1811

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY

by Jane Austen

CHAPTER I

THE family of Dashwood had long been settled in Sussex. Their

estate was large, and their residence was at Norland Park, in the

centre of their property, where, for many generations, they had

lived in so respectable a manner as to engage the general good opinion

of their surrounding acquaintance. The late owner of this estate was a

single man, who lived to a very advanced age, and who, for many

years of his life, had a constant companion and housekeeper in his

sister. But her death, which happened ten years before his own,

produced a great alteration in his home; for to supply her loss, he

invited and received into his house the family of his nephew Mr. Henry

Dashwood, the legal inheritor of the Norland estate, and the person to

whom he intended to bequeath it. In the society of his nephew and

niece, and their children, the old gentleman's days were comfortably

spent. His attachment to them all increased. The constant attention of

Mr. and Mrs. Henry Dashwood to his wishes, which proceeded not

merely from interest, but from goodness of heart, gave him every

degree of solid comfort which his age could receive; and the

cheerfulness of the children added a relish to his existence.

By a former marriage, Mr. Henry Dashwood had one son: by his

present lady three daughters. The son, a steady respectable young man,

was amply provided for by the fortune of his mother, which had been

large, and half of which devolved on him on his coming of age. By

his own marriage, likewise, which happened soon afterwards, he added

to his wealth. To him, therefore, the succession to the Norland estate

was not so really important as to his sisters; for their fortune,

independent of what might arise to them from their father's inheriting

that property, could be but small. Their mother had nothing, and their

father only seven thousand pounds in his own disposal; for the

remaining moiety of his first wife's fortune was also secured to her

child, and he had only a life-interest in it.

The old gentleman died: his will was read; and, like almost

every other will, gave as much disappointment as pleasure. He was

neither so unjust, nor so ungrateful, as to leave his estate from

his nephew; but he left it to him on such terms as destroyed half

the value of the bequest. Mr. Dashwood had wished for it more for

the sake of his wife and daughters than for himself or his son; but to

his son, and his son's son, a child of four years old, it was secured,

in such a way, as to leave to himself no power of providing for

those who were most dear to him, and who most needed a provision by

any charge on the estate, or by any sale of its valuable woods. The

whole was tied up for the benefit of this child, who, in occasional

visits with his father and mother at Norland, had so far gained on the

affections of his uncle, by such attractions as are by no means

unusual in children of two or three years old- an imperfect

articulation, an earnest desire of having his own way, many cunning

tricks, and a great deal of noise- as to outweigh all the value of all

the attention which, for years, he had received from his niece and her

daughters. He meant not to be unkind, however, and, as a mark of his

affection for the three girls, he left them a thousand pounds apiece.

Mr. Dashwood's disappointment was, at first, severe; but his

temper was cheerful and sanguine; and he might reasonably hope to live

many years, and by living economically, lay by a considerable sum from

the produce of an estate already large, and capable of almost

immediate improvement. But the fortune, which had been so tardy in

coming, was his only one twelvemonth. He survived his uncle no longer;

and ten thousand pounds, including the late legacies, was all that

remained for his widow and daughters.

His son was sent for as soon as his danger was known, and to him

Mr. Dashwood recommended, with all the strength and urgency which

illness could command, the interest of his mother-in-law and sisters.

Mr. John Dashwood had not the strong feelings of the rest of the

family; but he was affected by a recommendation of such a nature at

such a time, and he promised to do every thing in his power to make

them comfortable. His father was rendered easy by such an assurance,

and Mr. John Dashwood had then leisure to consider how much there

might prudently be in his power to do for them.

He was not an ill-disposed young man, unless to be rather

cold-hearted and rather selfish is to be ill-disposed: but he was,

in general, well respected; for he conducted himself with propriety in

the discharge of his ordinary duties. Had he married a more amiable

woman, he might have been made still more respectable than he was:

he might even have been made amiable himself; for he was very young

when he married, and very fond of his wife. But Mrs. John Dashwood was

a strong caricature of himself; more narrow-minded and selfish.

When he gave his promise to his father, he meditated within

himself to increase the fortunes of his sisters by the present of a

thousand pounds apiece. He then really thought himself equal to it.

The prospect of four thousand a year, in addition to his present

income, besides the remaining half of his own mother's fortune, warmed

his heart, and made him feel capable of generosity. "Yes, he would

give them three thousand pounds: it would be liberal and handsome!

It would be enough to make them completely easy. Three thousand

pounds! be could spare so considerable a sum with little

inconvenience." He thought of it all day long, and for many days

successively, and he did not repent.

No sooner was his father's funeral over, than Mrs. John

Dashwood, without sending any notice of her intention to her

mother-in-law, arrived with her child and their attendants. No one

could dispute her right to come; the house was her husband's from

the moment of his father's decease; but the indelicacy of her

conduct was so much the greater, and to a woman in Mrs. Dashwood's

situation, with only common feelings, must have been highly

unpleasing; but in her mind there was a sense of honor so keen, a

generosity so romantic, that any offence of the kind, by whomsoever

given or received, was to her a source of immovable disgust. Mrs. John

Dashwood had never been a favorite with any of her husband's family;

but she had had no opportunity, till the present, of showing them with

how little attention to the comfort of other people she could act when

occasion required it.

So acutely did Mrs. Dashwood feel this ungracious behavior, and so

earnestly did she despise her daughter-in-law for it, that, on the

arrival of the latter, she would have quitted the house for ever,

had not the entreaty of her eldest girl induced her first to reflect

on the propriety of going, and her own tender love for all her three

children determined her afterwards to stay, and for their sakes

avoid a breach with their brother.

Elinor, this eldest daughter, whose advice was so effectual.

possessed a strength of understanding, and coolness of judgment, which

qualified her, though only nineteen, to be the counsellor of her

mother, and enabled her frequently to counteract, to the advantage

of them all, that eagerness of mind in Mrs. Dashwood which must

generally have led to imprudence. She had an excellent heart;- her

disposition was affectionate, and her feelings were strong; but she

knew how to govern them: it was a knowledge which her mother had yet

to learn; and which one of her sisters had resolved never to be

taught.

Marianne's abilities were, in many respects, quite equal to

Elinor's. She was sensible and clever; but eager in everything: her

sorrows, her joys, could have no moderation. She was generous,

amiable, interesting: she was everything but prudent. The

resemblance between her and her mother was strikingly great.

Elinor saw, with concern, the excess of her sister's

sensibility; but by Mrs. Dashwood it was valued and cherished. They

encouraged each other now in the violence of their affliction. The

agony of grief which overpowered them at first was voluntarily

renewed, was sought for, was created again and again. They gave

themselves up wholly to their sorrow, seeking increase of wretchedness

in every reflection that could afford it, and resolved against ever

admitting consolation in future. Elinor, too, was deeply afflicted;

but still she could struggle, she could exert herself. She could

consult with her brother, could receive her sister-in-law on her

arrival, and treat her with proper attention; and could strive to

rouse her mother to similar exertion, and encourage her to similar

forbearance.

Margaret, the other sister, was a good-humored, well-disposed

girl; but as she had already imbibed a good deal of Marianne's

romance, without having much of her sense, she did not, at thirteen,

bid fair to equal her sisters at a more advanced period of life.

CHAPTER II

MRS. JOHN DASHWOOD now installed herself mistress of Norland;

and her mother and sisters-in-law were degraded to the condition of

visitors. As such, however, they were treated by her with quiet

civility; and by her husband with as much kindness as he could feel

towards anybody beyond himself, his wife, and their child. He really

pressed them, with some earnestness, to consider Norland as their

home; and, as no plan appeared so eligible to Mrs. Dashwood as

remaining there till she could accommodate herself with a house in the

neighborhood, his invitation was accepted.

A continuance in a place where everything reminded her of former

delight was exactly what suited her mind. In seasons of

cheerfulness, no temper could be more cheerful than hers, or

possess, in a greater degree, that sanguine expectation of happiness

which is happiness itself. But in sorrow she must be equally carried

away by her fancy, and as far beyond consolation as in pleasure she

was beyond alloy.

Mrs. John Dashwood did not at all approve of what her husband

intended to do for his sisters. To take three thousand pounds from the

fortune of their dear little boy would be impoverishing him to the

most dreadful degree. She begged him to think again on the subject.

How could he answer it to himself to rob his child, and his only child

too, of so large a sum? And what possible claim could the Misses

Dashwood, who were related to him only by half blood, which she

considered as no relationship at all, have on his generosity to so

large an amount? It was very well known that no affection was ever

supposed to exist between the children of any man by different

marriages; and why was he to ruin himself, and their poor little

Harry, by giving away all his money to his half sisters?

"It was my father's last request to me," replied her husband,

"that I should assist his widow and daughters."

"He did not know what he was talking off, I dare say; ten to one

but he was light-headed at the time. Had he been in his right

senses, he could not have thought of such a thing as begging you to

give away half your fortune from your own child."

"He did not stipulate for any particular sum, my dear Fanny; he

only requested me, in general terms, to assist them, and make their

situation more comfortable than it was in his power to do. Perhaps

it would have been as well if he had left it wholly to myself. He

could hardly suppose I should neglect them. But as he required the

promise, I could not do less than give it; at least I thought so at

the time. The promise, therefore, was given, and must be performed.

Something must be done for them whenever they leave Norland and settle

in a new home."

"Well, then, let something be done for them; but that something

need not be three thousand pounds. Consider," she added, "that when

the money is once parted with, it never can return. Your sisters

will marry, and it will be gone for ever. If, indeed, it could be

restored to our poor little boy-"

"Why, to be sure," said her husband, very gravely, "that would

make great difference. The time may come when Harry will regret that

so large a sum was parted with. If he should have a numerous family,

for instance, it would be a very convenient addition."

"To be sure it would."

"Perhaps, then, it would be better for all parties, if the sum

were diminished one half. Five hundred pounds would be a prodigious

increase to their fortunes!"

"Oh! beyond anything great! What brother on earth would do half so

much for his sisters, even if really his sisters! And as it is- only

half blood!- But you have such a generous spirit!"

"I would not wish to do anything mean," he replied. "One had

rather, on such occasions, do too much than too little. No one, at

least, can think I have not done enough for them: even themselves,

they can hardly expect more."

"There is no knowing what they may expect," said the lady, "but we

are not to think of their expectations: the question is, what you

can afford to do."

