her ease, she hurried away to excuse

herself from attending Mrs. Jennings, on account of her sister being

indisposed. Mrs. Jennings, with a thoroughly good-humoured concern for

its cause, admitted the excuse most readily, and Elinor, after seeing

her safe off, returned to Marianne, whom she found attempting to rise

from the bed, and whom she reached just in time to prevent her from

falling on the floor, faint and giddy from a long want of proper rest

and food; for it was many days since she had any appetite, and many

nights since she had really slept; and now, when her mind was no

longer supported by the fever of suspense, the consequence of all this

was felt in an aching head, a weakened stomach, and a general nervous

faintness. A glass of wine, which Elinor procured for her directly,

made her more comfortable, and she was at last able to express some

sense of her kindness, by saying, "Poor Elinor! how unhappy I make

you!"

"I only wish," replied her sister, "there were any thing I _could_ do,

which might be of comfort to you."

This, as every thing else would have been, was too much for Marianne,

who could only exclaim, in the anguish of her heart, "Oh! Elinor, I

am miserable, indeed," before her voice was entirely lost in sobs.

Elinor could no longer witness this torrent of unresisted grief in

silence.

"Exert yourself, dear Marianne," she cried, "if you would not kill

yourself and all who love you. Think of your mother; think of her

misery while _you_ suffer: for her sake you must exert yourself."

"I cannot, I cannot," cried Marianne; "leave me, leave me, if I

distress you; leave me, hate me, forget me! but do not torture me so.

Oh! how easy for those, who have no sorrow of their own to talk of

exertion! Happy, happy Elinor, _you_ cannot have an idea of what I

suffer."

"Do you call _me_ happy, Marianne? Ah! if you knew! And can you

believe me to be so, while I see you so wretched!"

"Forgive me, forgive me," throwing her arms round her sister's neck;

"I know you feel for me; I know what a heart you have; but yet you

are--you must be happy; Edward loves you--what, oh what, can do away

such happiness as that?"

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

"No, no, no," cried Marianne wildly, "he loves you, and only you. You

_can_ have no grief."

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

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

can do away."

"You must not talk so, Marianne. Have you no comforts? no friends? Is

your loss such as leaves no opening for consolation? Much as you

suffer now, think of what you would have suffered if the discovery of

his character had been delayed to a later period;--if your engagement

had been carried on for months and months, as it might have been,

before he chose to put an end to it. Every additional day of unhappy

confidence, on your side, would have made the blow more dreadful."

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

"No engagement!"

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

with me."

"But he told you that he loved you."

"Yes--no--never absolutely. It was every day implied, but never

professedly declared. Sometimes I thought it had been--but it never

was."

"Yet you wrote to him?"

"Yes: could that be wrong after all that had passed? But I cannot

talk."

Elinor said no more, and turning again to the three letters which now

raised a much stronger curiosity than before, directly ran over the

contents of all. The first, which was what her sister had sent him on

their arrival in town, was to this effect:--

"Berkeley Street, January.

"How surprised you will be, Willoughby, on receiving this;

and I think you will feel something more than surprise, when

you know that I am in town. An opportunity of coming hither,

though with Mrs. Jennings, was a temptation we could not

resist. I wish you may receive this in time to come here

tonight, but I will not depend on it. At any rate I shall

expect you to-morrow. For the present, adieu.

M.D."

Her second note, which had been written on the morning after the dance

at the Middletons', was in these words:--

"I cannot express my disappointment in having missed you the

day before yesterday, nor my astonishment at not having

received any answer to a note which I sent you above a week

ago. I have been expecting to hear from you, and still more

to see you, every hour of the day. Pray call again as soon

as possible, and explain the reason of my having expected

this in vain. You had better come earlier another time,

because we are generally out by one. We were last night at

Lady Middleton's, where there was a dance. I have been told

that you were asked to be of the party. But could it be so?

You must be very much altered indeed since we parted, if

that could be the case, and you not there. But I will not

suppose this possible, and I hope very soon to receive your

personal assurance of its being otherwise.

M.D."

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

"What am I to imagine, Willoughby, by your behaviour last

night? Again I demand an explanation of it. I was prepared

to meet you with the pleasure which our separation naturally

produced,--with the familiarity which our intimacy at Barton

appeared to me to justify. I was repulsed indeed! I have

passed a wretched night in endeavouring to excuse a conduct

which can scarcely be called less than insulting; but though

I have not yet been able to form any reasonable apology for

your behaviour, I am perfectly ready to hear your

justification of it. You have perhaps been misinformed, or

purposely deceived, in something concerning me, which may

have lowered me in your opinion. Tell me what it is, explain

the grounds on which you acted, and I shall be satisfied, in

being able to satisfy you. It would grieve me indeed to be

obliged to think ill of you; but if I am to do it, if I am

to learn that you are not what we have hitherto believed

you, that your regard for us all was insincere, that your

behaviour to me was intended only to deceive, let it be told

as soon as possible. My feelings are at present in a state

of dreadful indecision; I wish to acquit you, but certainty

on either side will be ease to what I now suffer. If your

sentiments are no longer what they were, you will return my

notes, and the lock of my hair which is in your possession.

M.D."

That such letters, so full of affection and confidence, could have

been so answered, Elinor, for Willoughby's sake, would have been

unwilling to believe. But her condemnation of him did not blind her to

the impropriety of their having been written at all; and she was

silently grieving over the imprudence which had hazarded such

unsolicited proofs of tenderness, not warranted by anything preceding,

and most severely condemned by the event, when Marianne, perceiving

that she had finished the letters, observed to her that they contained

nothing but what any one would have written in the same situation.

"I felt myself," she added, "to be as solemnly engaged to him, as if

the strictest legal covenant had bound us to each other."

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

the same."

"He _did_ feel the same, Elinor--for weeks and weeks he felt it. I

know he did. Whatever may have changed him now, (and nothing but the

blackest art employed against me can have done it), I was once as dear

to him as my own soul could wish. This lock of hair, which now he can

so readily give up, was begged of me with the most earnest

supplication. Had you seen his look, his manner, had you heard his

voice at that moment! Have you forgot the last evening of our being

together at Barton? The morning that we parted too! When he told me

that it might be many weeks before we met again--his distress--can I

ever forget his distress?"

For a moment or two she could say no more; but when this emotion had

passed away, she added, in a firmer tone--

"Elinor, I have been cruelly used; but not by Willoughby."

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

instigated?"

"By all the world, rather than by his own heart. I could rather

believe every creature of my acquaintance leagued together to ruin me

in his opinion, than believe his nature capable of such cruelty. This

woman of whom he writes--whoever she be--or any one, in short, but

your own dear self, mama, and Edward, may have been so barbarous to

bely me. Beyond you three, is there a creature in the world whom I

would not rather suspect of evil than Willoughby, whose heart I know

so well?"

Elinor would not contend, and only replied, "Whoever may have been so

detestably your enemy, let them be cheated of their malignant triumph,

my dear sister, by seeing how nobly the consciousness of your own

innocence and good intentions supports your spirits. It is a

reasonable and laudable pride which resists such malevolence."

"No, no," cried Marianne, "misery such as mine has no pride. I care

not who knows that I am wretched. The triumph of seeing me so may be

open to all the world. Elinor, Elinor, they who suffer little may be

proud and independent as they like--may resist insult, or return

mortification--but I cannot. I must feel--I must be wretched--and they

are welcome to enjoy the consciousness of it that can."

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

"I would do more than for my own. But to appear happy when I am so

miserable--oh! who can require it?"

Again they were both silent. Elinor was employed in walking

thoughtfully from the fire to the window, from the window to the fire,

without knowing that she received warmth from one, or discerning

objects through the other; and Marianne, seated at the foot of the

bed, with her head leaning against one of its posts, again took up

Willoughby's letter, and, after shuddering over every sentence,

exclaimed--

"It is too much! Oh, Willoughby, Willoughby, could this be yours!

Cruel, cruel--nothing can acquit you. Elinor, nothing can. Whatever he

might have heard against me, ought he not to have suspended his

belief? ought he not to have told me of it, to have given me the power

of clearing myself? 'The lock of hair, (repeating it from the letter,)

which you so obligingly bestowed on me'--that is unpardonable.

Willoughby, where was your heart when you wrote those words? Oh,

barbarously insolent!--Elinor, can he be justified?"

"No, Marianne, in no possible way."

"And yet this woman--who knows what her art may have been?--how long

it may have been premeditated, and how deeply contrived by her!--Who

is she?--Who can she be?--Whom did I ever hear him talk of as young

and attractive among his female acquaintance?--Oh! no one, no one:--he

talked to me only of myself."

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

thus:--

"Elinor, I must go home. I must go and comfort mama. Can not we be

gone to-morrow?"

"To-morrow, Marianne!"

"Yes, why should I stay here? I came only for Willoughby's sake--and

now who cares for me? Who regards me?"

"It would be impossible to go to-morrow. We owe Mrs. Jennings much

more than civility; and civility of the commonest kind must prevent

such a hasty removal as that."

"Well then, another day or two, perhaps; but I cannot stay here long,

I cannot stay to endure the questions and remarks of all these people.

The Middletons and Palmers--how am I to bear their pity? The pity of

such a woman as Lady Middleton! Oh, what would _he_ say to that!"

Elinor advised her to lie down again, and for a moment she did so; but

no attitude could give her ease; and in restless pain of mind and body

she moved from one posture to another, till growing more and more

hysterical, her sister could with difficulty keep her on the bed at

all, and for some time was fearful of being constrained to call for

assistance. Some lavender drops, however, which she was at length

persuaded to take, were of use; and from that time till Mrs. Jennings

returned, she continued on the bed quiet and motionless.

CHAPTER XXX

Mrs. Jennings came immediately to their room on her return, and

without waiting to have her request of admittance answered, opened the

door and walked in with a look of real concern.

"How do you do my dear?" said she in a voice of great compassion to

Marianne, who turned away her face without attempting to answer.

"How is she, Miss Dashwood? Poor thing! she looks very bad. No

wonder. Ay, it is but too true. He is to be married very soon--a

good-for-nothing fellow! I have no patience with him. Mrs. Taylor told

me of it half an hour ago, and she was told it by a particular friend

of Miss Grey herself, else I am sure I should not have believed it;

and I was almost ready to sink as it was. Well, said I, all I can say

is, that if this be true, he has used a young lady of my acquaintance

abominably ill, and I wish with all my soul his wife may plague his

heart out. And so I shall always say, my dear, you may depend on it. I

have no notion of men's going on in this way; and if ever I meet him

again, I will give him such a dressing as he has not had this many a

day. But there is one comfort, my dear Miss Marianne--he is not the

only young man in the world worth having; and with your pretty face

you will never want admirers. Well, poor thing! I won't disturb her

any longer, for she had better have her cry out at once and have done

with. The Parrys and Sandersons luckily are coming tonight you know,

and that will amuse her."

She then went away, walking on tiptoe out of the room, as if she

supposed her young friend's affliction could be increased by noise.

Marianne, to the surprise of her sister, determined on dining with

them. Elinor even advised her against it. But "no, she would go down;

she could bear it very well, and the bustle about her would be less."

Elinor, pleased to have her governed for a moment by such a motive,

though believing it hardly possible that she could sit out the dinner,

said no more; and adjusting her dress for her as well as she could,

while Marianne still remained on the bed, was ready to assist her into

the dining room as soon as they were summoned to it.

When there, though looking most wretchedly, she ate more and was

calmer than her sister had expected. Had she tried to speak, or had

she been conscious of half Mrs. Jennings's well-meant but ill-judged

attentions to her, this calmness could not have been maintained; but

not a syllable escaped her lips; and the abstraction of her thoughts

preserved her in ignorance of every thing that was passing before her.