"Certainly; and I think I may afford to give them five hundred

pounds apiece. As it is, without any addition of mine, they will

each have about three thousand pounds on their mother's death- a

very comfortable fortune for any young woman."

"To be sure it is; and, indeed, it strikes me that they can want

no addition at all. They will have ten thousand pounds divided amongst

them. If they marry, they will be sure of doing well, and if they do

not, they may all live very comfortably together on the interest of

ten thousand pounds."

"That is very true, and, therefore, I do not know whether, upon

the whole, it would not be more advisable to do something for their

mother while she lives, rather than for them- something of the annuity

kind I mean. My sisters would feel the good effects of it as well as

herself. A hundred a year would make them all perfectly comfortable."

His wife hesitated a little, however, in giving her consent to

this plan.

"To be sure," said she, "it is better than parting with fifteen

hundred pounds at once. But, then, if Mrs. Dashwood should live

fifteen years, we shall be completely taken in."

"Fifteen years! my dear Fanny; her life cannot be worth half

that purchase."

"Certainly not; but if you observe, people always live for ever

when there is an annuity to be paid them; and she is very stout and

healthy, and hardly forty. An annuity is a very serious business; it

comes over and over every year, and there is no getting rid of it. You

are not aware of what you are doing. I have known a great deal of

the trouble of annuities; for my mother was clogged with the payment

of three to old superannuated servants by my father's will, and it

is amazing how disagreeable she found it. Twice every year these

annuities were to be paid; and then there was the trouble of getting

it to them; and then one of them was said to have died, and afterwards

it turned out to be no such thing. My mother was quite sick of it. Her

income was not her own, she said, with such perpetual claims on it;

and it was the more unkind in my father, because, otherwise, the money

would have been entirely at my mother's disposal, without any

restriction whatever. It has given me such an abhorrence of annuities,

that I am sure I would not pin myself down to the payment of one for

all the world."

"It is certainly an unpleasant thing," replied Mr. Dashwood, "to

have those kind of yearly drains on one's income. One's fortune, as

your mother justly says, is not one's own. To be tied down to the

regular payment of such a sum, on every rent-day, is by no means

desirable: it takes away one's independence."

"Undoubtedly; and, after all, you have no thanks for it. They

think themselves secure; you do no more than what is expected, and

it raises no gratitude at all. If I were you, whatever I did should be

done at my own discretion entirely. I would not bind myself to allow

them anything yearly. It may be very inconvenient some years to

spare a hundred, or even fifty pounds from our own expenses."

"I believe you are right, my love; it will be better that there

should by no annuity in the case: whatever I may give them

occasionally will be of far greater assistance than a yearly

allowance, because they would only enlarge their style of living if

they felt sure of a larger income, and would not be sixpence the

richer for it at the end of the year. It will certainly be much the

best way. A present of fifty pounds, now and then, will prevent

their ever being distressed for money, and will, I think, be amply

discharging my promise to my father."

"To be sure it will. Indeed, to say the truth, I am convinced

within myself that your father had no idea of your giving them any

money at all. The assistance he thought of, I dare say, was only

such as might be reasonably expected of you; for instance, such as

looking out for a comfortable small house for them, helping them to

move their things, and sending them presents of fish and game, and

so forth, whenever they are in season. I'll lay my life that he

meant nothing farther; indeed, it would be very strange and

unreasonable if he did. Do but consider, my dear Mr. Dashwood, how

excessively comfortable your mother-in-law and her daughters may

live on the interest of seven thousand pounds, besides the thousand

pounds belonging to each of the girls, which brings them in fifty

pounds a year apiece, and, of course, they will pay their mother for

their board out of it. Altogether, they will have five hundred a

year amongst them, and what on earth can four women want for more than

that?- They will live so cheap! Their house-keeping will be nothing at

all. They will have no carriage, no horses, and hardly any servants;

they will keep no company, and can have no expenses of any kind!

Only conceive how comfortable they will be! Five hundred a year! I

am sure I cannot imagine how they will spend half of it; and as to

your giving them more, it is quite absurd to think of it. They will be

much more able to give you something."

"Upon my word," said Mr. Dashwood, "I believe you are perfectly

right. My father certainly could mean nothing more by his request to

me than what you say. I clearly understand it now, and I will strictly

fulfil my engagement by such acts of assistance and kindness to them

as you have described. When my mother removes into another house my

services shall be readily given to accommodate her as far as I can.

Some little present of furniture too may be acceptable then."

"Certainly," returned Mrs. John Dashwood. "But, however, one thing

must be considered. When your father and mother moved to Norland,

though the furniture of Stanhill was sold, all the china, plate, and

linen was saved, and is now left to your mother. Her house will

therefore be almost completely fitted up as soon as she takes it."

"That is a material consideration undoubtedly. A valuable legacy

indeed! And yet some of the plate would have been a very pleasant

addition to our own stock here."

"Yes; and the set of breakfast china is twice as handsome as

what belongs to this house. A great deal too handsome, in my

opinion, for any place they can ever afford to live in. But,

however, so it is. Your father thought only of them. And I must say

this, that you owe no particular gratitude to him, nor attention to

his wishes; for we very well know that if he could, he would have left

almost everything in the world to them."

This argument was irresistible. It gave to his intentions whatever

of decision was wanting before; and he finally resolved, that it would

be absolutely unnecessary, if not highly indecorous, to do more for

the widow and children of his father than such kind of neighborly acts

as his own wife pointed out.

CHAPTER III

MRS. DASHWOOD remained at Norland several months; not from any

disinclination to move when the sight of every well known spot

ceased to raise the violent emotion which it produced for a while; for

when her spirits began to revive, and her mind became capable of

some other exertion than that of heightening its affliction by

melancholy remembrances, she was impatient to be gone, and

indefatigable in her enquiries for a suitable dwelling in the

neighborhood of Norland; for to remove far from that beloved spot

was impossible. But she could hear of no situation that at once

answered her notions of comfort and ease, and suited the prudence of

her eldest daughter, whose steadier judgment rejected several houses

as too large for their income, which her mother would have improved.

Mrs. Dashwood had been informed by her husband of the solemn

promise on the part of his son in their favor, which gave comfort to

his last earthly reflections. She doubted the sincerity of this

assurance no more than he had doubted it himself, and she thought of

it for her daughters' sake with satisfaction, though as for herself

she was persuaded that a much smaller provision than 7000l. would

support her in affluence. For their brother's sake, too, for the

sake of his own heart, she rejoiced; and she reproached herself for

being unjust to his merit before, in believing him incapable of

generosity. His attentive behaviour to herself and his sisters

convinced her that their welfare was dear to him, and, for a long

time, she firmly relied on the liberality of his intentions.

The contempt which she had, very early in their acquaintance, felt

for her daughter-in-law, was very much increased by the farther

knowledge of her character, which half a year's residence in her

family afforded; and, perhaps, in spite of every consideration of

politeness or maternal affection on the side of the former, the two

ladies might have found it impossible to have lived together so

long, had not a particular circumstance occurred to give still greater

eligibility, according to the opinions of Mrs. Dashwood, to her

daughters' continuance at Norland.

This circumstance was a growing attachment between her eldest girl

and the brother of Mrs. John Dashwood, a gentlemanlike and pleasing

young man, who was introduced to their acquaintance soon after his

sister's establishment at Norland, and who had since spent the

greatest part of his time there.

Some mothers might have encouraged the intimacy from motives of

interest, for Edward Ferrars was the eldest son of a man who had

died very rich; and some might have repressed it from motives of

prudence, for, except a trifling sum, the whole of his fortune

depended on the will of his mother. But Mrs. Dashwood was alike

uninfluenced by either consideration. It was enough for her that he

appeared to be amiable, that he loved her daughter, and that Elinor

returned the partiality. It was contrary to every doctrine of hers

that difference of fortune should deep any couple asunder who were

attracted by resemblance of disposition; and that Elinor's merit

should not be acknowledged by every one who knew her was to her

comprehension impossible.

Edward Ferrars was not recommended to their good opinion by any

peculiar graces of person or address. He was not handsome, and his

manners required intimacy to make them pleasing. He was too

diffident to do justice to himself; but when his natural shyness was

overcome, his behaviour gave every indication of an open, affectionate

heart. His understanding was good, and his education had given it

solid improvement. But he was neither fitted by abilities nor

disposition to answer the wishes of his mother and sister, who longed

to see him distinguished- as- they hardly knew what. They wanted

him to make a fine figure in the world in some manner or other. His

mother wished to interest him in political concerns, to get him into

parliament, or to see him connected with some of the great men of

the day. Mrs. John Dashwood wished it likewise; but in the mean while,

till one of these superior blessings could be attained, it would

have quieted her ambition to see him driving a barouche. But Edward

had no turn for great men or barouches. All his wishes centered in

domestic comfort and the quiet of private life. Fortunately he had a

younger brother who was more promising.

Edward had been staying several weeks in the house before he

engaged much of Mrs. Dashwood's attention; for she was, at that

time, in such affliction as rendered her careless of surrounding

objects. She saw only that he was quiet and unobtrusive, and she liked

him for it. He did not disturb the wretchedness of her mind by

ill-timed conversation. She was first called to observe and approve

him farther, by a reflection which Elinor chanced one day to make on

the difference between him and his sister. It was a contrast which

recommended him most forcibly to her mother.

"It is enough," said she; "to say that he is unlike Fanny is

enough. It implies everything amiable. I love him already."

"I think you will like him," said Elinor, "when you know more of

him."

"Like him!" replied her mother with a smile. "I feel no

sentiment of approbation inferior to love."

"You may esteem him."

"I have never yet known what it was to separate esteem and love."

Mrs. Dashwood now took pains to get acquainted with him. Her

manners were attaching, and soon banished his reserve. She speedily

comprehended all his merits; the persuasion of his regard for Elinor

perhaps assisted her penetration; but she really felt assured of his

worth: and even that quietness of manner, which militated against

all her established ideas of what a young man's address ought to be,

was no longer uninteresting, when she knew his heart to be warm and

his temper affectionate.

No sooner did she perceive any symptom of love in his behaviour to

Elinor than she considered their serious attachment as certain, and

looked forward to their marriage as rapidly approaching.

"In a few months, my dear Marianne." said she, "Elinor will, in

all probability, be settled for life. We shall miss her; but she

will be happy."

"Oh, mamma, how shall we do without her?"

"My love, it will be scarcely a separation. We shall live within a

few miles of each other, and shall meet every day of our lives. You

will gain a brother, a real, affectionate brother. I have the

highest opinion in the world of Edward's heart. But you look grave,

Marianne; do you disapprove your sister's choice?"