Elinor, who did justice to Mrs. Jennings's kindness, though its

effusions were often distressing, and sometimes almost ridiculous,

made her those acknowledgments, and returned her those civilities,

which her sister could not make or return for herself. Their good

friend saw that Marianne was unhappy, and felt that every thing was

due to her which might make her at all less so. She treated her

therefore, with all the indulgent fondness of a parent towards a

favourite child on the last day of its holidays. Marianne was to have

the best place by the fire, was to be tempted to eat by every delicacy

in the house, and to be amused by the relation of all the news of the

day. Had not Elinor, in the sad countenance of her sister, seen a

check to all mirth, she could have been entertained by Mrs. Jennings's

endeavours to cure a disappointment in love, by a variety of

sweetmeats and olives, and a good fire. As soon, however, as the

consciousness of all this was forced by continual repetition on

Marianne, she could stay no longer. With a hasty exclamation of

Misery, and a sign to her sister not to follow her, she directly got

up and hurried out of the room.

"Poor soul!" cried Mrs. Jennings, as soon as she was gone, "how it

grieves me to see her! And I declare if she is not gone away without

finishing her wine! And the dried cherries too! Lord! nothing seems to

do her any good. I am sure if I knew of any thing she would like, I

would send all over the town for it. Well, it is the oddest thing to

me, that a man should use such a pretty girl so ill! But when there

is plenty of money on one side, and next to none on the other, Lord

bless you! they care no more about such things!"

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

"Fifty thousand pounds, my dear. Did you ever see her? a smart,

stylish girl they say, but not handsome. I remember her aunt very

well, Biddy Henshawe; she married a very wealthy man. But the family

are all rich together. Fifty thousand pounds! and by all accounts, it

won't come before it's wanted; for they say he is all to pieces. No

wonder! dashing about with his curricle and hunters! Well, it don't

signify talking; but when a young man, be who he will, comes and makes

love to a pretty girl, and promises marriage, he has no business to

fly off from his word only because he grows poor, and a richer girl is

ready to have him. Why don't he, in such a case, sell his horses, let

his house, turn off his servants, and make a thorough reform at once?

I warrant you, Miss Marianne would have been ready to wait till

matters came round. But that won't do nowadays; nothing in the way

of pleasure can ever be given up by the young men of this age."

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

amiable?"

"I never heard any harm of her; indeed I hardly ever heard her

mentioned; except that Mrs. Taylor did say this morning, that one day

Miss Walker hinted to her, that she believed Mr. and Mrs. Ellison

would not be sorry to have Miss Grey married, for she and Mrs. Ellison

could never agree."

"And who are the Ellisons?"

"Her guardians, my dear. But now she is of age and may choose for

herself; and a pretty choice she has made!--What now," after pausing a

moment, "your poor sister is gone to her own room, I suppose, to moan

by herself. Is there nothing one can get to comfort her? Poor dear, it

seems quite cruel to let her be alone. Well, by and by we shall have a

few friends, and that will amuse her a little. What shall we play at?

She hates whist I know; but is there no round game she cares for?"

"Dear ma'am, this kindness is quite unnecessary. Marianne, I dare say,

will not leave her room again this evening. I shall persuade her if I

can to go early to bed, for I am sure she wants rest."

"Aye, I believe that will be best for her. Let her name her own

supper, and go to bed. Lord! no wonder she has been looking so bad and

so cast down this last week or two, for this matter I suppose has been

hanging over her head as long as that. And so the letter that came

today finished it! Poor soul! I am sure if I had had a notion of it, I

would not have joked her about it for all my money. But then you know,

how should I guess such a thing? I made sure of its being nothing but

a common love letter, and you know young people like to be laughed at

about them. Lord! how concerned Sir John and my daughters will be when

they hear it! If I had my senses about me I might have called in

Conduit Street in my way home, and told them of it. But I shall see

them to-morrow."

"It would be unnecessary I am sure, for you to caution Mrs. Palmer and

Sir John against ever naming Mr. Willoughby, or making the slightest

allusion to what has passed, before my sister. Their own good-nature

must point out to them the real cruelty of appearing to know any thing

about it when she is present; and the less that may ever be said to

myself on the subject, the more my feelings will be spared, as you my

dear madam will easily believe."

"Oh! Lord! yes, that I do indeed. It must be terrible for you to hear

it talked of; and as for your sister, I am sure I would not mention a

word about it to her for the world. You saw I did not all dinner time.

No more would Sir John, nor my daughters, for they are all very

thoughtful and considerate; especially if I give them a hint, as I

certainly will. For my part, I think the less that is said about such

things, the better, the sooner 'tis blown over and forgot. And what

does talking ever do you know?"

"In this affair it can only do harm; more so perhaps than in many

cases of a similar kind, for it has been attended by circumstances

which, for the sake of every one concerned in it, make it unfit to

become the public conversation. I must do _this_ justice to Mr.

Willoughby--he has broken no positive engagement with my sister."

"Law, my dear! Don't pretend to defend him. No positive engagement

indeed! after taking her all over Allenham House, and fixing on the

very rooms they were to live in hereafter!"

Elinor, for her sister's sake, could not press the subject farther,

and she hoped it was not required of her for Willoughby's; since,

though Marianne might lose much, he could gain very little by the

enforcement of the real truth. After a short silence on both sides,

Mrs. Jennings, with all her natural hilarity, burst forth again.

"Well, my dear, 'tis a true saying about an ill wind, for it will be

all the better for Colonel Brandon. He will have her at last; aye,

that he will. Mind me, now, if they an't married by Mid-summer. Lord!

how he'll chuckle over this news! I hope he will come tonight. It will

be all to one a better match for your sister. Two thousand a year

without debt or drawback--except the little love-child, indeed; aye, I

had forgot her; but she may be 'prenticed out at a small cost, and

then what does it signify? Delaford is a nice place, I can tell you;

exactly what I call a nice old fashioned place, full of comforts and

conveniences; quite shut in with great garden walls that are covered

with the best fruit-trees in the country; and such a mulberry tree in

one corner! Lord! how Charlotte and I did stuff the only time we were

there! Then, there is a dovecote, some delightful stew-ponds, and a

very pretty canal; and every thing, in short, that one could wish for;

and, moreover, it is close to the church, and only a quarter of a mile

from the turnpike-road, so 'tis never dull, for if you only go and sit

up in an old yew arbour behind the house, you may see all the

carriages that pass along. Oh! 'tis a nice place! A butcher hard by in

the village, and the parsonage-house within a stone's throw. To my

fancy, a thousand times prettier than Barton Park, where they are

forced to send three miles for their meat, and have not a neighbour

nearer than your mother. Well, I shall spirit up the Colonel as soon

as I can. One shoulder of mutton, you know, drives another down. If we

_can_ but put Willoughby out of her head!"

"Ay, if we can do that, Ma'am," said Elinor, "we shall do very well

with or without Colonel Brandon." And then rising, she went away to

join Marianne, whom she found, as she expected, in her own room,

leaning, in silent misery, over the small remains of a fire, which,

till Elinor's entrance, had been her only light.

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

from her.

"I will leave you," said Elinor, "if you will go to bed." But this,

from the momentary perverseness of impatient suffering, she at first

refused to do. Her sister's earnest, though gentle persuasion,

however, soon softened her to compliance, and Elinor saw her lay her

aching head on the pillow, and as she hoped, in a way to get some

quiet rest before she left her.

In the drawing-room, whither she then repaired, she was soon joined by

Mrs. Jennings, with a wine-glass, full of something, in her hand.

"My dear," said she, entering, "I have just recollected that I have

some of the finest old Constantia wine in the house that ever was

tasted, so I have brought a glass of it for your sister. My poor

husband! how fond he was of it! Whenever he had a touch of his old

colicky gout, he said it did him more good than any thing else in the

world. Do take it to your sister."

"Dear Ma'am," replied Elinor, smiling at the difference of the

complaints for which it was recommended, "how good you are! But I have

just left Marianne in bed, and, I hope, almost asleep; and as I think

nothing will be of so much service to her as rest, if you will give me

leave, I will drink the wine myself."

Mrs. Jennings, though regretting that she had not been five minutes

earlier, was satisfied with the compromise; and Elinor, as she

swallowed the chief of it, reflected, that though its effects on a

colicky gout were, at present, of little importance to her, its

healing powers, on a disappointed heart might be as reasonably tried

on herself as on her sister.

Colonel Brandon came in while the party were at tea, and by his manner

of looking round the room for Marianne, Elinor immediately fancied

that he neither expected nor wished to see her there, and, in short,

that he was already aware of what occasioned her absence. Mrs.

Jennings was not struck by the same thought; for soon after his

entrance, she walked across the room to the tea-table where Elinor

presided, and whispered, "The Colonel looks as grave as ever you see.

He knows nothing of it; do tell him, my dear."

[Illustration: "_How fond he was of it!_"]

He shortly afterwards drew a chair close to her's, and, with a look

which perfectly assured her of his good information, inquired after

her sister.

"Marianne is not well," said she. "She has been indisposed all day,

and we have persuaded her to go to bed."

"Perhaps, then," he hesitatingly replied, "what I heard this morning

may be--there may be more truth in it than I could believe possible at

first."

"What did you hear?"

"That a gentleman, whom I had reason to think--in short, that a man,

whom I _knew_ to be engaged--but how shall I tell you? If you know it

already, as surely you must, I may be spared."

"You mean," answered Elinor, with forced calmness, "Mr. Willoughby's

marriage with Miss Grey. Yes, we _do_ know it all. This seems to have

been a day of general elucidation, for this very morning first

unfolded it to us. Mr. Willoughby is unfathomable! Where did you hear

it?"

"In a stationer's shop in Pall Mall, where I had business. Two ladies

were waiting for their carriage, and one of them was giving the other

an account of the intended match, in a voice so little attempting

concealment, that it was impossible for me not to hear all. The name

of Willoughby, John Willoughby, frequently repeated, first caught my

attention; and what followed was a positive assertion that every thing

was now finally settled respecting his marriage with Miss Grey--it was

no longer to be a secret--it would take place even within a few weeks,

with many particulars of preparations and other matters. One thing,

especially, I remember, because it served to identify the man still

more:--as soon as the ceremony was over, they were to go to Combe

Magna, his seat in Somersetshire. My astonishment!--but it would be

impossible to describe what I felt. The communicative lady I learnt,

on inquiry,--for I stayed in the shop till they were gone,--was a Mrs.

Ellison, and that, as I have been since informed, is the name of Miss

Grey's guardian."

"It is. But have you likewise heard that Miss Grey has fifty thousand

pounds? In that, if in any thing, we may find an explanation."

"It may be so; but Willoughby is capable--at least I think--" He

stopped a moment; then added in a voice which seemed to distrust

itself, "And your sister,--how did she,--"

"Her sufferings have been very severe. I have only to hope that they

may be proportionately short. It has been, it is a most cruel

affliction. Till yesterday, I believe, she never doubted his regard;

and even now, perhaps--but _I_ am almost convinced that he never was

really attached to her. He has been very deceitful! and, in some

points, there seems a hardness of heart about him."

"Ah!" said Colonel Brandon, "there is, indeed! But your sister does

not--I think you said so--she does not consider quite as you do?"

"You know her disposition, and may believe how eagerly she would still

justify him if she could."

He made no answer; and soon afterwards, by the removal of the

tea-things, and the arrangement of the card parties, the subject was

necessarily dropped. Mrs. Jennings, who had watched them with pleasure

while they were talking, and who expected to see the effect of Miss

Dashwood's communication, in such an instantaneous gaiety on Colonel

Brandon's side, as might have become a man in the bloom of youth, of

hope and happiness, saw him, with amazement, remain the whole evening

more serious and thoughtful than usual.

CHAPTER XXXI

From a night of more sleep than she had expected, Marianne awoke the

next morning to the same consciousness of misery in which she had

closed her eyes.

Elinor encouraged her as much as possible to talk of what she felt;

and before breakfast was ready, they had gone through the subject

again and again; and with the same steady conviction and affectionate

counsel on Elinor's side, the same impetuous feelings and varying

opinions on Marianne's, as before. Sometimes she could believe

Willoughby to be as unfortunate and as innocent as herself, and at

others, lost every consolation in the impossibility of acquitting him.

At one moment she was absolutely indifferent to the observation of all

the world, at another she would seclude herself from it for ever, and

at a third could resist it with energy. In one thing, however, she

was uniform, when it came to the point, in avoiding, where it was

possible, the presence of Mrs. Jennings, and in a determined silence

when obliged to endure it. Her heart was hardened against the belief

of Mrs. Jennings's entering into her sorrows with any compassion.

"No, no, no, it cannot be," she cried; "she cannot feel. Her kindness

is not sympathy; her good-nature is not tenderness. All that she wants

is gossip, and she only likes me now because I supply it."

Elinor had not needed this to be assured of the injustice to which her

sister was often led in her opinion of others, by the irritable

refinement of her own mind, and the too great importance placed by her

on the delicacies of a strong sensibility, and the graces of a

polished manner. Like half the rest of the world, if more than half

there be that are clever and good, Marianne, with excellent abilities

and an excellent disposition, was neither reasonable nor candid. She

expected from other people the same opinions and feelings as her own,

and she judged of their motives by the immediate effect of their

actions on herself. Thus a circumstance occurred, while the sisters

were together in their own room after breakfast, which sunk the heart

of Mrs. Jennings still lower in her estimation; because, through her

own weakness, it chanced to prove a source of fresh pain to herself,

though Mrs. Jennings was governed in it by an impulse of the utmost

good-will.

With a letter in her outstretched hand, and countenance gaily smiling,

from the persuasion of bringing comfort, she entered their room,

saying--

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

Marianne heard enough. In one moment her imagination placed before her

a letter from Willoughby, full of tenderness and contrition,

explanatory of all that had passed, satisfactory, convincing; and

instantly followed by Willoughby himself, rushing eagerly into the

room to enforce, at her feet, by the eloquence of his eyes, the

assurances of his letter. The work of one moment was destroyed by the

next. The hand writing of her mother, never till then unwelcome, was

before her; and, in the acuteness of the disappointment which followed

such an ecstasy of more than hope, she felt as if, till that instant,

she had never suffered.

The cruelty of Mrs. Jennings, no language, within her reach in her

moments of happiest eloquence, could have expressed; and now she could

reproach her only by the tears which streamed from her eyes with

passionate violence;--a reproach, however, so entirely lost on its

object, that after many expressions of pity, she withdrew, still

referring her to the letter of comfort. But the letter, when she was

calm enough to read it, brought little comfort. Willoughby filled

every page. Her mother, still confident of their engagement, and

relying as warmly as ever on his constancy, had only been roused by

Elinor's application, to entreat from Marianne greater openness

towards them both; and this, with such tenderness towards her, such

affection for Willoughby, and such a conviction of their future

happiness in each other, that she wept with agony through the whole of

it.

All her impatience to be at home again now returned; her mother was

dearer to her than ever; dearer through the very excess of her

mistaken confidence in Willoughby, and she was wildly urgent to be

gone. Elinor, unable herself to determine whether it were better for

Marianne to be in London or at Barton, offered no counsel of her own

except of patience till their mother's wishes could be known; and at

length she obtained her sister's consent to wait for that knowledge.

Mrs. Jennings left them earlier than usual; for she could not be easy

till the Middletons and Palmers were able to grieve as much as

herself; and positively refusing Elinor's offered attendance, went out

alone for the rest of the morning. Elinor, with a very heavy heart,

aware of the pain she was going to communicate, and perceiving, by

Marianne's letter, how ill she had succeeded in laying any foundation

for it, then sat down to write her mother an account of what had

passed, and entreat her directions for the future; while Marianne, who

came into the drawing-room on Mrs. Jennings's going away, remained

fixed at the table where Elinor wrote, watching the advancement of her

pen, grieving over her for the hardship of such a task, and grieving

still more fondly over its effect on her mother.

In this manner they had continued about a quarter of an hour, when

Marianne, whose nerves could not then bear any sudden noise, was

startled by a rap at the door.

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

been safe."

Marianne moved to the window--

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

from _him._"

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

"I will not trust to _that_," retreating to her own room. "A man who

has nothing to do with his own time has no conscience in his intrusion

on that of others."

The event proved her conjecture right, though it was founded on

injustice and error; for Colonel Brandon _did_ come in; and Elinor,

who was convinced that solicitude for Marianne brought him thither,

and who saw _that_ solicitude in his disturbed and melancholy look,

and in his anxious though brief inquiry after her, could not forgive

her sister for esteeming him so lightly.

"I met Mrs. Jennings in Bond Street," said he, after the first

salutation, "and she encouraged me to come on; and I was the more

easily encouraged, because I thought it probable that I might find you

alone, which I was very desirous of doing. My object--my wish--my sole

wish in desiring it--I hope, I believe it is--is to be a means of

giving comfort;--no, I must not say comfort--not present comfort--but

conviction, lasting conviction to your sister's mind. My regard for

her, for yourself, for your mother--will you allow me to prove it, by

relating some circumstances which nothing but a _very_ sincere

regard--nothing but an earnest desire of being useful--I think I am

justified--though where so many hours have been spent in convincing

myself that I am right, is there not some reason to fear I may be

wrong?" He stopped.

"I understand you," said Elinor. "You have something to tell me of Mr.

Willoughby, that will open his character farther. Your telling it will

be the greatest act of friendship that can be shown Marianne. _My_

gratitude will be insured immediately by any information tending to

that end, and _hers_ must be gained by it in time. Pray, pray let me

hear it."

"You shall; and, to be brief, when I quitted Barton last October,--but

this will give you no idea--I must go farther back. You will find me a

very awkward narrator, Miss Dashwood; I hardly know where to begin. A

short account of myself, I believe, will be necessary, and it _shall_

be a short one. On such a subject," sighing heavily, "can I have

little temptation to be diffuse."

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

on.

"You have probably entirely forgotten a conversation--(it is not to be

supposed that it could make any impression on you)--a conversation

between us one evening at Barton Park--it was the evening of a

dance--in which I alluded to a lady I had once known, as resembling,

in some measure, your sister Marianne."

"Indeed," answered Elinor, "I have _not_ forgotten it." He looked

pleased by this remembrance, and added--

"If I am not deceived by the uncertainty, the partiality of tender

recollection, there is a very strong resemblance between them, as well

in mind as person. The same warmth of heart, the same eagerness of

fancy and spirits. This lady was one of my nearest relations, an

orphan from her infancy, and under the guardianship of my father. Our

ages were nearly the same, and from our earliest years we were

playfellows and friends. I cannot remember the time when I did not

love Eliza; and my affection for her, as we grew up, was such, as

perhaps, judging from my present forlorn and cheerless gravity, you

might think me incapable of having ever felt. Her's, for me, was, I

believe, fervent as the attachment of your sister to Mr. Willoughby

and it was, though from a different cause, no less unfortunate. At

seventeen she was lost to me for ever. She was married--married

against her inclination to my brother. Her fortune was large, and our

family estate much encumbered. And this, I fear, is all that can be

said for the conduct of one, who was at once her uncle and guardian.

My brother did not deserve her; he did not even love her. I had hoped

that her regard for me would support her under any difficulty, and for

some time it did; but at last the misery of her situation, for she

experienced great unkindness, overcame all her resolution, and though

she had promised me that nothing--but how blindly I relate! I have

never told you how this was brought on. We were within a few hours of

eloping together for Scotland. The treachery, or the folly, of my

cousin's maid betrayed us. I was banished to the house of a relation

far distant, and she was allowed no liberty, no society, no amusement,

till my father's point was gained. I had depended on her fortitude too

far, and the blow was a severe one, but had her marriage been happy,

so young as I then was, a few months must have reconciled me to it,

or at least I should not have now to lament it. This however was not

the case. My brother had no regard for her; his pleasures were not

what they ought to have been, and from the first he treated her

unkindly. The consequence of this, upon a mind so young, so lively, so

inexperienced as Mrs. Brandon's, was but too natural. She resigned

herself at first to all the misery of her situation; and happy had it

been if she had not lived to overcome those regrets which the

remembrance of me occasioned. But can we wonder that, with such a

husband to provoke inconstancy, and without a friend to advise or

restrain her (for my father lived only a few months after their

marriage, and I was with my regiment in the East Indies) she should

fall? Had I remained in England, perhaps--but I meant to promote the

happiness of both by removing from her for years, and for that purpose

had procured my exchange. The shock which her marriage had given me,"

he continued, in a voice of great agitation, "was of trifling

weight--was nothing to what I felt when I heard, about two years

afterwards, of her divorce. It was _that_ which threw this

gloom,--even now the recollection of what I suffered--"

He could say no more, and rising hastily walked for a few minutes

about the room. Elinor, affected by his relation, and still more by

his distress, could not speak. He saw her concern, and coming to her,

took her hand, pressed it, and kissed it with grateful respect. A few

minutes more of silent exertion enabled him to proceed with composure.

"It was nearly three years after this unhappy period before I returned

to England. My first care, when I _did_ arrive, was of course to seek

for her; but the search was as fruitless as it was melancholy. I could

not trace her beyond her first seducer, and there was every reason to

fear that she had removed from him only to sink deeper in a life of

sin. Her legal allowance was not adequate to her fortune, nor

sufficient for her comfortable maintenance, and I learnt from my

brother that the power of receiving it had been made over some months

before to another person. He imagined, and calmly could he imagine it,

that her extravagance, and consequent distress, had obliged her to

dispose of it for some immediate relief. At last, however, and after I

had been six months in England, I _did_ find her. Regard for a former

servant of my own, who had since fallen into misfortune, carried me

to visit him in a spunging-house, where he was confined for debt; and

there, in the same house, under a similar confinement, was my

unfortunate sister. So altered--so faded--worn down by acute suffering

of every kind! hardly could I believe the melancholy and sickly figure

before me, to be the remains of the lovely, blooming, healthful girl,

on whom I had once doted. What I endured in so beholding her--but I

have no right to wound your feelings by attempting to describe it--I

have pained you too much already. That she was, to all appearance, in

the last stage of a consumption, was--yes, in such a situation it was

my greatest comfort. Life could do nothing for her, beyond giving time

for a better preparation for death; and that was given. I saw her

placed in comfortable lodgings, and under proper attendants; I visited

her every day during the rest of her short life: I was with her in her

last moments."

Again he stopped to recover himself; and Elinor spoke her feelings in

an exclamation of tender concern, at the fate of his unfortunate

friend.

"Your sister, I hope, cannot be offended," said he, "by the

resemblance I have fancied between her and my poor disgraced relation.