"Perhaps," said Marianne, "I may consider it with some surprise.

Edward is very amiable, and I love him tenderly. But yet- he is not

the kind of young man- there is something wanting- his figure is not

striking; it has none of that grace which I should expect in the man

who could seriously attach my sister. His eyes want all that spirit,

that fire, which at once announce virtue and intelligence. And besides

all this, I am afraid, mamma, he has no real taste. Music seems

scarcely to attract him; and, though he admires Elinor's drawings very

much, it is not the admiration of a person who can understand their

worth. It is that, in fact, of his frequent attention to her while she

draws, that, in he knows nothing of the matter. He admires as a lover,

not as a connoisseur. To satisfy me, those characters must be

united. I could not be happy with a man whose taste did not in every

point coincide with my own. He must enter into all my feelings: the

same books, the same music must charm us both. Oh, mamma, how

spiritless, how tame was Edward's manner in reading to us last

night! I felt for my sister more severely. Yet she bore it with so

much composure, she seemed scarcely to notice it. I could hardly

keep my seat. To hear those beautiful lines which have frequently

almost driven me wild, pronounced with such impenetrable calmness,

such dreadful indifference!"

"He would certainly have done more justice to simple and elegant

prose. I thought so at the time; but you would give him Cowper."

"Nay, mamma, if he is not to be animated by Cowper!- but we must

allow for difference of taste. Elinor has not my feelings, and,

therefore, she may overlook it, and be happy with him. But it would

have broken my heart, had I loved him, to hear him read with so little

sensibility. Mamma, the more I know of the world, the more am I

convinced that I shall never see a man whom I can really love. I

require so much! He must have all Edward's virtues, and his person and

manners must ornament his goodness with every possible charm."

"Remember, my love, that you are not seventeen. It is yet too

early in life to despair of such a happiness. Why should you be less

fortunate than your mother? In one circumstance only, my Marianne, may

your destiny be different from hers!"

CHAPTER IV

"WHAT a pity it is, Elinor," said Marianne, "that Edward should

have no taste for drawing."

"No taste for drawing!" replied Elinor, "why should you think

so? He does not draw himself, indeed, but he has great pleasure in

seeing the performances of other people; and I assure you he is by

no means deficient in natural taste, though he has not had

opportunities of improving it. Had he ever been in the way of

learning, I think he would have drawn very well. He distrusts his

own judgment in such matters so much, that he is always unwilling to

give his opinion on any picture; but he has an innate propriety and

simplicity of taste, which, in general, direct him perfectly right."

Marianne was afraid of offending, and said no more on the subject;

but the kind of approbation which Elinor described as excited in him

by the drawings of other people was very far from that rapturous

delight, which, in her opinion, could alone be called taste. Yet,

though smiling within herself at the mistake, she honored her sister

for that blind partiality to Edward which produced it.

"I hope, Marianne," continued Elinor, "you do not consider him

as deficient in general taste. Indeed, I think I may say that you

cannot, for your behaviour to him is perfectly cordial, and if that

were your opinion, I am sure you could never be civil to him."

Marianne hardly knew what to say. She would not wound the feelings

of her sister on any account, and yet to say what she did not

believe was impossible. At length she replied,-

"Do not be offended, Elinor, if my praise of him is not in

everything equal to your sense of his merits. I have not had so many

opportunities of estimating the minuter propensities of his mind,

his inclinations and tastes, as you have; but I have the highest

opinion in the world of his goodness and sense. I think him everything

that is worthy and amiable."

"I am sure," replied Elinor, with a smile, "that his dearest

friends could not be dissatisfied with such commendation as that. I do

not perceive how you could express yourself more warmly."

Marianne was rejoiced to find her sister so easily pleased.

"Of his sense and his goodness," continued Elinor, "no one can,

I think, be in doubt, who has seen him often enough to engage him in

unreserved conversation. The excellence of his understanding and his

principles can be concealed only by that shyness which too often keeps

him silent. You know enough of him to do justice to his solid worth.

But of his minuter propensities, as you call them, you have, from

peculiar circumstances, been kept more ignorant than myself. He and

I have been at times thrown a good deal together, while you have

been wholly engrossed on the most affectionate principle by my mother.

I have seen a great deal of him, have studied his sentiments and heard

his opinion on subjects of literature and taste; and, upon the

whole, I venture to pronounce that his mind is well informed,

enjoyment of books exceedingly great, his imagination lively, his

observation just and correct, and his taste delicate and pure. His

abilities in every respect improve as much upon acquaintance as his

manners and person. At first sight, his address is certainly not

striking; and his person can hardly be called handsome, till the

expression of his eyes, which are uncommonly good, and the general

sweetness of his countenance, is perceived. At present, I know him

so well, that I think him really handsome; or at least, almost so.

What say you, Marianne?"

"I shall very soon think him handsome, Elinor, if I do not now.

When you tell me to love him as a brother, I shall no more see

imperfection in his face than I now do in his heart."

Elinor started at this declaration, and was sorry for the warmth

she had been betrayed into, in speaking of him. She felt that Edward

stood very high in her opinion. She believed the regard to be

mutual; but she required greater certainty of it to make Marianne's

conviction of their attachment agreeable to her. She knew that what

Marianne and her mother conjectured one moment, they believed the

next- that with them, to wish was to hope, and to hope was to

expect. She tried to explain the real state of the case to her sister.

"I do not attempt to deny," said she, "that I think very highly of

him- that I greatly esteem, that I like him."

Marianne here burst forth with indignation-

"Esteem him! Like him I Cold-hearted Elinor! Oh! worse than

cold-hearted! Ashamed of being otherwise. Use those words again, and I

will leave the room this moment."

Elinor could not help laughing. "Excuse me," said she; "and be

assured that I meant no offence to you, by speaking, in so quiet a

way, of my own feelings. Believe them to be stronger than I have

declared; believe them, in short, to be such as his merit, and the

suspicion- the hope of his affection for me may warrant, without

imprudence or folly. But farther than this you must not believe. I

am by no means assured of his regard for me. There are moments when

the extent of it seems doubtful; and till his sentiments are fully

known, you cannot wonder at my wishing to avoid any encouragement of

my own partiality, by believing or calling it more than it is. In my

heart I feel little- scarcely any doubt of his preference. But there

are other points to be considered besides his inclination. He is

very far from being independent. What his mother really is we cannot

know; but, from Fanny's occasional mention of her conduct and

opinions, we have never been disposed to think her amiable; and I am

very much mistaken if Edward is not himself aware that there would

be many difficulties in his way, if he were to wish to marry a woman

who had not either a great fortune or high rank."

Marianne was astonished to find how much the imagination of her

mother and herself had outstripped the truth.

"And you really are not engaged to him!" said she. "Yet it

certainly soon will happen. But two advantages will proceed from

this delay. I shall not lose you so soon, and Edward will have greater

opportunity of improving that natural taste for your favorite

pursuit which must be so indispensably necessary to your future

felicity. Oh! if he should be so far stimulated by your genius as to

learn to draw himself, how delightful it would be!"

Elinor had given her real opinion to her sister. She could not

consider her partiality for Edward in so prosperous a state as

Marianne had believed it. There was, at times, a want of spirits about

him which, if it did not denote indifference, spoke a something almost

as unpromising. A doubt of her regard, supposing him to feel it,

need not give him more than inquietude. It would not be likely to

produce that dejection of mind which frequently attended him. A more

reasonable cause might be found in the dependent situation which

forbad the indulgence of his affection. She knew that his mother

neither behaved to him so as to make his home comfortable at

present, nor to give him any assurance that he might form a home for

himself, without strictly attending to her views for his

aggrandisement. With such a knowledge as this, it was impossible for

Elinor to feel easy on the subject. She was far from depending on that

result of his preference of her, which her mother and sister still

considered as certain. Nay, the longer they were together the more

doubtful seemed the nature of his regard; and sometimes, for a few

painful minutes, she believed it to be no more than friendship.

But, whatever might really be its limits, it was enough, when

perceived by his sister, to make her uneasy, and at the same time

(which was still more common) to make her uncivil. She took the

first opportunity of affronting her mother-in-law on the occasion,

talking to her so expressively of her brother's great expectations, of

Mrs. Ferrars's resolution that both her sons should marry well, and of

the danger attending any young woman who attempted to draw him in,

that Mrs. Dashwood could neither pretend to be unconscious, nor

endeavor to be calm. She gave her an answer which marked her contempt,

and instantly left the room; resolving that, whatever might be the

inconvenience or expense of so sudden a removal, her beloved Elinor

should not be exposed another week to such insinuations.

In this state of her spirit, a letter was delivered to her from

the post, which contained a proposal particularly well timed. It was

the offer of a small house, on very easy terms, belonging to a

relation of her own, a gentleman of consequence and property in

Devonshire. The letter was from this gentleman himself, and written in

the true spirit of friendly accommodation. He understood that she

was in need of a dwelling; and though the house he now offered her was

merely a cottage, he assured her that everything should be done to

it which she might think necessary, if the situation pleased her. He

earnestly pressed her, after giving the particulars of the house and

garden, to come with her daughters to Barton Park, the place of his

own residence, from whence she might judge, herself, whether Barton

Cottage, for the houses were in the same parish, could, by any

alteration, be made comfortable to her. He seemed really anxious to

accommodate them; and the whole of his letter was written in so

friendly a style as could not fail of giving pleasure to his cousin;

more especially at a moment when she was suffering under the cold

and unfeeling behaviour of her nearer connections. She needed no

time for deliberation or inquiry. Her resolution was formed as she

read. The situation of Barton, in a county so far distant from

Sussex as Devonshire, which, but a few hours before, would have been a

sufficient objection to outweigh every possible advantage belonging to

the place, was now its first recommendation. To quit the neighbourhood

of Norland was no longer an evil; it was an object of desire; it was a

blessing, in comparison of the misery of continuing her

daughter-in-law's guest; and to remove for ever from that beloved

place would be less painful than to inhabit or visit it while such a

woman was its mistress. She instantly wrote Sir John Middleton her

acknowledgment of his kindness, and her acceptance of his proposal;

and then hastened to show both letters to her daughters, that she

might be secure of their approbation before her answer were sent.