Their fates, their fortunes, cannot be the same; and had the natural

sweet disposition of the one been guarded by a firmer mind, or a

happier marriage, she might have been all that you will live to see

the other be. But to what does all this lead? I seem to have been

distressing you for nothing. Ah! Miss Dashwood--a subject such as

this--untouched for fourteen years--it is dangerous to handle it at

all! I _will_ be more collected--more concise. She left to my care her

only child, a little girl, the offspring of her first guilty

connection, who was then about three years old. She loved the child,

and had always kept it with her. It was a valued, a precious trust to

me; and gladly would I have discharged it in the strictest sense, by

watching over her education myself, had the nature of our situations

allowed it; but I had no family, no home; and my little Eliza was

therefore placed at school. I saw her there whenever I could, and

after the death of my brother, (which happened about five years ago,

and which left to me the possession of the family property,) she

visited me at Delaford. I called her a distant relation; but I am

well aware that I have in general been suspected of a much nearer

connection with her. It is now three years ago (she had just reached

her fourteenth year,) that I removed her from school, to place her

under the care of a very respectable woman, residing in Dorsetshire,

who had the charge of four or five other girls of about the same time

of life; and for two years I had every reason to be pleased with her

situation. But last February, almost a twelvemonth back, she suddenly

disappeared. I had allowed her, (imprudently, as it has since turned

out,) at her earnest desire, to go to Bath with one of her young

friends, who was attending her father there for his health. I knew him

to be a very good sort of man, and I thought well of his

daughter--better than she deserved, for, with a most obstinate and

ill-judged secrecy, she would tell nothing, would give no clue, though

she certainly knew all. He, her father, a well-meaning, but not a

quick-sighted man, could really, I believe, give no information; for

he had been generally confined to the house, while the girls were

ranging over the town and making what acquaintance they chose; and he

tried to convince me, as thoroughly as he was convinced himself, of

his daughter's being entirely unconcerned in the business. In short, I

could learn nothing but that she was gone; all the rest, for eight

long months, was left to conjecture. What I thought, what I feared,

may be imagined; and what I suffered too."

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

"The first news that reached me of her," he continued, "came in a

letter from herself, last October. It was forwarded to me from

Delaford, and I received it on the very morning of our intended party

to Whitwell; and this was the reason of my leaving Barton so suddenly,

which I am sure must at the time have appeared strange to every body,

and which I believe gave offence to some. Little did Mr. Willoughby

imagine, I suppose, when his looks censured me for incivility in

breaking up the party, that I was called away to the relief of one

whom he had made poor and miserable; but _had_ he known it, what would

it have availed? Would he have been less gay or less happy in the

smiles of your sister? No, he had already done that, which no man who

_can_ feel for another would do. He had left the girl whose youth and

innocence he had seduced, in a situation of the utmost distress, with

no creditable home, no help, no friends, ignorant of his address! He

had left her, promising to return; he neither returned, nor wrote, nor

relieved her."

"This is beyond every thing!" exclaimed Elinor.

"His character is now before you; expensive, dissipated, and worse

than both. Knowing all this, as I have now known it many weeks, guess

what I must have felt on seeing your sister as fond of him as ever,

and on being assured that she was to marry him: guess what I must have

felt for all your sakes. When I came to you last week and found you

alone, I came determined to know the truth; though irresolute what to

do when it _was_ known. My behaviour must have seemed strange to you

then; but now you will comprehend it. To suffer you all to be so

deceived; to see your sister--but what could I do? I had no hope of

interfering with success; and sometimes I thought your sister's

influence might yet reclaim him. But now, after such dishonorable

usage, who can tell what were his designs on her. Whatever they may

have been, however, she may now, and hereafter doubtless _will_, turn

with gratitude towards her own condition, when she compares it with

that of my poor Eliza, when she considers the wretched and hopeless

situation of this poor girl, and pictures her to herself, with an

affection for him so strong, still as strong as her own, and with a

mind tormented by self-reproach, which must attend her through life.

Surely this comparison must have its use with her. She will feel her

own sufferings to be nothing. They proceed from no misconduct, and can

bring no disgrace. On the contrary, every friend must be made still

more her friend by them. Concern for her unhappiness, and respect for

her fortitude under it, must strengthen every attachment. Use your own

discretion, however, in communicating to her what I have told you. You

must know best what will be its effect; but had I not seriously, and

from my heart believed it might be of service, might lessen her

regrets, I would not have suffered myself to trouble you with this

account of my family afflictions, with a recital which may seem to

have been intended to raise myself at the expense of others."

Elinor's thanks followed this speech with grateful earnestness;

attended too with the assurance of her expecting material advantage

to Marianne, from the communication of what had passed.

"I have been more pained," said she, "by her endeavors to acquit him

than by all the rest; for it irritates her mind more than the most

perfect conviction of his unworthiness can do. Now, though at first

she will suffer much, I am sure she will soon become easier. Have

you," she continued, after a short silence, "ever seen Mr. Willoughby

since you left him at Barton?"

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

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

"What? have you met him to--"

"I could meet him no other way. Eliza had confessed to me, though most

reluctantly, the name of her lover; and when he returned to town,

which was within a fortnight after myself, we met by appointment, he

to defend, I to punish his conduct. We returned unwounded, and the

meeting, therefore, never got abroad."

Elinor sighed over the fancied necessity of this; but to a man and a

soldier she presumed not to censure it.

"Such," said Colonel Brandon, after a pause, "has been the unhappy

resemblance between the fate of mother and daughter! and so

imperfectly have I discharged my trust!"

"Is she still in town?"

"No; as soon as she recovered from her lying-in, for I found her near

her delivery, I removed her and her child into the country, and there

she remains."

Recollecting, soon afterwards, that he was probably dividing Elinor

from her sister, he put an end to his visit, receiving from her again

the same grateful acknowledgments, and leaving her full of compassion

and esteem for him.

CHAPTER XXXII

When the particulars of this conversation were repeated by Miss

Dashwood to her sister, as they very soon were, the effect on her was

not entirely such as the former had hoped to see. Not that Marianne

appeared to distrust the truth of any part of it, for she listened to

it all with the most steady and submissive attention, made neither

objection nor remark, attempted no vindication of Willoughby, and

seemed to show by her tears that she felt it to be impossible. But

though this behaviour assured Elinor that the conviction of this guilt

_was_ carried home to her mind, though she saw with satisfaction the

effect of it, in her no longer avoiding Colonel Brandon when he

called, in her speaking to him, even voluntarily speaking, with a kind

of compassionate respect, and though she saw her spirits less

violently irritated than before, she did not see her less wretched.

Her mind did become settled, but it was settled in a gloomy dejection.

She felt the loss of Willoughby's character yet more heavily than she

had felt the loss of his heart; his seduction and desertion of Miss

Williams, the misery of that poor girl, and the doubt of what his

designs might _once_ have been on herself, preyed altogether so much

on her spirits, that she could not bring herself to speak of what she

felt even to Elinor; and, brooding over her sorrows in silence, gave

more pain to her sister than could have been communicated by the most

open and most frequent confession of them.

To give the feelings or the language of Mrs. Dashwood on receiving and

answering Elinor's letter would be only to give a repetition of what

her daughters had already felt and said; of a disappointment hardly

less painful than Marianne's, and an indignation even greater than

Elinor's. Long letters from her, quickly succeeding each other,

arrived to tell all that she suffered and thought; to express her

anxious solicitude for Marianne, and entreat she would bear up with

fortitude under this misfortune. Bad indeed must the nature of

Marianne's affliction be, when her mother could talk of fortitude!

mortifying and humiliating must be the origin of those regrets, which

_she_ could wish her not to indulge!

Against the interest of her own individual comfort, Mrs. Dashwood had

determined that it would be better for Marianne to be any where, at

that time, than at Barton, where every thing within her view would be

bringing back the past in the strongest and most afflicting manner, by

constantly placing Willoughby before her, such as she had always seen

him there. She recommended it to her daughters, therefore, by all

means not to shorten their visit to Mrs. Jennings; the length of

which, though never exactly fixed, had been expected by all to

comprise at least five or six weeks. A variety of occupations, of

objects, and of company, which could not be procured at Barton, would

be inevitable there, and might yet, she hoped, cheat Marianne, at

times, into some interest beyond herself, and even into some

amusement, much as the ideas of both might now be spurned by her.

From all danger of seeing Willoughby again, her mother considered her

to be at least equally safe in town as in the country, since his

acquaintance must now be dropped by all who called themselves her

friends. Design could never bring them in each other's way: negligence

could never leave them exposed to a surprise; and chance had less in

its favour in the crowd of London than even in the retirement of

Barton, where it might force him before her while paying that visit at

Allenham on his marriage, which Mrs. Dashwood, from foreseeing at

first as a probable event, had brought herself to expect as a certain

one.

She had yet another reason for wishing her children to remain where

they were; a letter from her son-in-law had told her that he and his

wife were to be in town before the middle of February, and she judged

it right that they should sometimes see their brother.

Marianne had promised to be guided by her mother's opinion, and she

submitted to it therefore without opposition, though it proved

perfectly different from what she wished and expected, though she felt

it to be entirely wrong, formed on mistaken grounds, and that by

requiring her longer continuance in London it deprived her of the only

possible alleviation of her wretchedness, the personal sympathy of her

mother, and doomed her to such society and such scenes as must prevent

her ever knowing a moment's rest.

But it was a matter of great consolation to her, that what brought

evil to herself would bring good to her sister; and Elinor, on the

other hand, suspecting that it would not be in her power to avoid

Edward entirely, comforted herself by thinking, that though their

longer stay would therefore militate against her own happiness, it

would be better for Marianne than an immediate return into Devonshire.

Her carefulness in guarding her sister from ever hearing Willoughby's

name mentioned, was not thrown away. Marianne, though without knowing

it herself, reaped all its advantage; for neither Mrs. Jennings, nor

Sir John, nor even Mrs. Palmer herself, ever spoke of him before her.

Elinor wished that the same forbearance could have extended towards

herself, but that was impossible, and she was obliged to listen day

after day to the indignation of them all.

Sir John, could not have thought it possible. "A man of whom he had

always had such reason to think well! Such a good-natured fellow! He

did not believe there was a bolder rider in England! It was an

unaccountable business. He wished him at the devil with all his heart.

He would not speak another word to him, meet him where he might, for

all the world! No, not if it were to be by the side of Barton covert,

and they were kept watching for two hours together. Such a scoundrel

of a fellow! such a deceitful dog! It was only the last time they met

that he had offered him one of Folly's puppies! and this was the end

of it!"

Mrs. Palmer, in her way, was equally angry. "She was determined to

drop his acquaintance immediately, and she was very thankful that she

had never been acquainted with him at all. She wished with all her

heart Combe Magna was not so near Cleveland; but it did not signify,

for it was a great deal too far off to visit; she hated him so much

that she was resolved never to mention his name again, and she should

tell everybody she saw, how good-for-nothing he was."

The rest of Mrs. Palmer's sympathy was shown in procuring all the

particulars in her power of the approaching marriage, and

communicating them to Elinor. She could soon tell at what coachmaker's

the new carriage was building, by what painter Mr. Willoughby's

portrait was drawn, and at what warehouse Miss Grey's clothes might be

seen.

[Illustration: _Offered him one of Folly's puppies._]

The calm and polite unconcern of Lady Middleton on the occasion was a

happy relief to Elinor's spirits, oppressed as they often were by

the clamorous kindness of the others. It was a great comfort to her to

be sure of exciting no interest in _one_ person at least among their

circle of friends: a great comfort to know that there was _one_ who

would meet her without feeling any curiosity after particulars, or any

anxiety for her sister's health.

Every qualification is raised at times, by the circumstances of the

moment, to more than its real value; and she was sometimes worried

down by officious condolence to rate good-breeding as more

indispensable to comfort than good-nature.

Lady Middleton expressed her sense of the affair about once every day,

or twice, if the subject occurred very often, by saying, "It is very

shocking, indeed!" and by the means of this continual though gentle

vent, was able not only to see the Miss Dashwoods from the first

without the smallest emotion, but very soon to see them without

recollecting a word of the matter; and having thus supported the

dignity of her own sex, and spoken her decided censure of what was

wrong in the other, she thought herself at liberty to attend to the

interest of her own assemblies, and therefore determined (though

rather against the opinion of Sir John) that as Mrs. Willoughby would

at once be a woman of elegance and fortune, to leave her card with her

as soon as she married.