Elinor had always thought it would be more prudent for them to

settle at some distance from Norland, than immediately amongst their

present acquaintance. On that head, therefore, it was not for her to

oppose her mother's intention of removing into Devonshire. The

house, too, as described by Sir John, was on so simple a scale, and

the rent so uncommonly moderate, as to leave her no right of objection

on either point; and, therefore, though it was a removal from the

vicinity of Norland beyond her wishes, she made no attempt to dissuade

her mother from sending a letter of acquiescence.

CHAPTER V

NO sooner was her answer dispatched, than Mrs. Dashwood indulged

herself in the pleasure of announcing to her son-in-law and his wife

that she was provided with a house, and should incommode them no

longer than till everything were ready for her inhabiting it. They

heard her with surprise. Mrs. John Dashwood said nothing; but her

husband civilly hoped that she would not be settled far from

Norland. She had great satisfaction in replying that she was going

into Devonshire. Edward turned hastily towards her, on hearing this,

and, in a voice of surprise and concern, which required no explanation

to her, repeated, "Devonshire! Are you, indeed, going there? So far

from hence! and to what part of it?" She explained the situation. It

was within four miles northward of Exeter.

"It is but a cottage," she continued, "but I hope to see many of

my friends in it. A room or two can easily be added; and if my friends

find no difficulty in travelling so far to see me, I am sure I will

find none in accommodating them."

She concluded with a very kind invitation to Mr. and Mrs. John

Dashwood to visit her at Barton; and to Edward she gave one with still

greater affection. Though her late conversation with her

daughter-in-law had made her resolve on remaining at Norland no longer

than was unavoidable, it had not produced the smallest effect on her

in that point to which it principally tended. To separate Edward and

Elinor was as far from being her object as ever; and she wished to

show Mrs. John Dashwood, by this pointed invitation to her brother,

how totally she disregarded her disapprobation of the match.

Mr. John Dashwood told his mother again and again how

exceedingly sorry he was that she had taken a house at such a distance

from Norland as to prevent his being of any service to her in removing

her furniture. He really felt conscientiously vexed on the occasion;

for the very exertion to which he had limited the performance of his

promise to his father was by this arrangement rendered

impracticable. The furniture was all sent around by water. It

chiefly consisted of household linen, plate, china, and books, with

a handsome piano-forte of Marianne's. Mrs. John Dashwood saw the

packages depart with a sigh: she could not help feeling it hard

that, as Mrs. Dashwood's income would be so trifling in comparison

with their own, she should have any handsome article of furniture.

Mrs. Dashwood took the house for a twelvemonth; it was ready

furnished, and she might have immediate possession. No difficulty

arose on either side in the agreement; and she waited only for the

disposal of her effects at Norland, and to determine her future

household, before she set off for the west; and this, as she was

exceedingly rapid in the performance of everything that interested

her, was soon done. The horses which were left by her husband had been

sold soon after his death, and an opportunity now offering of

disposing of her carriage, she agreed to sell that likewise, at the

earnest advice of her eldest daughter. For the comfort of her

children, had she consulted only her own wishes, she would have kept

it; but the discretion of Elinor prevailed. Her wisdom, too, limited

the number of their servants to three; two maids and a man, with

whom they were speedily provided from amongst those who had formed

their establishment at Norland.

The man and one of the maids were sent off immediately into

Devonshire, to prepare the house for their mistress's arrival; for, as

Lady Middleton was entirely unknown to Mrs. Dashwood, she preferred

going directly to the cottage to being a visitor at Barton Park; and

she relied so undoubtingly on Sir John's description of the house,

as to feel no curiosity to examine it herself till she entered it as

her own. Her eagerness to be gone from Norland was preserved from

diminution by the evident satisfaction of her daughter-in-law in the

prospect of her removal; a satisfaction which was but feebly attempted

to be concealed under a cold invitation to her to defer her departure.

Now was the time when her son-in-law's promise to his father might

with particular propriety be fulfilled. Since he had neglected to do

it on first coming to the estate, their quitting his house might be

looked on as the most suitable period for its accomplishment. But Mrs.

Dashwood began, shortly, to give over every hope of the kind, and to

be convinced, from the general drift of his discourse, that his

assistance extended no farther than their maintenance for six months

at Norland. He so frequently talked of the increasing expenses of

housekeeping, and of the perpetual demands upon his purse, which a man

of any consequence in the world was beyond calculation exposed to,

that he seemed rather to stand in need of more money himself than to

have any design of giving money away.

In a very few weeks, from the day which brought Sir John

Middleton's first letter to Norland, everything was so far settled

in their future abode as to enable Mrs. Dashwood and her daughters

to begin their journey.

Many were the tears shed by them in their last adieus to a place

so much beloved. "Dear, dear Norland!" said Marianne, as she

wandered alone before the house, on the last evening of their being

there; "when shall I cease to regret you!- when learn to feel a home

elsewhere!- Oh! happy house, could you know what I suffer in now

viewing you from this spot, from whence, perhaps, I may view you no

more!- And you, ye well-known trees!- but you will continue the

same. No leaf will decay because we are removed, nor any branch become

motionless although we can observe you no longer!- No; you will

continue the same; unconscious of the pleasure or the regret you

occasion, and insensible of any change in those who walk under your

shade!- But who will remain to enjoy you?"

CHAPTER VI

THE first part of their journey was performed in too melancholy

a disposition to be otherwise than tedious and unpleasant. But as they

drew towards the end of it, their interest in the appearance of a

country which they were to inhabit overcame their dejection, and a

view of Barton Valley, as they entered it, gave them cheerfulness.

It was a pleasant, fertile spot, well wooded, and rich in pasture.

After winding along it for more than a mile, they reached their own

house. A small green court was the whole of its demesne in front;

and a neat wicket-gate admitted them into it.

As a house, Barton Cottage, though small, was comfortable and

compact; but as a cottage it was defective, for the building was

regular, the roof was tiled, the window shutters were not painted

green, nor were the walls covered with honeysuckles. A narrow

passage led directly through the house into the garden behind. On each

side of the entrance was a sitting room, about sixteen feet square;

and beyond them were the offices and the stairs. Four bed-rooms and

two garrets formed the rest of the house. It had not been built many

years, and was in good repair. In comparison of Norland, it was poor

and small indeed!- but the tears which recollection called forth as

they entered the house were soon dried away. They were cheered by

the joy of the servants on their arrival, and each for the sake of the

others resolved to appear happy. It was very early in September; the

season was fine; and from first seeing the place under the advantage

of good weather, they received an impression in its favor which was of

material service in recommending it to their lasting approbation.

The situation of the house was good. High hills rose immediately

behind, and at no great distance on each side; some of which were open

downs, the others cultivated and woody. The village of Barton was

chiefly on one of these hills, and formed a pleasant view from the

cottage windows. The prospect in front was more extensive; it

commanded the whole of the valley, and reached into the country

beyond. The hills which surrounded the cottage terminated the valley

in that direction; under another name, and in another course, it

branched out again between two of the steepest of them.

With the size and furniture of the house Mrs. Dashwood was upon

the whole well satisfied; for though her former style of life rendered

many additions to the latter indispensable, yet to add and improve was

a delight to her; and she had at this time ready money enough to

supply all that was wanted of greater elegance to the apartments.

"As for the house itself, to be sure," said she, "it is too small

for our family, but we will make ourselves tolerably comfortable for

the present, as it is too late in the year for improvements. Perhaps

in the spring, if I have plenty of money, as I dare say I shall, we

may think about building. These parlors are both too small for such

parties of our friends as I hope to see often collected here; and I

have some thoughts of throwing the passage into one of them, with

perhaps a part of the other, and so leave the remainder of that

other for an entrance; this, with a new drawing-room which may be

easily added, and a bed-chamber and garret above, will make it a

very snug little cottage. I could wish the stairs were handsome. But

one must not expect everything; though I suppose it would be no

difficult matter to widen them. I shall see how much I am

before-hand with the world in the spring, and we will plan our

improvements accordingly."

In the meantime, till all these alterations could be made from the

savings of an income of five hundred a year by a woman who never saved

in her life, they were wise enough to be contented with the house as

it was; and each of them was busy in arranging their particular

concerns, and endeavoring, by placing around them books and other

possessions, to form themselves a home. Marianne's piano-forte was

unpacked and properly disposed of; and Elinor's drawings were

affixed to the walls of their sitting room.

In such employments as these they were interrupted soon after

breakfast the next day by the entrance of their landlord, who called

to welcome them to Barton, and to offer them every accommodation

from his own house and garden in which theirs might at present be

deficient. Sir John Middleton was a good looking man about forty. He

had formerly visited at Stanhill, but it was too long for his young

cousins to remember him. His countenance was thoroughly good-humoured;

and his manners were as friendly as the style of his letter. Their

arrival seemed to afford him real satisfaction, and their comfort to

be an object of real solicitude to him. He said much of his earnest

desire of their living in the most sociable terms with his family, and

pressed them so cordially to dine at Barton Park every day till they

were better settled at home that, though his entreaties were carried

to a point of perseverance beyond civility, they could not give

offence. His kindness was not confined to words; for within an hour

after he left them, a large basket full of garden stuff and fruit

arrived from the park, which was followed before the end of the day by

a present of game. He insisted, moreover, on conveying all their

letters to and from the post for them, and would not be denied the

satisfaction of sending them his newspaper every day.

Lady Middleton had sent a very civil message by him, denoting

her intention of waiting on Mrs. Dashwood as soon as she could be

assured that her visit would be no inconvenience; and as this

message was answered by an invitation equally polite, her ladyship was

introduced to them the next day.

They were, of course, very anxious to see a person on whom so much

of their comfort at Barton must depend; and the elegance of her

appearance was favourable to their wishes. Lady Middleton was not more

than six or seven and twenty; her face was handsome, her figure tall

and striking, and her address graceful. Her manners had all the

elegance which her husband's wanted. But they would have been improved

by some share of his frankness and warmth; and her visit was long

enough to detract something from their first admiration, by showing

that, though perfectly well-bred, she was reserved, cold, and had

nothing to say for herself beyond the most common-place inquiry or

remark.

Conversation, however, was not wanted, for Sir John was very

chatty, and Lady Middleton had taken the wise precaution of bringing

with her their eldest child, a fine little boy about six years old; by

which means there was one subject always to be recurred to by the

ladies in case of extremity, for they had to enquire his name and age,

admire his beauty, and ask him questions which his mother answered for

him, while he hung about her and held down his head, to the great

surprise of her ladyship, who wondered at his being so shy before

company, as he could make noise enough at home. On every formal

visit a child ought to be of the party, by way of provision for

discourse. In the present case it took up ten minutes to determine

whether the boy were most like his father or mother, and in what

particular he resembled either, for of course every body differed, and

every body was astonished at the opinion of the others.

An opportunity was soon to be given to the Dashwoods of debating

on the rest of the children, as Sir John would not leave the house

without securing their promise of dining at the Park the next day.

CHAPTER VII

BARTON PARK was about half a mile from the cottage. The ladies had

passed near it in their way along the valley, but it was screened from

their view at home by the projection of a hill. The house was large

and handsome; and the Middletons lived in a style of equal hospitality

and elegance. The former was for Sir John's gratification, the

latter for that of his lady. There were scarcely ever without some

friends staying with them in the house, and they kept more company

of every kind than any other family in the neighbourhood. It was

necessary to the happiness of both; for however dissimilar in temper

and outward behaviour, they strongly resembled each other in that

total want of talent and taste which confined their employments,

unconnected with such as society produced, within a very pass. Sir

John was a sportsman, Lady Middleton a mother. He hunted and shot, and

she humoured her children; and these were their only resources. Lady

Middleton had the advantage of being able to spoil her children all

the year round, while Sir John's independent employments were in

existence only half the time. Continual engagements at home and

abroad, however, supplied all the deficiencies of nature and

education; supported the good spirits of Sir John, and gave exercise

to the good breeding of his wife.

Lady Middleton piqued herself upon the elegance of her table,

and of all her domestic arrangements; and from this kind of vanity was

her greatest enjoyment in any of their parties. But Sir John's

satisfaction in society was much more real; he delighted in collecting

about him more young people than his house would hold, and the noisier

they were the better was he pleased. He was a blessing to all the

juvenile part of the neighbourhood; for in summer he was for ever

forming parties to eat cold ham and chicken out of doors, and in

winter his private balls were numerous enough for any young lady who

was not suffering under the unsatiable appetite of fifteen.

The arrival of a new family in the country was always a matter

of joy to him; and in every point of view he was charmed with the

inhabitants he had now procured for his cottage at Barton. The

Misses Dashwood were young, pretty, and unaffected. It was enough to

secure his good opinion; for to be unaffected was all that a pretty

girl could want to make her mind as captivating as her person. The

friendliness of his disposition made him happy in accommodating those,

whose situation might be considered, in comparison with the past, as

unfortunate. In showing kindness to his cousins, therefore, he had the

real satisfaction of a good heart; and in settling a family of females

only in his cottage, he had all the satisfaction of a sportsman; for a

sportsman, though he esteems only those of his sex who are sportsmen

likewise, is not often desirous of encouraging their taste by

admitting them to a residence within his own manor.

Mrs. Dashwood and her daughters were met at the door of the

house by Sir John, who welcomed them to Barton Park with unaffected

sincerity; and as he attended them to the drawingroom repeated to

the young ladies the concern which the same subject had drawn from him

the day before, at being unable to get any smart young men to meet

them. They would see, he said, only one gentleman there besides

himself; a particular friend who was staying at the Park, but who

was neither very young nor very gay. He hoped they would all excuse

the smallness of the party, and could assure them it should never

happen so again. He had been to several families that morning, in

hopes of procuring some addition to their number, but it was

moonlight, and every body was full of engagements. Luckily Lady

Middleton's mother had arrived at Barton within the last hour; and

as she was a very cheerful, agreeable woman, be hoped the young ladies

would not find it so very dull as they might imagine. The young

ladies, as well as their mother, were perfectly satisfied with

having two entire strangers of the party, and wished for no more.

Mrs. Jennings, Lady Middleton's mother, was a good-humoured,

merry, fat, elderly woman, who talked a great deal, seemed very happy,

and rather vulgar. She was full of jokes and laughter, and before

dinner was over, had said many witty things on the subject of lovers

and husbands; hoped they had not left their hearts behind them in

Sussex, and pretended to see them blush whether they did or not.

Marianne was vexed at it for her sister's sake, and turned her eyes

towards Elinor to see how she bore these attacks, with an

earnestness which gave Elinor far more pain than could arise from such

common-place raillery as Mrs. Jennings's.

Colonel Brandon, the friend of Sir John, seemed no more adapted by

resemblance of manner to be his friend, than Lady Middleton was to

be his wife, or Mrs. Jennings to be Lady Middleton's mother. He was

silent and grave. His appearance, however, was not unpleasing, in

spite of his being, in the opinion of Marianne and Margaret, an

absolute old bachelor, for he was on the wrong side of

five-and-thirty; but though his face was not handsome, his countenance

was sensible, and his address was particularly gentlemanlike.

There was nothing in any of the party which could recommend them

as companions to the Dashwoods; but the cold insipidity of Lady

Middleton was so particularly repulsive, that in comparison of it

the gravity of Colonel Brandon, and even the boisterous mirth of Sir

John and his mother-in-law, was interesting. Lady Middleton seemed

to be roused to enjoyment only by the entrance of her four noisy

children after dinner, who pulled her about, tore her clothes, and put

an end to every kind of discourse except what related to themselves.

In the evening, as Marianne was discovered to be musical, she

was invited to play. The instrument was unlocked, every body

prepared to be charmed, and Marianne, who sang very well, at their

request went through the chief of the songs which Lady Middleton had

brought into the family on her marriage, and which, perhaps, had

lain ever since in the same position on the piano-forte; for or

ladyship had celebrated that event by giving up music, although, by

her mother's account, she had played extremely well, and by her own

was very fond of it.

Marianne's performance was highly applauded. Sir John was loud

in his admiration at the end of every song, and as loud in his

conversation with the others while every song lasted. Lady Middleton

frequently called him to order, wondered how any one's attention could

be diverted from music for a moment, and asked Marianne to sing a

particular song which Marianne had just finished. Colonel Brandon

alone, of all the party, heard her without being in raptures. He

paid her only the compliment of attention; and she felt a respect

for him on the occasion, which the others had reasonably forfeited

by their shameless want of taste. His pleasure in music, though it

amounted not to that ecstatic delight which alone could sympathise

with her own, was estimable when contrasted against the horrible

insensibility of the others; and she was reasonable enough to allow

that a man of five-and-thirty might well have outlived all acuteness

of feeling, and every exquisite power of enjoyment. She was

perfectly disposed to make every allowance for the colonel's

advanced state of life which humanity required.

CHAPTER VIII

MRS. JENNINGS was a widow with an ample jointure. She had only two

daughters, both of whom she had lived to see respectably married,

and she had now, therefore, nothing to do but to marry all the rest of

the world. In the promotion of this object she was zealously active,

as far as her ability reached; and missed no opportunity of projecting

weddings among all the young people of her acquaintance. She was

remarkably quick in the discovery of attachments, and had enjoyed

the advantage of raising the blushes and the vanity of many a young

lady by insinuations of her power over such a young man; and this kind

of discernment enabled her, soon after her arrival at Barton,

decisively to pronounce that Colonel Brandon was very much in love

with Marianne Dashwood. She rather suspected it to be so, on the

very first evening of their being together, from his listening so

attentively while she sang to them; and when the visit was returned by

the Middletons dining at the cottage, the fact was ascertained by

his listening to her again. It must be so. She was perfectly convinced

of it. It would be an excellent match, for he was rich, and she was

handsome. Mrs. Jennings had been anxious to see Colonel Brandon well

married, ever since her connection with Sir John first brought him

to her knowledge; and she was always anxious to get a good husband for

every pretty girl.

The immediate advantage to herself was by no means inconsiderable,

for it supplied her with endless jokes against them both. At the

Park she laughed at the colonel, and in the cottage at Marianne. To

the former her raillery was probably, as far as it regarded only

himself, perfectly indifferent; but to the latter it was at first

incomprehensible; and when its object was understood, she hardly

knew whether most to laugh at its absurdity, or censure its

impertinence; for she considered it as an unfeeling reflection on

the colonel's advanced years, and on his forlorn condition as an old

bachelor.

Mrs. Dashwood, who could not think a man five years younger than

herself so exceedingly ancient as he appeared to the youthful fancy of

her daughter, ventured to clear Mrs. Jennings from the probability

of wishing to throw ridicule on his age.

"But at least, mamma, you cannot deny the absurdity of the

accusation, though you may not think it intentionally ill-natured.

Colonel Brandon is certainly younger than Mrs. Jennings, but he is old

enough to be my father; and if he were ever animated enough to be in

love, must have long outlived every sensation of the kind. It is too

ridiculous! When is a man to be safe from such wit, if age and

infirmity will not protect him?"

"Infirmity!" said Elinor, "do you call Colonel Brandon infirm? I

can easily suppose that his age may appear much greater to you than to

my mother; but you can hardly deceive yourself as to his having the

use of his limbs!"

"Did not you hear him complain of the rheumatism? and is not

that the commonest infirmity of declining life?"

"My dearest child," said her mother, laughing, "at this rate you

must be in continual terror of my decay; and it must seem to you a

miracle that my life has been extended to the advanced age of forty."

"Mamma, you are not doing me justice. I know very well that

Colonel Brandon is not old enough to make his friends yet apprehensive

of losing him in the course of nature. He may live twenty years

longer. But thirty-five has nothing to do with matrimony."

"Perhaps," said Elinor, "thirty-five and seventeen had better

not have any thing to do with matrimony together. But if there

should by any chance happen to be a woman who is single at

seven-and-twenty, I should not think Colonel Brandon's being

thirty-five any objection to his marrying her."

"A woman of seven-and-twenty," said Marianne, after pausing a

moment, "can never hope to feel or inspire affection again, and if her

home be uncomfortable, or her fortune small, I can suppose that she

might bring herself to submit to the offices of a nurse, for the

sake of the provision and security of a wife. In his marrying such a

woman, therefore, there would be nothing unsuitable. It would be a

compact of convenience, and the world would be satisfied. In my eyes

it would be no marriage at all, but that would be nothing. To me it

would seem only a commercial exchange, in which each wished to be

benefited at the expense of the other."

"It would be impossible, I know," replied Elinor, "to convince you

that a woman of seven-and-twenty could feel for a man of thirty-five

anything near enough to love, to make him a desirable companion to

her. But I must object to your dooming Colonel Brandon and his wife to

the constant confinement of a sick chamber, merely because he

chanced to complain yesterday (a very cold damp day), of a slight

rheumatic feel in one of his shoulders."