Colonel Brandon's delicate, unobtrusive enquiries were never unwelcome

to Miss Dashwood. He had abundantly earned the privilege of intimate

discussion of her sister's disappointment, by the friendly zeal with

which he had endeavoured to soften it, and they always conversed with

confidence. His chief reward for the painful exertion of disclosing

past sorrows and present humiliations, was given in the pitying eye

with which Marianne sometimes observed him, and the gentleness of her

voice whenever (though it did not often happen) she was obliged, or

could oblige herself to speak to him. _These_ assured him that his

exertion had produced an increase of good-will towards himself, and

_these_ gave Elinor hopes of its being farther augmented hereafter;

but Mrs. Jennings, who knew nothing of all this, who knew only that

the Colonel continued as grave as ever, and that she could neither

prevail on him to make the offer himself, nor commission her to make

it for him, began, at the end of two days, to think that, instead of

Mid-summer, they would not be married till Michaelmas, and by the end

of a week that it would not be a match at all. The good understanding

between the Colonel and Miss Dashwood seemed rather to declare that

the honours of the mulberry-tree, the canal, and the yew arbour, would

all be made over to _her_; and Mrs. Jennings had, for some time ceased

to think at all of Mrs. Ferrars.

Early in February, within a fortnight from the receipt of Willoughby's

letter, Elinor had the painful office of informing her sister that he

was married. She had taken care to have the intelligence conveyed to

herself, as soon as it was known that the ceremony was over, as she

was desirous that Marianne should not receive the first notice of it

from the public papers, which she saw her eagerly examining every

morning.

She received the news with resolute composure; made no observation on

it, and at first shed no tears; but after a short time they would

burst out, and for the rest of the day, she was in a state hardly less

pitiable than when she first learnt to expect the event.

The Willoughbys left town as soon as they were married; and Elinor now

hoped, as there could be no danger of her seeing either of them, to

prevail on her sister, who had never yet left the house since the blow

first fell, to go out again by degrees as she had done before.

About this time the two Miss Steeles, lately arrived at their cousin's

house in Bartlett's Buildings, Holborn, presented themselves again

before their more grand relations in Conduit and Berkeley Streets; and

were welcomed by them all with great cordiality.

Elinor only was sorry to see them. Their presence always gave her

pain, and she hardly knew how to make a very gracious return to the

overpowering delight of Lucy in finding her _still_ in town.

"I should have been quite disappointed if I had not found you here

_still_," said she repeatedly, with a strong emphasis on the word.

"But I always thought I _should_ I was almost sure you would not leave

London yet awhile; though you _told_ me, you know, at Barton, that you

should not stay above a _month._ But I thought, at the time, that you

would most likely change your mind when it came to the point. It would

have been such a great pity to have went away before your brother and

sister came. And now to be sure you will be in no _hurry_ to be gone.

I am amazingly glad you did not keep to _your word._"

Elinor perfectly understood her, and was forced to use all her

self-command to make it appear that she did _not._

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

"Not in the stage, I assure you," replied Miss Steele, with quick

exultation; "we came post all the way, and had a very smart beau to

attend us. Dr. Davies was coming to town, and so we thought we'd join

him in a post-chaise; and he behaved very genteelly, and paid ten or

twelve shillings more than we did."

"Oh, oh!" cried Mrs. Jennings; "very pretty, indeed! and the Doctor is

a single man, I warrant you."

"There now," said Miss Steele, affectedly simpering, "everybody laughs

at me so about the Doctor, and I cannot think why. My cousins say they

are sure I have made a conquest; but for my part I declare I never

think about him from one hour's end to another. 'Lord! here comes your

beau, Nancy,' my cousin said t'other day, when she saw him crossing

the street to the house. My beau, indeed! said I--I cannot think who

you mean. The Doctor is no beau of mine."

"Aye, aye, that is very pretty talking--but it won't do--the Doctor is

the man, I see."

"No, indeed!" replied her cousin, with affected earnestness, "and I

beg you will contradict it, if you ever hear it talked of."

Mrs. Jennings directly gave her the gratifying assurance that she

certainly would _not_, and Miss Steele was made completely happy.

"I suppose you will go and stay with your brother and sister, Miss

Dashwood, when they come to town," said Lucy, returning, after a

cessation of hostile hints, to the charge.

"No, I do not think we shall."

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

Elinor would not humour her by farther opposition.

"What a charming thing it is that Mrs. Dashwood can spare you both for

so long a time together!"

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

but just begun!"

[Illustration: _A very smart beau._]

Lucy was silenced.

"I am sorry we cannot see your sister, Miss Dashwood," said Miss

Steele. "I am sorry she is not well--" for Marianne had left the room

on their arrival.

"You are very good. My sister will be equally sorry to miss the

pleasure of seeing you; but she has been very much plagued lately with

nervous head-aches, which make her unfit for company or conversation."

"Oh, dear, that is a great pity! but such old friends as Lucy and

me!--I think she might see _us_; and I am sure we would not speak a

word."

Elinor, with great civility, declined the proposal. Her sister was

perhaps laid down upon the bed, or in her dressing gown, and therefore

not able to come to them.

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

see _her._"

Elinor began to find this impertinence too much for her temper; but

she was saved the trouble of checking it, by Lucy's sharp reprimand,

which now, as on many occasions, though it did not give much sweetness

to the manners of one sister, was of advantage in governing those of

the other.

CHAPTER XXXIII

After some opposition, Marianne yielded to her sister's entreaties,

and consented to go out with her and Mrs. Jennings one morning for

half an hour. She expressly conditioned, however, for paying no

visits, and would do no more than accompany them to Gray's in

Sackville Street, where Elinor was carrying on a negotiation for the

exchange of a few old-fashioned jewels of her mother.

When they stopped at the door, Mrs. Jennings recollected that there

was a lady at the other end of the street on whom she ought to call;

and as she had no business at Gray's, it was resolved, that while her

young friends transacted their's, she should pay her visit and return

for them.

On ascending the stairs, the Miss Dashwoods found so many people

before them in the room, that there was not a person at liberty to

tend to their orders; and they were obliged to wait. All that could be

done was, to sit down at that end of the counter which seemed to

promise the quickest succession; one gentleman only was standing

there, and it is probable that Elinor was not without hope of exciting

his politeness to a quicker despatch. But the correctness of his eye,

and the delicacy of his taste, proved to be beyond his politeness. He

was giving orders for a toothpick-case for himself, and till its size,

shape, and ornaments were determined, all of which, after examining

and debating for a quarter of an hour over every toothpick-case in the

shop, were finally arranged by his own inventive fancy, he had no

leisure to bestow any other attention on the two ladies, than what was

comprised in three or four very broad stares; a kind of notice which

served to imprint on Elinor the remembrance of a person and face, of

strong, natural, sterling insignificance, though adorned in the first

style of fashion.

Marianne was spared from the troublesome feelings of contempt and

resentment, on this impertinent examination of their features, and on

the puppyism of his manner in deciding on all the different horrors of

the different toothpick-cases presented to his inspection, by

remaining unconscious of it all; for she was as well able to collect

her thoughts within herself, and be as ignorant of what was passing

around her, in Mr. Gray's shop, as in her own bedroom.

At last the affair was decided. The ivory, the gold, and the pearls,

all received their appointment, and the gentleman having named the

last day on which his existence could be continued without the

possession of the toothpick-case, drew on his gloves with leisurely

care, and bestowing another glance on the Miss Dashwoods, but such a

one as seemed rather to demand than express admiration, walked off

with a happy air of real conceit and affected indifference.

Elinor lost no time in bringing her business forward, was on the point

of concluding it, when another gentleman presented himself at her

side. She turned her eyes towards his face, and found him with some

surprise to be her brother.

[Illustration: _Introduced to Mrs. Jennings._]

Their affection and pleasure in meeting was just enough to make a very

creditable appearance in Mr. Gray's shop. John Dashwood was really far

from being sorry to see his sisters again; it rather gave them

satisfaction; and his inquiries after their mother were respectful and

attentive.

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

"I wished very much to call upon you yesterday," said he, "but it was

impossible, for we were obliged to take Harry to see the wild beasts

at Exeter Exchange; and we spent the rest of the day with Mrs.

Ferrars. Harry was vastly pleased. _This_ morning I had fully intended

to call on you, if I could possibly find a spare half hour, but one

has always so much to do on first coming to town. I am come here to

bespeak Fanny a seal. But tomorrow I think I shall certainly be able

to call in Berkeley Street, and be introduced to your friend Mrs.

Jennings. I understand she is a woman of very good fortune. And the

Middletons too, you must introduce me to _them_. As my mother-in-law's

relations, I shall be happy to show them every respect. They are

excellent neighbours to you in the country, I understand."

"Excellent indeed. Their attention to our comfort, their friendliness

in every particular, is more than I can express."

"I am extremely glad to hear it, upon my word; extremely glad indeed.

But so it ought to be; they are people of large fortune, they are

related to you, and every civility and accommodation that can serve to

make your situation pleasant might be reasonably expected. And so you

are most comfortably settled in your little cottage and want for

nothing! Edward brought us a most charming account of the place: the

most complete thing of its kind, he said, that ever was, and you all

seemed to enjoy it beyond any thing. It was a great satisfaction to us

to hear it, I assure you."

Elinor did feel a little ashamed of her brother; and was not sorry to

be spared the necessity of answering him, by the arrival of Mrs.

Jennings's servant, who came to tell her that his mistress waited for

them at the door.

Mr. Dashwood attended them down stairs, was introduced to Mrs.

Jennings at the door of her carriage, and repeating his hope of being

able to call on them the next day, took leave.

[Illustration: _Mrs. Jennings assured him directly that she should not

stand upon ceremony._]

His visit was duly paid. He came with a pretence at an apology from

their sister-in-law, for not coming too; "but she was so much engaged

with her mother, that really she had no leisure for going any where."

Mrs. Jennings, however, assured him directly, that she should not

stand upon ceremony, for they were all cousins, or something like

it, and she should certainly wait on Mrs. John Dashwood very soon, and

bring her sisters to see her. His manners to _them_, though calm, were

perfectly kind; to Mrs. Jennings, most attentively civil; and on

Colonel Brandon's coming in soon after himself, he eyed him with a

curiosity which seemed to say, that he only wanted to know him to be

rich, to be equally civil to _him._

After staying with them half an hour, he asked Elinor to walk with him

to Conduit Street, and introduce him to Sir John and Lady Middleton.

The weather was remarkably fine, and she readily consented. As soon as

they were out of the house, his enquiries began.

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

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

"I am glad of it. He seems a most gentlemanlike man; and I think,

Elinor, I may congratulate you on the prospect of a very respectable

establishment in life."

"Me, brother! what do you mean?"

"He likes you. I observed him narrowly, and am convinced of it. What

is the amount of his fortune?"

"I believe about two thousand a year."

"Two thousand a-year;" and then working himself up to a pitch of

enthusiastic generosity, he added, "Elinor, I wish with all my heart

it were _twice_ as much, for your sake."

"Indeed I believe you," replied Elinor; "but I am very sure that

Colonel Brandon has not the smallest wish of marrying _me._

"You are mistaken, Elinor; you are very much mistaken. A very little

trouble on your side secures him. Perhaps just at present he may be

undecided; the smallness of your fortune may make him hang back; his

friends may all advise him against it. But some of those little

attentions and encouragements which ladies can so easily give will fix

him, in spite of himself. And there can be no reason why you should

not try for him. It is not to be supposed that any prior attachment on

your side--in short, you know as to an attachment of that kind, it is

quite out of the question, the objections are insurmountable--you have

too much sense not to see all that. Colonel Brandon must be the man;

and no civility shall be wanting on my part to make him pleased with

you and your family. It is a match that must give universal

satisfaction. In short, it is a kind of thing that," lowering his

voice to an important whisper, "will be exceedingly welcome to _all

parties._" Recollecting himself, however, he added, "That is, I mean

to say--your friends are all truly anxious to see you well settled;

Fanny particularly, for she has your interest very much at heart, I

assure you. And her mother too, Mrs. Ferrars, a very good-natured

woman, I am sure it would give her great pleasure; she said as much

the other day."