"But he talked of flannel waistcoats," said Marianne; "and with me

a flannel waistcoat is invariably connected with aches, cramps,

rheumatisms, and every species of ailment that can afflict the old and

the feeble."

"Had he been only in a violent fever, you would not have

despised him half so much. Confess, Marianne, is not there something

interesting to you in the flushed cheek, hollow eye, and quick pulse

of a fever?"

Soon after this, upon Elinor's leaving the room, "Mamma," said

Marianne, "I have an alarm on the subject of illness which I cannot

conceal from you. I am sure Edward Ferrars is not well. We have now

been here almost a fortnight, and yet he does not come. Nothing but

real indisposition could occasion this extraordinary delay. What

else can detain him at Norland?"

"Had you any idea of his coming so soon?" said Mrs. Dashwood. "I

had none. On the contrary, if I have felt any anxiety at all on the

subject, it has been in recollecting that he sometimes showed a want

of pleasure and readiness in accepting my invitation, when I talked of

his coming to Barton. Does Elinor expect him already?"

"I have never mentioned it to her, but of course she must."

"I rather think you are mistaken, for when I was talking to her

yesterday of getting a new grate for the spare bed-chamber, she

observed that there was no immediate hurry for it, as it was not

likely that the room would be wanted for some time."

"How strange this is! what can be the meaning of it! But the whole

of their behaviour to each other has been unaccountable! How cold, how

composed were their last adieus! How languid their conversation the

last evening of their being together! In Edward's farewell there was

no distinction between Elinor and me: it was the good wishes of an

affectionate brother to both. Twice did I leave them purposely

together in the course of the last morning, and each time did he

most unaccountably follow me out of the room. And Elinor, in quitting

Norland and Edward, cried not as I did. Even now her self-command is

invariable. When is she dejected or melancholy? When does she try to

avoid society, or appear restless and dissatisfied in it?"

CHAPTER IX

THE Dashwoods were now settled at Barton with tolerable comfort to

themselves. The house and the garden, with all the objects surrounding

them, were now become familiar, and the ordinary pursuits which had

given to Norland half its charms were engaged in again with far

greater enjoyment than Norland had been able to afford since the

loss of their father. Sir John Middleton, who called on them every day

for the first fortnight, and who was not in the habit of seeing much

occupation at home, could not conceal his amazement on finding them

always employed.

Their visitors, except those from Barton Park, were not many; for,

in spite of Sir John's urgent entreaties that they would mix more in

the neighbourhood, and repeated assurances of his carriage being

always at their service, the independence of Mrs. Dashwood's spirit

overcame the wish of society for her children; and she was resolute in

declining to visit any family beyond the distance of a walk. There

were but few who could be so classed; and it was not all of them

that were attainable. About a mile and a half from the cottage,

along the narrow winding valley of Allenham, which issued from that of

Barton, as formerly described, the girls had, in one of their earliest

walks, discovered an ancient respectable-looking mansion, which, by

reminding them a little of Norland, interested their imagination and

made them wish to be better acquainted with it. But they learnt, on

enquiry, that its possessor, an elderly lady of very good character,

was unfortunately too infirm to mix with the world, and never

stirred from home.

The whole country about them abounded in beautiful walks. The high

downs, which invited them from almost every window of the cottage to

seek the exquisite enjoyment of air on their summits, were a happy

alternative when the dirt of the valleys beneath shut up their

superior beauties; and towards one of these hills did Marianne and

Margaret one memorable morning direct their steps, attracted by the

partial sunshine of a showery sky, and unable longer to bear the

confinement which the settled rain of the two preceding days had

occasioned. The weather was not tempting enough to draw the two others

from their pencil and their book, in spite of Marianne's declaration

that the day would be lastingly fair, and that every threatening cloud

would be drawn off from their hills; and the two girls set off

together.

They gaily ascended the downs, rejoicing in their own

penetration at every glimpse of blue sky; and when they caught in

their faces the animating gales of a high southwesterly wind, they

pitied the fears which had prevented their mother and Elinor from

sharing such delightful sensations.

"Is there a felicity in the world," said Marianne, "superior to

this?- Margaret, we will walk here at least two hours."

Margaret agreed, and they pursued their way against the wind,

resisting it with laughing delight for about twenty minutes longer,

when suddenly the clouds united over their heads, and a driving rain

set full in their face. Chagrined and surprised, they were obliged,

though unwillingly, to turn back, for no shelter was nearer than their

own house. One consolation, however, remained for them, to which the

exigence of the moment gave more than usual propriety,- it was that of

running with all possible speed down the steep side of the hill

which led immediately to their garden gate.

They set off. Marianne had at first the advantage, but a false

step brought her suddenly to the ground; and Margaret, unable to

stop herself to assist her, was involuntarily hurried along, and

reached the bottom in safety.

A gentleman carrying a gun, with two pointers playing round him,

was passing up the hill, and within a few yards of Marianne, when

her accident happened. He put down his gun and ran to her

assistance. She had raised herself from the ground, but her foot had

been twisted in her fall, and she was scarcely able to stand. The

gentleman offered his services; and perceiving that her modesty

declined what her situation rendered necessary, took her up in his

arms, without farther delay, and carried her down the hill. Then

passing through the garden, the gate of which had been left open by

Margaret, he bore her directly into the house, whither Margaret was

just arrived, and quitted not his hold till he had seated her in a

chair in the parlour.

Elinor and her mother rose up in amazement at their entrance;

and while the eyes of both were fixed on him with an evident wonder

and a secret admiration which equally sprung from his appearance, he

apologised for his intrusion by relating its cause, in a manner so

frank and so graceful that his person, which was uncommonly

handsome, received additional charms from his voice and expression.

Had he been even old, ugly, and vulgar, the gratitude and kindness

of Mrs. Dashwood would have been secured by an act of attention to her

child; but the influence of youth, beauty, and elegance, gave an

interest to the action which came home to her feelings.

She thanked him again and again; and, with a sweetness of

address which always attended her, invited him to be seated. But

this he declined, as he was dirty and wet. Mrs. Dashwood then begged

to know to whom she was obliged. His name, he replied, was Willoughby,

and his present home was at Allenham, from whence he hoped she would

allow him the honour of calling to-morrow to enquire after Miss

Dashwood. The honour was readily granted, and he then departed, to

make himself still more interesting, in the midst of a heavy rain.

His manly beauty and more than common gracefulness were

instantly the theme of general admiration; and the laugh which his

gallantry raised against Marianne received particular spirit from

his exterior attractions. Marianne herself had seen less of his person

that the rest, for the confusion which crimsoned over her face, on his

lifting her up, had robbed her of the power of regarding him after

their entering the house. But she bad seen enough of him to join in

all the admiration of the others, and with an energy which always

adorned her praise. His person and air were equal to what her fancy

had ever drawn for the hero of a favourite story; and in his

carrying her into the house with so little previous formality there

was a rapidity of thought which particularly recommended the action to

her. Every circumstance belonging to him was interesting. His name was

good, his residence was in their favourite village, and she soon found

out that of all manly dresses a shooting-jacket was the most becoming.

Her imagination was busy, her reflections were pleasant, and the

pain of a sprained ankle was disregarded.

Sir John called on them as soon as the next interval of fair

weather that morning allowed him to get out of doors; and Marianne's

accident being related to him, he was eagerly asked whether he knew

any gentleman of the name of Willoughby at Allenham.

"Willoughby!" cried Sir John; "what, is he in the country? That is

good news however? I will ride over to-morrow, and ask him to dinner

on Thursday."

"You know him, then," said Mrs. Dashwood.

"Know him? to be sure I do. Why, he is down here every year."

"And what sort of a young man is he?"

"As good a kind of fellow as ever lived, I assure you. A very

decent shot, and there is not a bolder rider in England."

"And is that all you can say for him?" cried Marianne,

indignantly. "But what are his manners on more intimate

acquaintance? What his pursuits, his talents, and genius?"

Sir John was rather puzzled.

"Upon my soul," said he, "I do not know much about him as to all

that. But he is a pleasant, good-humoured fellow, and has got the

nicest little black bitch of a pointer I ever saw. Was she out with

him to-day?"

But Marianne could no more satisfy him as to the colour of Mr.

Willoughby's pointer, than he could describe to her the shades of

his mind.

"But who is he?" said Elinor. "Where does he come from? Has he a

house at Allenham?"

On this point Sir John could give more certain intelligence; and

he told them that Mr. Willoughby had no property of his own in the

country; that he resided there only while he was visiting the old lady

at Allenham Court, to whom he was related, and whose possessions he

was to inherit; adding, "Yes, yes, he is very well worth catching I

can tell you, Miss Dashwood; he has a pretty little estate of his own,

in Somersetshire besides; and if I were you, I would not give him up

to my younger sister, in spite of all this tumbling down hills. Miss

Marianne must not expect to have all the men to herself. Brandon

will be jealous, if she does not take care."

"I do not believe," said Mrs. Dashwood, with a good-humoured

smile, "that Mr. Willoughby will be incommoded by the attempts of

either of my daughters, towards what you call catching him. It is

not an employment to which they have been brought up. Men are very

safe with us, let them be ever so rich. I am glad to find, however,

from what you say, that he is a respectable young man, and one whose

acquaintance will not be ineligible."

"He is as good a sort of fellow, I believe, as ever lived,"

repeated Sir John. "I remember last Christmas, at a little hop at

the Park, he danced from eight o'clock till four without once

sitting down."

"Did he, indeed?" cried Marianne, with sparkling eyes; "and with

elegance, with spirit?"

"Yes; and he was up again at eight to ride to covert."

"That is what I like; that is what a young man ought to be.

Whatever be his pursuits, his eagerness in them should know no

moderation, and leave him no sense of fatigue."

"Ay, ay, I see how it will be," said Sir John, "I see how it

will be. You will be setting your cap at him now, and never think of

poor Brandon."

"That is an expression, Sir John," said Marianne, warmly, "which I

particularly dislike. I abhor every common-place phrase by which wit

is intended; and 'setting one's cap at a man,' or 'making a conquest,'

are the most odious of all. Their tendency is gross and illiberal; and

if their construction could ever be deemed clever, time has long ago

destroyed all its ingenuity."

Sir John did not much understand this reproof; but he laughed as

heartily as if he did, and then replied,-

"Ay, you will make conquests enough, I dare say, one way or other.

Poor Brandon? he is quite smitten already; and he is very well worth

setting your cap at, I can tell you, in spite of all this tumbling

about and spraining of ankles."