Elinor would not vouchsafe any answer.

"It would be something remarkable, now," he continued, "something

droll, if Fanny should have a brother and I a sister settling at the

same time. And yet it is not very unlikely."

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

married?"

"It is not actually settled, but there is such a thing in agitation.

He has a most excellent mother. Mrs. Ferrars, with the utmost

liberality, will come forward, and settle on him a thousand a year, if

the match takes place. The lady is the Hon. Miss Morton, only daughter

of the late Lord Morton, with thirty thousand pounds. A very desirable

connection on both sides, and I have not a doubt of its taking place

in time. A thousand a-year is a great deal for a mother to give away,

to make over for ever; but Mrs. Ferrars has a noble spirit. To give

you another instance of her liberality:--The other day, as soon as we

came to town, aware that money could not be very plenty with us just

now, she put bank-notes into Fanny's hands to the amount of two

hundred pounds. And extremely acceptable it is, for we must live at a

great expense while we are here."

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

say--

"Your expenses both in town and country must certainly be

considerable; but your income is a large one."

"Not so large, I dare say, as many people suppose. I do not mean to

complain, however; it is undoubtedly a comfortable one, and I hope

will in time be better. The enclosure of Norland Common, now carrying

on, is a most serious drain. And then I have made a little purchase

within this half year; East Kingham Farm, you must remember the place,

where old Gibson used to live. The land was so very desirable for me

in every respect, so immediately adjoining my own property, that I

felt it my duty to buy it. I could not have answered it to my

conscience to let it fall into any other hands. A man must pay for his

convenience; and it _has_ cost me a vast deal of money."

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

"Why, I hope not that. I might have sold it again, the next day, for

more than I gave: but, with regard to the purchase-money, I might have

been very unfortunate indeed; for the stocks were at that time so low,

that if I had not happened to have the necessary sum in my banker's

hands, I must have sold out to very great loss."

Elinor could only smile.

"Other great and inevitable expenses too we have had on first coming

to Norland. Our respected father, as you well know, bequeathed all the

Stanhill effects that remained at Norland (and very valuable they

were) to your mother. Far be it from me to repine at his doing so; he

had an undoubted right to dispose of his own property as he chose,

but, in consequence of it, we have been obliged to make large

purchases of linen, china, &c. to supply the place of what was taken

away. You may guess, after all these expenses, how very far we must be

from being rich, and how acceptable Mrs. Ferrars's kindness is."

"Certainly," said Elinor; "and assisted by her liberality, I hope you

may yet live to be in easy circumstances."

"Another year or two may do much towards it," he gravely replied; "but

however there is still a great deal to be done. There is not a stone

laid of Fanny's green-house, and nothing but the plan of the

flower-garden marked out."

"Where is the green-house to be?"

"Upon the knoll behind the house. The old walnut trees are all come

down to make room for it. It will be a very fine object from many

parts of the park, and the flower-garden will slope down just before

it, and be exceedingly pretty. We have cleared away all the old thorns

that grew in patches over the brow."

Elinor kept her concern and her censure to herself; and was very

thankful that Marianne was not present, to share the provocation.

Having now said enough to make his poverty clear, and to do away the

necessity of buying a pair of ear-rings for each of his sisters, in

his next visit at Gray's his thoughts took a cheerfuller turn, and he

began to congratulate Elinor on having such a friend as Mrs. Jennings.

"She seems a most valuable woman indeed--Her house, her style of

living, all bespeak an exceeding good income; and it is an

acquaintance that has not only been of great use to you hitherto, but

in the end may prove materially advantageous. Her inviting you to town

is certainly a vast thing in your favour; and indeed, it speaks

altogether so great a regard for you, that in all probability when she

dies you will not be forgotten. She must have a great deal to leave."

"Nothing at all, I should rather suppose; for she has only her

jointure, which will descend to her children."

"But it is not to be imagined that she lives up to her income. Few

people of common prudence will do _that_; and whatever she saves, she

will be able to dispose of."

"And do you not think it more likely that she should leave it to her

daughters, than to us?"

"Her daughters are both exceedingly well married, and therefore I

cannot perceive the necessity of her remembering them farther.

Whereas, in my opinion, by her taking so much notice of you, and

treating you in this kind of way, she has given you a sort of claim on

her future consideration, which a conscientious woman would not

disregard. Nothing can be kinder than her behaviour; and she can

hardly do all this, without being aware of the expectation it raises."

"But she raises none in those most concerned. Indeed, brother, your

anxiety for our welfare and prosperity carries you too far."

"Why, to be sure," said he, seeming to recollect himself, "people have

little, have very little in their power. But, my dear Elinor, what is

the matter with Marianne?--she looks very unwell, has lost her colour,

and is grown quite thin. Is she ill?"

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

weeks."

"I am sorry for that. At her time of life, any thing of an illness

destroys the bloom for ever! Her's has been a very short one! She was

as handsome a girl last September, as I ever saw; and as likely to

attract the man. There was something in her style of beauty, to

please them particularly. I remember Fanny used to say that she would

marry sooner and better than you did; not but what she is exceedingly

fond of _you_, but so it happened to strike her. She will be mistaken,

however. I question whether Marianne _now_, will marry a man worth

more than five or six hundred a-year, at the utmost, and I am very

much deceived if _you_ do not do better. Dorsetshire! I know very

little of Dorsetshire; but, my dear Elinor, I shall be exceedingly

glad to know more of it; and I think I can answer for your having

Fanny and myself among the earliest and best pleased of your

visitors."

Elinor tried very seriously to convince him that there was no

likelihood of her marrying Colonel Brandon; but it was an expectation

of too much pleasure to himself to be relinquished, and he was really

resolved on seeking an intimacy with that gentleman, and promoting the

marriage by every possible attention. He had just compunction enough

for having done nothing for his sisters himself, to be exceedingly

anxious that everybody else should do a great deal; and an offer from

Colonel Brandon, or a legacy from Mrs. Jennings, was the easiest means

of atoning for his own neglect.

They were lucky enough to find Lady Middleton at home, and Sir John

came in before their visit ended. Abundance of civilities passed on

all sides. Sir John was ready to like anybody, and though Mr. Dashwood

did not seem to know much about horses, he soon set him down as a very

good-natured fellow: while Lady Middleton saw enough of fashion in his

appearance to think his acquaintance worth having; and Mr. Dashwood

went away delighted with both.

"I shall have a charming account to carry to Fanny," said he, as he

walked back with his sister. "Lady Middleton is really a most elegant

woman! Such a woman as I am sure Fanny will be glad to know. And Mrs.

Jennings too, an exceedingly well-behaved woman, though not so elegant

as her daughter. Your sister need not have any scruple even of

visiting _her_, which, to say the truth, has been a little the case,

and very naturally; for we only knew that Mrs. Jennings was the widow

of a man who had got all his money in a low way; and Fanny and Mrs.

Ferrars were both strongly prepossessed, that neither she nor her

daughters were such kind of women as Fanny would like to associate

with. But now I can carry her a most satisfactory account of both."

CHAPTER XXXIV

Mrs. John Dashwood had so much confidence in her husband's judgment,

that she waited the very next day both on Mrs. Jennings and her

daughter; and her confidence was rewarded by finding even the former,

even the woman with whom her sisters were staying, by no means

unworthy her notice; and as for Lady Middleton, she found her one of

the most charming women in the world!

Lady Middleton was equally pleased with Mrs. Dashwood. There was a

kind of cold hearted selfishness on both sides, which mutually

attracted them; and they sympathised with each other in an insipid

propriety of demeanor, and a general want of understanding.

The same manners, however, which recommended Mrs. John Dashwood to the

good opinion of Lady Middleton did not suit the fancy of Mrs.

Jennings, and to _her_ she appeared nothing more than a little

proud-looking woman of uncordial address, who met her husband's

sisters without any affection, and almost without having anything to

say to them; for of the quarter of an hour bestowed on Berkeley

Street, she sat at least seven minutes and a half in silence.

Elinor wanted very much to know, though she did not choose to ask,

whether Edward was then in town; but nothing would have induced Fanny

voluntarily to mention his name before her, till able to tell her that

his marriage with Miss Morton was resolved on, or till her husband's

expectations on Colonel Brandon were answered; because she believed

them still so very much attached to each other, that they could not be

too sedulously divided in word and deed on every occasion. The

intelligence however, which _she_ would not give, soon flowed from

another quarter. Lucy came very shortly to claim Elinor's compassion

on being unable to see Edward, though he had arrived in town with Mr.

and Mrs. Dashwood. He dared not come to Bartlett's Buildings for fear

of detection, and though their mutual impatience to meet, was not to

be told, they could do nothing at present but write.

Edward assured them himself of his being in town, within a very short

time, by twice calling in Berkeley Street. Twice was his card found on

the table, when they returned from their morning's engagements. Elinor

was pleased that he had called; and still more pleased that she had

missed him.

The Dashwoods were so prodigiously delighted with the Middletons,

that, though not much in the habit of giving anything, they determined

to give them--a dinner; and soon after their acquaintance began,

invited them to dine in Harley Street, where they had taken a very

good house for three months. Their sisters and Mrs. Jennings were

invited likewise, and John Dashwood was careful to secure Colonel

Brandon, who, always glad to be where the Miss Dashwoods were,

received his eager civilities with some surprise, but much more

pleasure. They were to meet Mrs. Ferrars; but Elinor could not learn

whether her sons were to be of the party. The expectation of seeing

_her_, however, was enough to make her interested in the engagement;

for though she could now meet Edward's mother without that strong

anxiety which had once promised to attend such an introduction, though

she could now see her with perfect indifference as to her opinion of

herself, her desire of being in company with Mrs. Ferrars, her

curiosity to know what she was like, was as lively as ever.

The interest with which she thus anticipated the party, was soon

afterwards increased, more powerfully than pleasantly, by her hearing

that the Miss Steeles were also to be at it.

So well had they recommended themselves to Lady Middleton, so

agreeable had their assiduities made them to her, that though Lucy was

certainly not so elegant, and her sister not even genteel, she was as

ready as Sir John to ask them to spend a week or two in Conduit

Street; and it happened to be particularly convenient to the Miss

Steeles, as soon as the Dashwoods' invitation was known, that their

visit should begin a few days before the party took place.

Their claims to the notice of Mrs. John Dashwood, as the nieces of

the gentleman who for many years had had the care of her brother,

might not have done much, however, towards procuring them seats at her

table; but as Lady Middleton's guests they must be welcome; and Lucy,

who had long wanted to be personally known to the family, to have a

nearer view of their characters and her own difficulties, and to have

an opportunity of endeavouring to please them, had seldom been happier

in her life, than she was on receiving Mrs. John Dashwood's card.

On Elinor its effect was very different. She began immediately to

determine, that Edward who lived with his mother, must be asked as his

mother was, to a party given by his sister; and to see him for the

first time, after all that passed, in the company of Lucy!--she hardly

knew how she could bear it!

These apprehensions, perhaps, were not founded entirely on reason, and

certainly not at all on truth. They were relieved however, not by her

own recollection, but by the good will of Lucy, who believed herself

to be inflicting a severe disappointment when she told her that Edward

certainly would not be in Harley Street on Tuesday, and even hoped to

be carrying the pain still farther by persuading her that he was kept

away by the extreme affection for herself, which he could not conceal

when they were together.

The important Tuesday came that was to introduce the two young ladies

to this formidable mother-in-law.

"Pity me, dear Miss Dashwood!" said Lucy, as they walked up the stairs

together--for the Middletons arrived so directly after Mrs. Jennings,

that they all followed the servant at the same time--"There is nobody

here but you, that can feel for me. I declare I can hardly stand. Good

gracious!--In a moment I shall see the person that all my happiness

depends on--that is to be my mother!"--

Elinor could have given her immediate relief by suggesting the

possibility of its being Miss Morton's mother, rather than her own,

whom they were about to behold; but instead of doing that, she assured

her, and with great sincerity, that she did pity her--to the utter

amazement of Lucy, who, though really uncomfortable herself, hoped at

least to be an object of irrepressible envy to Elinor.

Mrs. Ferrars was a little, thin woman, upright, even to formality, in

her figure, and serious, even to sourness, in her aspect. Her

complexion was sallow; and her features small, without beauty, and

naturally without expression; but a lucky contraction of the brow had

rescued her countenance from the disgrace of insipidity, by giving it

the strong characters of pride and ill nature. She was not a woman of

many words; for, unlike people in general, she proportioned them to

the number of her ideas; and of the few syllables that did escape her,

not one fell to the share of Miss Dashwood, whom she eyed with the

spirited determination of disliking her at all events.

Elinor could not _now_ be made unhappy by this behaviour. A few months

ago it would have hurt her exceedingly; but it was not in Mrs.

Ferrars' power to distress her by it now; and the difference of her

manners to the Miss Steeles, a difference which seemed purposely made

to humble her more, only amused her. She could not but smile to see

the graciousness of both mother and daughter towards the very

person--for Lucy was particularly distinguished--whom of all others,

had they known as much as she did, they would have been most anxious

to mortify; while she herself, who had comparatively no power to wound

them, sat pointedly slighted by both. But while she smiled at a

graciousness so misapplied, she could not reflect on the mean-spirited

folly from which it sprung, nor observe the studied attentions with

which the Miss Steeles courted its continuance, without thoroughly

despising them all four.

Lucy was all exultation on being so honorably distinguished; and Miss

Steele wanted only to be teased about Dr. Davies to be perfectly

happy.

The dinner was a grand one, the servants were numerous, and every

thing bespoke the Mistress's inclination for show, and the Master's

ability to support it. In spite of the improvements and additions

which were making to the Norland estate, and in spite of its owner

having once been within some thousand pounds of being obliged to sell

out at a loss, nothing gave any symptom of that indigence which he had

tried to infer from it; no poverty of any kind, except of

conversation, appeared; but there, the deficiency was considerable.

John Dashwood had not much to say for himself that was worth hearing,

and his wife had still less. But there was no peculiar disgrace in

this; for it was very much the case with the chief of their visitors,

who almost all laboured under one or other of these disqualifications

for being agreeable--Want of sense, either natural or improved--want

of elegance--want of spirits--or want of temper.

When the ladies withdrew to the drawing-room after dinner, this

poverty was particularly evident, for the gentlemen _had_ supplied the

discourse with some variety--the variety of politics, inclosing land,

and breaking horses--but then it was all over; and one subject only

engaged the ladies till coffee came in, which was the comparative

heights of Harry Dashwood, and Lady Middleton's second son William,

who were nearly of the same age.

Had both the children been there, the affair might have been

determined too easily by measuring them at once; but as Harry only was

present, it was all conjectural assertion on both sides; and every

body had a right to be equally positive in their opinion, and to

repeat it over and over again as often as they liked.

The parties stood thus:--

The two mothers, though each really convinced that her own son was the

tallest, politely decided in favour of the other. The two

grandmothers, with not less partiality, but more sincerity, were

equally earnest in support of their own descendant.

Lucy, who was hardly less anxious to please one parent than the other,

thought the boys were both remarkably tall for their age, and could

not conceive that there could be the smallest difference in the world

between them; and Miss Steele, with yet greater address gave it, as

fast as she could, in favour of each.

Elinor, having once delivered her opinion on William's side, by which

she offended Mrs. Ferrars and Fanny still more, did not see the

necessity of enforcing it by any farther assertion; and Marianne, when

called on for her's, offended them all, by declaring that she had no

opinion to give, as she had never thought about it.

Before her removing from Norland, Elinor had painted a very pretty

pair of screens for her sister-in-law, which being now just mounted

and brought home, ornamented her present drawing room; and these

screens, catching the eye of John Dashwood on his following the other

gentlemen into the room, were officiously handed by him to Colonel

Brandon for his admiration.

"These are done by my eldest sister," said he; "and you, as a man of

taste, will, I dare say, be pleased with them. I do not know whether

you have ever happened to see any of her performances before, but she

is in general reckoned to draw extremely well."

The Colonel, though disclaiming all pretensions to connoisseurship,

warmly admired the screens, as he would have done any thing painted by

Miss Dashwood; and on the curiosity of the others being of course

excited, they were handed round for general inspection. Mrs. Ferrars,

not aware of their being Elinor's work, particularly requested to look

at them; and after they had received gratifying testimony of Lady

Middleton's approbation, Fanny presented them to her mother,

considerately informing her, at the same time, that they were done by

Miss Dashwood.

"Hum"--said Mrs. Ferrars--"very pretty,"--and without regarding them

at all, returned them to her daughter.

Perhaps Fanny thought for a moment that her mother had been quite rude

enough,--for, colouring a little, she immediately said--

"They are very pretty, ma'am--an't they?" But then again, the dread of

having been too civil, too encouraging herself, probably came over

her, for she presently added, "Do you not think they are something in

Miss Morton's style of painting, Ma'am?--She _does_ paint most

delightfully!--How beautifully her last landscape is done!"

"Beautifully indeed! But _she_ does every thing well."

Marianne could not bear this. She was already greatly displeased with

Mrs. Ferrars; and such ill-timed praise of another, at Elinor's

expense, though she had not any notion of what was principally meant

by it, provoked her immediately to say with warmth--

"This is admiration of a very particular kind! what is Miss Morton to

us? who knows, or who cares, for her?--it is Elinor of whom _we_ think

and speak."

And so saying, she took the screens out of her sister-in-law's hands,

to admire them herself as they ought to be admired.

[Illustration: _Mrs. Ferrars._]

Mrs. Ferrars looked exceedingly angry, and drawing herself up more

stiffly than ever, pronounced in retort this bitter philippic, "Miss

Morton is Lord Morton's daughter."

Fanny looked very angry too, and her husband was all in a fright at

his sister's audacity. Elinor was much more hurt by Marianne's warmth

than she had been by what produced it; but Colonel Brandon's eyes, as

they were fixed on Marianne, declared that he noticed only what was

amiable in it, the affectionate heart which could not bear to see a

sister slighted in the smallest point.

Marianne's feelings did not stop here. The cold insolence of Mrs.

Ferrars's general behaviour to her sister, seemed, to her, to foretell

such difficulties and distresses to Elinor, as her own wounded heart

taught her to think of with horror; and urged by a strong impulse of

affectionate sensibility, she moved after a moment, to her sister's

chair, and putting one arm round her neck, and one cheek close to

hers, said in a low, but eager, voice--

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

unhappy."

She could say no more; her spirits were quite overcome, and hiding her

face on Elinor's shoulder, she burst into tears. Every body's

attention was called, and almost every body was concerned. Colonel

Brandon rose up and went to them without knowing what he did. Mrs.

Jennings, with a very intelligent "Ah! poor dear," immediately gave

her her salts; and Sir John felt so desperately enraged against the

author of this nervous distress, that he instantly changed his seat to

one close by Lucy Steele, and gave her, in a whisper, a brief account

of the whole shocking affair.

In a few minutes, however, Marianne was recovered enough to put an end

to the bustle, and sit down among the rest; though her spirits

retained the impression of what had passed, the whole evening.

"Poor Marianne!" said her brother to Colonel Brandon, in a low voice,

as soon as he could secure his attention: "She has not such good

health as her sister,--she is very nervous,--she has not Elinor's

constitution;--and one must allow that there is something very trying

to a young woman who _has been_ a beauty in the loss of her personal

attractions. You would not think it perhaps, but Marianne _was_

remarkably handsome a few months ago; quite as handsome as Elinor. Now

you see it is all gone."

CHAPTER XXXV

Elinor's curiosity to see Mrs. Ferrars was satisfied. She had found in

her every thing that could tend to make a farther connection between

the families undesirable. She had seen enough of her pride, her

meanness, and her determined prejudice against herself, to comprehend

all the difficulties that must have perplexed the engagement, and

retarded the marriage, of Edward and herself, had he been otherwise

free;--and she had seen almost enough to be thankful for her _own_

sake, that one greater obstacle preserved her from suffering under any

other of Mrs. Ferrars's creation, preserved her from all dependence

upon her caprice, or any solicitude for her good opinion. Or at least,

if she did not bring herself quite to rejoice in Edward's being

fettered to Lucy, she determined, that had Lucy been more amiable, she

_ought_ to have rejoiced.

She wondered that Lucy's spirits could be so very much elevated by the

civility of Mrs. Ferrars;--that her interest and her vanity should so

very much blind her as to make the attention which seemed only paid

her because she was _not Elinor_ appear a compliment to herself--or to

allow her to derive encouragement from a preference only given her,

because her real situation was unknown. But that it was so, had not

only been declared by Lucy's eyes at the time, but was declared over

again the next morning more openly, for at her particular desire, Lady

Middleton set her down in Berkeley Street on the chance of seeing

Elinor alone, to tell her how happy she was.

The chance proved a lucky one, for a message from Mrs. Palmer soon

after she arrived, carried Mrs. Jennings away.

"My dear friend," cried Lucy, as soon as they were by themselves, "I

come to talk to you of my happiness. Could anything be so flattering

as Mrs. Ferrars's way of treating me yesterday? So exceeding affable

as she was! You know how I dreaded the thoughts of seeing her; but the

very moment I was introduced, there was such an affability in her

behaviour as really should seem to say, she had quite took a fancy to

me. Now was not it so? You saw it all; and was not you quite struck

with it?"

"She was certainly very civil to you."

"Civil!--Did you see nothing but only civility?--I saw a vast deal

more. Such kindness as fell to the share of nobody but me!--No pride,

no hauteur, and your sister just the same--all sweetness and

affability!"

Elinor wished to talk of something else, but Lucy still pressed her to

own that she had reason for her happiness; and Elinor was obliged to

go on.

"Undoubtedly, if they had known your engagement," said she, "nothing

could be more flattering than their treatment of you;--but as that was

not the case--"

"I guessed you would say so," replied Lucy quickly--"but there was no

reason in the world why Mrs. Ferrars should seem to like me, if she

did not, and her liking me is every thing. You shan't talk me out of

my satisfaction. I am sure it will all end well, and there will be no

difficulties at all, to what I used to think. Mrs. Ferrars is a

charming woman, and so is your sister. They are both delightful women,

indeed!--I wonder I should never hear you say how agreeable Mrs.

Dashwood was!"

To this Elinor had no answer to make, and did not attempt any.

"Are you ill, Miss Dashwood?--you seem low--you don't speak;--sure you

an't well."

"I never was in better health."

"I am glad of it with all my heart; but really you did not look it. I

should be sorry to have _you_ ill; you, that have been the greatest

comfort to me in the world!--Heaven knows what I should have done

without your friendship."--

Elinor tried to make a civil answer, though doubting her own success.

But it seemed to satisfy Lucy, for she directly replied--

"Indeed I am perfectly convinced of your regard for me, and next to

Edward's love, it is the greatest comfort I have. Poor Edward!--But

now there is one good thing, we shall be able to meet, and meet pretty

often, for Lady Middleton's delighted with Mrs. Dashwood, so we shall

be a good deal in Harley Street, I dare say, and Edward spends half

his time with his sister--besides, Lady Middleton and Mrs. Ferrars

will visit now;--and Mrs. Ferrars and your sister were both so good

to say more than once, they should always be glad to see me. They are

such charming women!--I am sure if ever you tell your sister what I

think of her, you cannot speak too high."

But Elinor would not give her any encouragement to hope that she

_should_ tell her sister. Lucy continued.