CHAPTER X

MARIANNE'S preserver, as Margaret, with more elegance than

precision, styled Willoughby, called at the cottage early the next

morning, to make his personal enquiries. He was received by Mrs.

Dashwood with more than politeness; with a kindness which Sir John's

account of him and her own gratitude prompted; and every thing that

passed during the visit tended to assure him of the sense, elegance,

mutual affection, and domestic comfort of the family, to whom accident

had now introduced him. Of their personal charms he had not required a

second interview to be convinced.

Miss Dashwood had a delicate complexion, regular features, and a

remarkably pretty figure. Marianne was still handsomer. Her form,

though not so correct as her sister's, in having the advantage of

height, was more striking; and her face was so lovely, that when, in

the common cant of praise, she was called a beautiful girl, truth

was less violently outraged than usually happens. Her skin was very

brown, but, from its transparency, her complexion was uncommonly

brilliant; her features were all good; her smile was sweet and

attractive; and in her eyes, which were very dark, there was a life, a

spirit, an eagerness, which could hardily be seen without delight.

From Willoughby their expression was at first held back, by the

embarrassment which the remembrance of his assistance created. But

when this passed away, when her spirits became collected, when she saw

that to the perfect good breeding of the gentleman, he united

frankness and vivacity, and above all, when she heard him declare,

that of music and dancing he was passionately fond, she gave him

such a look of approbation, as secured the largest share of his

discourse to herself for the rest of his stay.

It was only necessary to mention any favourite amusement to engage

her to talk. She could not be silent when such points were introduced,

and she had neither shyness nor reserve in their discussion. They

speedily discovered that their enjoyment of dancing and music was

mutual, and that it arose from a general conformity of judgment in all

that related to either. Encouraged by this to a further examination of

his opinions, she proceeded to question him on the subject of books:

her favourite authors were brought forward and dwelt upon with so

rapturous a delight, that any young man of five-and-twenty must have

been insensible indeed, not to become an immediate convert to the

excellence of such works, however disregarded before. Their taste

was strikingly alike. The same books, the same passages were

idolised by each; or if any difference appeared, any objection

arose, it lasted no longer than till the force of her arguments and

the brightness of her eyes could be displayed. He acquiesced in all

her decisions, caught all her enthusiasm; and long before his visit

concluded, they conversed with the familiarity of a long established

acquaintance.

"Well, Marianne," said Elinor, as soon as he had left them, "for

one morning I think you have done pretty well. You have already

ascertained Mr. Willoughby's opinion in almost every matter of

importance. You know what he thinks of Cowper and Scott; you are

certain of his estimating their beauties as he ought, and you have

received every assurance of his admiring Pope no more than is

proper. But how is your acquaintance to be long supported, under

such extraordinary despatch of every subject for discourse? You will

soon have exhausted each favourite topic. Another meeting will suffice

to explain his sentiments on picturesque beauty, and second marriages,

and then you can have nothing farther to ask."

"Elinor," cried Marianne, "is this fair? is this just? are my

ideas so scanty? But I see what you mean. I have been too much at my

ease, too happy, too frank. I have erred against every common-place

notion of decorum; I have been open and sincere where I ought to

have been reserved, spiritless, dull, and deceitful:- had I talked

only of the weather and the roads, and had I spoken only once in ten

minutes, this reproach would have been spared."

"My love," said her mother, "you must not be offended with Elinor-

she was only in jest. I should scold her myself, if she were capable

of wishing to check the delight of your conversation with our new

friend." Marianne was softened in a moment.

Willoughby, on his side, gave every proof of his pleasure in their

acquaintance, which an evident wish of improving it could offer. He

came to them every day. To enquire after Marianne was at first his

excuse; but the encouragement of his reception, to which every day

gave greater kindness, made such an excuse unnecessary before it had

ceased to be possible, by Marianne's perfect recovery. She was

confined for some days to the house; but never had any confinement

been less irksome. Willoughby was a young man of good abilities, quick

imagination, lively spirits, and open, affectionate manners. He was

exactly formed to engage Marianne's heart; for with all this, he

joined not only a captivating person, but a natural ardour of mind

which was now roused and increased by the example of her own, and

which recommended him to her affection beyond everything else.

His society became gradually her most exquisite enjoyment. They

read, they talked, they sang together; his musical talents were

considerable; and he read with all the sensibility and spirit which

Edward had unfortunately wanted.

In Mrs. Dashwood's estimation he was as faultless as in

Marianne's; and Elinor saw nothing to censure in him but a propensity,

in which he strongly resembled and peculiarly delighted her sister, of

saying too much what he thought on every occasion, without attention

to persons or circumstances. In hastily forming and giving his opinion

of other people, in sacrificing general politeness to the enjoyment of

undivided attention where his heart was engaged, and in slighting

too easily the forms of worldly propriety, he displayed a want of

caution which Elinor could not approve, in spite of all that he and

Marianne could say in its support.

Marianne began now to perceive that the desperation which bad

seized her at sixteen and a half, of ever seeing a man who could

satisfy her ideas of perfection, had been rash and unjustifiable.

Willoughby was all that her fancy had delineated in that unhappy hour,

and in every brighter period, as capable of attaching her; and his

behaviour declared his wishes to be in that respect as earnest as

his abilities were strong.

Her mother, too, in whose mind not one speculative thought of

their marriage had been raised, by his prospect of riches, was led

before the end of a week to hope and expect it; and secretly to

congratulate herself on having gained two such sons-in-law as Edward

and Willoughby.

Colonel Brandon's partiality for Marianne, which had so early been

discovered by his friends, now first became perceptible to Elinor,

when it ceased to be noticed by them. Their attention and wit were

drawn off to his more fortunate rival; and the raillery which the

other had incurred before any partiality arose was removed when his

feelings began really to call for the ridicule so justly annexed to

sensibility. Elinor was obliged, though unwillingly, to believe that

the sentiments which Mrs. Jennings had assigned him for her own

satisfaction were now actually excited by her sister; and that however

a general resemblance of disposition between the parties might forward

the affection of Mr. Willoughby, an equally striking opposition of

character was no hindrance to the regard of Colonel Brandon. She saw

it with concern; for what could a silent man of five-and-thirty

hope, when opposed to a very lively one of five-and-twenty? and as she

could not even wish him successful, she heartily wished him

indifferent. She liked him- in spite of his gravity and reserve, she

beheld in him an object of interest. His manners, though serious, were

mild; and his reserve appeared rather the result of some oppression of

spirits than of any natural gloominess of temper. Sir John had dropped

hints of past injuries and disappointments, which justified her belief

of his being an unfortunate man, and she regarded him with respect and

compassion.

Perhaps she pitied and esteemed him the more because he was

slighted by Willoughby and Marianne, who, prejudiced against him for

being neither lively nor young, seemed resolved to undervalue his

merits.

"Brandon is just the kind of man," said Willoughby one day, when

they were talking of him together, "whom every body speaks well of and

nobody cares about; whom all are delighted to see, and nobody

remembers to talk to."

"That is exactly what I think of him," cried Marianne.

"Do not boast of it, however," said Elinor, "for it is injustice

in both of you. He is highly esteemed by all the family at the Park,

and I never see him myself without taking pains to converse with him."

"That he is patronised by you," replied Willoughby, "is

certainly in his favour; but as for the esteem of the others, it is

a reproach in itself. Who would submit to the indignity of being

approved by such a woman as Lady Middleton and Mrs. Jennings, that

could command the indifference of any body else?"

"But perhaps the abuse of such people as yourself and Marianne

will make amends for the regard of Lady Middleton and her mother. If

their praise is censure, your censure may be praise, for they are

not more undiscerning, than you are prejudiced and unjust."

"In defence of your protege you can even be saucy."

"My protege, as you call him, is a sensible man; and sense will

always have attractions for me. Yes, Marianne, even in a man between

thirty and forty. He has seen a great deal of the world; has been

abroad, has read, and has a thinking mind. I have found him capable of

giving me much information on various subjects; and he has always

answered my enquiries with readiness of good breeding and good

nature."

"That is to say," cried Marianne contemptuously, "he has told you,

that in the East Indies the climate is hot, and the mosquitoes are

troublesome."

"He would have told me so, I doubt not, had I made any such

enquiries, but they happened to be points on which I had been

previously informed."

"Perhaps," said Willoughby, "his observations may have extended to

the existence of nabobs, gold mohrs, and palanquins."

"I may venture to say that his observations have stretched much

further than your candour. But why should you dislike him?"

"I do not dislike him. I consider him, on the contrary as a very

respectable man, who has every body's good word, and nobody's

notice; who, has more money than he can spend, more time than he knows

how to employ, and two new coats every year."

"Add to which," cried Marianne, "that he has neither genius,

taste, nor spirit. That his understanding has no brilliancy, his

feelings ardour, and his voice no expression."

"You decide on his imperfections so much in the mass," replied

Elinor, "and so much on the strength of your own imagination, that the

commendation I am able to give of him is comparatively cold and

insipid. I can only pronounce him to be a sensible man, well-bred,

well-informed, of gentle address, and, I believe, possessing an

amiable heart."

"Miss Dashwood," cried Willoughby, "you are now using me unkindly.

You are endeavouring to disarm me by reason, and to convince me

against my will. But it will not do. You shall find me as stubborn

as you can be artful. I have three unanswerable reasons for

disliking Colonel Brandon; he threatened me with rain when I wanted it

to be fine; he has found fault with the hanging of my curricle, and

I cannot persuade him to buy my brown mare. If it will be any

satisfaction to you, however, to be told, that I believe his character

to be in other respects irreproachable, I am ready to confess it.

And in return for an acknowledgment, which must give me some pain, you

cannot deny me the privilege of disliking him as much as ever."

CHAPTER XI

LITTLE had Mrs. Dashwood or her daughters imagined, when they

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

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

have such frequent invitations and such constant visitors as to

leave them little leisure for serious employment. Yet such was the

case. When Marianne was recovered, the schemes of amusement at home

and abroad, which Sir John had been previously forming, were put

into execution. The private balls at the Park then began and parties

on the water were made and accomplished as often as a showery

October would allow. In every meeting of the kind Willoughby was

included; and the ease and familiarity which naturally attended

these parties were exactly calculated to give increasing intimacy to

his acquaintance with the Dashwoods, to afford him opportunity of

witnessing the excellencies of Marianne, of marking his animated

admiration of her, and of receiving, in her behaviour to himself,

the most pointed assurance of her affection.

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

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

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

abhorred all concealment where no real disgrace could attend

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

themselves illaudable, appeared to her not merely an unnecessary

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

mistaken notions. Willoughby thought the same; and their behaviour

at all times, was an illustration of their opinions.

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

thing he did was right. Every thing he said was clever. If their

evenings at the Park were concluded with cards, he cheated himself and

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

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

and when obliged to separate for a couple of dances, were careful to

stand together, and scarcely spoke a word to any body else. Such

conduct made them, of course, most exceedingly laughed at; but

ridicule could not shame, and seemed hardly to provoke them.

Mrs. Dashwood entered into all their feelings with a warmth

which left her no inclination for checking this excessive display of

them. To her it was but the natural consequence of a strong

affection in a young and ardent mind.

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

devoted to Willoughby; and the fond attachment to Norland, which she

brought with her from Sussex, was more likely to be softened than

she had thought it possible before by the charms which his society

bestowed on her present home.

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

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

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

behind, nor that could teach her to think of Norland with less

regret than ever. Neither Lady Middleton nor Mrs. Jennings could

supply to her the conversation she missed; although the latter was

an everlasting talker, and from the first had regarded her with a

kindness which ensured her a large share of her discourse. She had

already repeated her own history to Elinor three or four times! and

had Elinor's memory been equal to her means of improvement, she

might have known, very early in her acquaintance, all the

particulars of Mr. Jenning's last illness, and what he said to his

wife a few minutes before he died. Lady Middleton was more agreeable

than her mother only in being more silent. Elinor needed little

observation to perceive that her reserve was a mere calmness of

manner, with which sense had nothing to do. Towards her husband and

mother she was the same as to them; and intimacy was, therefore,

neither to be looked for nor desired. She had nothing to say one day

that she had not said the day before. Her insipidity was invariable,

for even her spirits were always the same; and though she did not

oppose the parties arranged by her husband, provided everything were

conducted in style, and her two eldest children attended her, she

never appeared to receive more enjoyment from them than she might have

experienced in sitting at home; and so little did her presence add

to the pleasure of the others, by any share in their conversation,

that they were sometimes only reminded of her being amongst them by

her solicitude about her troublesome boys.

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

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

abilities, excite the interest of friendship, or give pleasure as a

companion. Willoughby was out of the question. Her admiration and

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

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

might have been more generally pleasing. Colonel Brandon,

unfortunately for himself, had no such encouragement to think only

of Marianne, and in conversing with Elinor he found consolation for

the indifference of her sister.

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

suspect that the misery of disappointed love had already been known to

him. This suspicion was given by some words which accidently dropped

from him one evening at the Park, when they were sitting down together

by mutual consent, while the others were dancing. His eyes were

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

a faint smile, "Your sister, I understand, does not approve of

second attachments."

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

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

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

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

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

reasonable basis of common sense and observation; and then they may be

more easy to define and to justify than they now are, by any body

but herself."

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her systems have all the unfortunate tendency of setting propriety

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

forward to as her greatest possible advantage."

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

"Does your sister make no distinction in her objections against

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

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

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

to be equally indifferent during the rest of their lives?"

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

principles. I only know that I never yet heard her admit any

instance of a second attachment's being pardonable."

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

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

young mind are obliged to give way, how frequently are they succeeded by such

opinions as are but too common and too dangerous! I speak from experience. I

once knew a lady who in temper and mind greatly resembled your sister, who

thought and judged like her, but who from an enforced change- from a series

of unfortunate circumstances-" Here he stopt suddenly; appeared to think that

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

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

passed without suspicion had he not convinced Miss Dashwood that what

concerned her ought not to escape his lips. As it was, it required but a

slight effort of fancy to connect his emotion with the tender recollection of

past regard. Elinor attempted no more. But Marianne, in her place, would not

have done so little. The whole story would have been speedily formed under

her active imagination; and every thing established in the most melancholy

order of disastrous love.

CHAPTER XII

AS Elinor and Marianne were walking together the next morning

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

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

thought, surprised her by its extravagant testimony of both.

Marianne told her, with the greatest delight, that Willoughby had

given her a horse, one that he had bred himself on his estate in

Somersetshire, and which was exactly calculated to carry a woman.

Without considering that it was not in her mother's plan to keep any

horse, that if she were to alter her resolution in favour of this

gift, she must buy another for the servant, and keep a servant to ride

it, and after all, build a stable to receive them, she had accepted

the present without hesitation, and told her sister of it in raptures.

"He intends to send his groom into Somersetshire immediately for

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

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

delight of a gallop on some of these downs."

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

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

for some time she refused to submit to them. As to an additional

servant, the expense would be a trifle; mamma she was sure would never

object to it; and any horse would do for him; he might always get

one at the Park; as to a stable, the merest shed would be

sufficient. Elinor then ventured to doubt the propriety of her

receiving such a present from a man so little, or at least so

lately, known to her. This was too much.

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

very little of Willoughby. I have not known him long indeed; but I

am much better acquainted with him than I am with any other creature

in the world, except yourself and mamma. It is not time or opportunity

that is to determine intimacy; it is disposition alone. Seven years

would be insufficient to make some people acquainted with each

other, and seven days are more than enough for others. I should hold

myself guilty of greater impropriety in accepting a horse from my

brother than from Willoughby. Of John I know very little, though we

have lived together for years; but of Willoughby my judgment has

long been formed."

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

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

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

her mother, by representing the inconveniences which that indulgent

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

consented to this increase of establishment, Marianne was shortly

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

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

him next, that it must be declined.

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

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

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

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

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

impossible. His concern, however, was very apparent; and after

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

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

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

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

receive you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

discover it by accident.

Margaret related something to her the next day, which placed

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

preceding evening with them; and Margaret, by being left some time

in the parlour with only him and Marianne, had had opportunity for

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

her eldest sister, when they were next by themselves.

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

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

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

first met on Highchurch Down; and they had not known each other a

week, I believe, before you were certain that Marianne wore his

picture round her neck; but it turned out to be only the miniature

of our great uncle."

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

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

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

uncle of his."

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

for I saw him cut it off. Last night, after tea, when you and mamma

went out of the room, they were whispering and talking together as

fast as could be, and he seemed to be begging something of her, and

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

for it was all tumbled down her back; and he kissed it, and folded

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

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

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

circumstance was in perfect unison with what she had heard and seen

herself.

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

satisfactory to her sister. When Mrs. Jennings attacked her one

evening at the Park, to give the name of the young man who was

Elinor's particular favourite, which had been long a matter of great

curiosity to her, Margaret answered by looking at her sister, and

saying, "I must not tell, may I, Elinor?"

This of course made everybody laugh; and Elinor tried to laugh

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

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

become a standing joke with Mrs. Jennings.

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

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

to Margaret-

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

to repeat them."

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

was you who told me of it yourself."

This increased the mirth of the company, and Margaret was

eagerly pressed to say something more.

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

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

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

know where he is too."

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

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

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

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

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

in existence."

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

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

Most grateful did Elinor feel to Lady Middleton for observing,

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

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

her ladyship's great dislike of all such inelegant subjects of

raillery as delighted her husband and mother. The idea, however,

started by her, was immediately pursued by Colonel Brandon, who was on

every occasion mindful of the feelings of others; and much was said on

the subject of rain by both of them. Willoughby opened the

piano-forte, and asked Marianne to sit down to it; and thus amidst the

various endeavours of different people to quit the topic it fell to

the ground. But not so easily did Elinor recover from the alarm into

which it had thrown her.

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

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

to a brother-in-law of Colonel Brandon, without whose interest it

could not be seen, as the proprietor, who was then abroad, had left

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

beautiful; and Sir John, who was particularly warm in their praise,

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

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

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

form a great part of the morning's amusement: cold provisions were

to be taken, open carriages only to be employed, and everything

conducted in the usual style of a complete party of pleasure.

To some few of the company it appeared rather a bold

undertaking, considering the time of year, and that it had rained

every day for the last fortnight; and Mrs. Dashwood, who had already a

cold, was persuaded by Elinor to stay at home.

CHAPTER XIII

THEIR intended excursion to Whitwell turned out very differently

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

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

for they did not go at all.

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

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

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

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

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

greatest inconveniences and hardships rather than be otherwise.

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

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

direction, changed colour, and immediately left the room.

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

Nobody could tell.

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

be something extraordinary that could make Colonel Brandon leave my

breakfast table so suddenly."

In about five minutes he returned.

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

he entered the room.

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

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

is worse?"

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

business."

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

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

the truth of it."

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

saying."

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

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

"No, indeed, it is not."

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

well."

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

"Oh! you know who I mean."

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

Middleton, "that I should receive this letter to-day, for it is on

business which requires my immediate attendance in town."

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

at this time of year?"

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

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

presence is necessary to gain your admittance at Whitwell."

What a blow upon them all was this!

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

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

He shook his head.

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

are so near it. You cannot go to town till to-morrow, Brandon, that is

all."

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

to delay my journey for one day!"

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

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

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

were to defer your journey till our return."

"I cannot afford to lose one hour."

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

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

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

invented this trick for getting out of it. I would lay fifty guineas

the letter was of his own writing."

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

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

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

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

the two Miss Careys come over from Newton, the three Misses Dashwood

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

his usual time, on purpose to go to Whitwell."

Colonel Brandon again repeated his sorrow at being the cause of

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

unavoidable.

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

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

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

to Whitwell till you return."

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

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

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

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

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

you may find out what his business is."

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

something he is ashamed of."

Colonel Brandon's horses were announced.

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

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

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

you had better change your mind."

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

He then took leave of the whole party.

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

winter, Miss Dashwood?"

"I am afraid, none at all."

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

to do."

To Marianne, he merely bowed and said nothing.

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

what you are going about."

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

the room.

The complaints and lamentations which politeness had hitherto

restrained now burst forth universally; and they all agreed again

and again how provoking it was to be so disappointed.

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

exultingly.

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

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

"And who is Miss Williams?" asked Marianne.

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

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

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

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

Elinor, "She is his natural daughter."

"Indeed!"

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

will leave her all his fortune."

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

regret on so unfortunate an event; concluding, however, by

observing, that as they were all got together, they must do

something by way of being happy; and after some consultation it was

agreed, that although happiness could only be enjoyed at Whitwell,

they might procure a tolerable composure of mind by driving about

the country. The carriages were then ordered; Willoughby's was