"I am sure I should have seen it in a moment, if Mrs. Ferrars had took

a dislike to me. If she had only made me a formal courtesy, for

instance, without saying a word, and never after had took any notice

of me, and never looked at me in a pleasant way--you know what I

mean--if I had been treated in that forbidding sort of way, I should

have gave it all up in despair. I could not have stood it. For where

she _does_ dislike, I know it is most violent."

Elinor was prevented from making any reply to this civil triumph, by

the door's being thrown open, the servant's announcing Mr. Ferrars,

and Edward's immediately walking in.

It was a very awkward moment; and the countenance of each showed that

it was so. They all looked exceedingly foolish; and Edward seemed to

have as great an inclination to walk out of the room again, as to

advance farther into it. The very circumstance, in its unpleasantest

form, which they would each have been most anxious to avoid, had

fallen on them. They were not only all three together, but were

together without the relief of any other person. The ladies recovered

themselves first. It was not Lucy's business to put herself forward,

and the appearance of secrecy must still be kept up. She could

therefore only _look_ her tenderness, and after slightly addressing

him, said no more.

But Elinor had more to do; and so anxious was she, for his sake and

her own, to do it well, that she forced herself, after a moment's

recollection, to welcome him, with a look and manner that were almost

easy, and almost open; and another struggle, another effort still

improved them. She would not allow the presence of Lucy, nor the

consciousness of some injustice towards herself, to deter her from

saying that she was happy to see him, and that she had very much

regretted being from home, when he called before in Berkeley Street.

She would not be frightened from paying him those attentions which, as

a friend and almost a relation, were his due, by the observant eyes

of Lucy, though she soon perceived them to be narrowly watching her.

Her manners gave some re-assurance to Edward, and he had courage

enough to sit down; but his embarrassment still exceeded that of the

ladies in a proportion, which the case rendered reasonable, though his

sex might make it rare; for his heart had not the indifference of

Lucy's, nor could his conscience have quite the ease of Elinor's.

Lucy, with a demure and settled air, seemed determined to make no

contribution to the comfort of the others, and would not say a word;

and almost every thing that _was_ said, proceeded from Elinor, who was

obliged to volunteer all the information about her mother's health,

their coming to town, &c. which Edward ought to have inquired about,

but never did.

Her exertions did not stop here; for she soon afterwards felt herself

so heroically disposed as to determine, under pretence of fetching

Marianne, to leave the others by themselves; and she really did it,

and _that_ in the handsomest manner, for she loitered away several

minutes on the landing-place, with the most high-minded fortitude,

before she went to her sister. When that was once done, however, it

was time for the raptures of Edward to cease; for Marianne's joy

hurried her into the drawing-room immediately. Her pleasure in seeing

him was like every other of her feelings, strong in itself, and

strongly spoken. She met him with a hand that would be taken, and a

voice that expressed the affection of a sister.

"Dear Edward!" she cried, "this is a moment of great happiness!--This

would almost make amends for every thing?"

Edward tried to return her kindness as it deserved, but before such

witnesses he dared not say half what he really felt. Again they all

sat down, and for a moment or two all were silent; while Marianne was

looking with the most speaking tenderness, sometimes at Edward and

sometimes at Elinor, regretting only that their delight in each other

should be checked by Lucy's unwelcome presence. Edward was the first

to speak, and it was to notice Marianne's altered looks, and express

his fear of her not finding London agree with her.

"Oh, don't think of me!" she replied with spirited earnestness, though

her eyes were filled with tears as she spoke, "don't think of _my_

health. Elinor is well, you see. That must be enough for us both."

This remark was not calculated to make Edward or Elinor more easy, nor

to conciliate the good will of Lucy, who looked up at Marianne with no

very benignant expression.

"Do you like London?" said Edward, willing to say any thing that might

introduce another subject.

"Not at all. I expected much pleasure in it, but I have found none.

The sight of you, Edward, is the only comfort it has afforded; and

thank Heaven! you are what you always were!"

She paused--no one spoke.

"I think, Elinor," she presently added, "we must employ Edward to take

care of us in our return to Barton. In a week or two, I suppose, we

shall be going; and, I trust, Edward will not be very unwilling to

accept the charge."

Poor Edward muttered something, but what it was, nobody knew, not even

himself. But Marianne, who saw his agitation, and could easily trace

it to whatever cause best pleased herself, was perfectly satisfied,

and soon talked of something else.

"We spent such a day, Edward, in Harley Street yesterday! So dull, so

wretchedly dull!--But I have much to say to you on that head, which

cannot be said now."

And with this admirable discretion did she defer the assurance of her

finding their mutual relatives more disagreeable than ever, and of her

being particularly disgusted with his mother, till they were more in

private.

"But why were you not there, Edward?--Why did you not come?"

"I was engaged elsewhere."

"Engaged! But what was that, when such friends were to be met?"

"Perhaps, Miss Marianne," cried Lucy, eager to take some revenge on

her, "you think young men never stand upon engagements, if they have

no mind to keep them, little as well as great."

Elinor was very angry, but Marianne seemed entirely insensible of the

sting; for she calmly replied--

"Not so, indeed; for, seriously speaking, I am very sure that

conscience only kept Edward from Harley Street. And I really believe

he _has_ the most delicate conscience in the world; the most

scrupulous in performing every engagement, however minute, and however

it may make against his interest or pleasure. He is the most fearful

of giving pain, of wounding expectation, and the most incapable of

being selfish, of any body I ever saw. Edward, it is so, and I will

say it. What! are you never to hear yourself praised!--Then you must

be no friend of mine; for those who will accept of my love and esteem,

must submit to my open commendation."

The nature of her commendation, in the present case, however, happened

to be particularly ill-suited to the feelings of two thirds of her

auditors, and was so very unexhilarating to Edward, that he very soon

got up to go away.

"Going so soon!" said Marianne; "my dear Edward, this must not be."

And drawing him a little aside, she whispered her persuasion that Lucy

could not stay much longer. But even this encouragement failed, for he

would go; and Lucy, who would have outstayed him, had his visit lasted

two hours, soon afterwards went away.

"What can bring her here so often?" said Marianne, on her leaving

them. "Could not she see that we wanted her gone!--how teasing to

Edward!"

"Why so?--we were all his friends, and Lucy has been the longest known

to him of any. It is but natural that he should like to see her as

well as ourselves."

Marianne looked at her steadily, and said, "You know, Elinor, that

this is a kind of talking which I cannot bear. If you only hope to

have your assertion contradicted, as I must suppose to be the case,

you ought to recollect that I am the last person in the world to do

it. I cannot descend to be tricked out of assurances, that are not

really wanted."

She then left the room; and Elinor dared not follow her to say more,

for bound as she was by her promise of secrecy to Lucy, she could give

no information that would convince Marianne; and painful as the

consequences of her still continuing in an error might be, she was

obliged to submit to it. All that she could hope, was that Edward

would not often expose her or himself to the distress of hearing

Marianne's mistaken warmth, nor to the repetition of any other part of

the pain that had attended their recent meeting--and this she had

every reason to expect.

[Illustration: _Drawing him a little aside._]

CHAPTER XXXVI

Within a few days after this meeting, the newspapers announced to the

world, that the lady of Thomas Palmer, Esq. was safely delivered of a

son and heir; a very interesting and satisfactory paragraph, at least

to all those intimate connections who knew it before.

This event, highly important to Mrs. Jennings's happiness, produced a

temporary alteration in the disposal of her time, and influenced, in a

like degree, the engagements of her young friends; for as she wished

to be as much as possible with Charlotte, she went thither every

morning as soon as she was dressed, and did not return till late in

the evening; and the Miss Dashwoods, at the particular request of the

Middletons, spent the whole of every day, in Conduit Street. For their

own comfort they would much rather have remained, at least all the

morning, in Mrs. Jennings's house; but it was not a thing to be urged

against the wishes of everybody. Their hours were therefore made over

to Lady Middleton and the two Miss Steeles, by whom their company, in

fact was as little valued, as it was professedly sought.

They had too much sense to be desirable companions to the former; and

by the latter they were considered with a jealous eye, as intruding on

_their_ ground, and sharing the kindness which they wanted to

monopolize. Though nothing could be more polite than Lady Middleton's

behaviour to Elinor and Marianne, she did not really like them at all.

Because they neither flattered herself nor her children, she could not

believe them good-natured; and because they were fond of reading, she

fancied them satirical: perhaps without exactly knowing what it was to

be satirical; but _that_ did not signify. It was censure in common

use, and easily given.

Their presence was a restraint both on her and on Lucy. It checked the

idleness of one, and the business of the other. Lady Middleton was

ashamed of doing nothing before them, and the flattery which Lucy was

proud to think of and administer at other times, she feared they would

despise her for offering. Miss Steele was the least discomposed of the

three, by their presence; and it was in their power to reconcile her

to it entirely. Would either of them only have given her a full and

minute account of the whole affair between Marianne and Mr.

Willoughby, she would have thought herself amply rewarded for the

sacrifice of the best place by the fire after dinner, which their

arrival occasioned. But this conciliation was not granted; for though

she often threw out expressions of pity for her sister to Elinor, and

more than once dropt a reflection on the inconstancy of beaux before

Marianne, no effect was produced, but a look of indifference from the

former, or of disgust in the latter. An effort even yet lighter might

have made her their friend. Would they only have laughed at her about

the Doctor! But so little were they, anymore than the others, inclined

to oblige her, that if Sir John dined from home, she might spend a

whole day without hearing any other raillery on the subject, than what

she was kind enough to bestow on herself.

All these jealousies and discontents, however, were so totally

unsuspected by Mrs. Jennings, that she thought it a delightful thing

for the girls to be together; and generally congratulated her young

friends every night, on having escaped the company of a stupid old

woman so long. She joined them sometimes at Sir John's, sometimes at

her own house; but wherever it was, she always came in excellent

spirits, full of delight and importance, attributing Charlotte's well

doing to her own care, and ready to give so exact, so minute a detail

of her situation, as only Miss Steele had curiosity enough to desire.

One thing _did_ disturb her; and of that she made her daily complaint.

Mr. Palmer maintained the common, but unfatherly opinion among his

sex, of all infants being alike; and though she could plainly

perceive, at different times, the most striking resemblance between

this baby and every one of his relations on both sides, there was no

convincing his father of it; no persuading him to believe that it was

not exactly like every other baby of the same age; nor could he even

be brought to acknowledge the simple proposition of its being the

finest child in the world.

I come now to the relation of a misfortune, which about this time

befell Mrs. John Dashwood. It so happened that while her two sisters

with Mrs. Jennings were first calling on her in Harley Street, another

of her acquaintance had dropt in--a circumstance in itself not

apparently likely to produce evil to her. But while the imaginations

of other people will carry them away to form wrong judgments of our

conduct, and to decide on it by slight appearances, one's happiness

must in some measure be always at the mercy of chance. In the present

instance, this last-arrived lady allowed her fancy to so far outrun

truth and probability, that on merely hearing the name of the Miss

Dashwoods, and understanding them to be Mr. Dashwood's sisters, she

immediately concluded them to be staying in Harley Street; and this

misconstruction produced within a day or two afterwards, cards of

invitation for them as well as for their brother and sister, to a

small musical party at her house. The consequence of which was, that

Mrs. John Dashwood was obliged to submit not only to the exceedingly

great inconvenience of sending her carriage for the Miss Dashwoods,

but, what was still worse, must be subject to all the unpleasantness

of appearing to treat them with attention: and who could tell that

they might not expect to go out with her a second time? The power of

disappointing them, it was true, must always be her's. But that was

not enough; for when people are determined on a mode of conduct which

they know to be wrong, they feel injured by the expectation of any

thing better from them.

Marianne had now been brought by degrees, so much into the habit of

going out every day, that it was become a matter of indifference to

her, whether she went or not: and she prepared quietly and

mechanically for every evening's engagement, though without expecting

the smallest amusement from any, and very often without knowing, till

the last moment, where it was to take her.