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 first, and
Marianne never looked happier than when she got into it. He drove through the
park very fast, and they were soon out of sight; and nothing more of them was
seen till their return, which did not happen till after the return of all the
rest. They both seemed delighted with their drive; but said only in general
terms that they had kept in the lanes, while the others went on the downs.
It was settled that there should be a dance in the evening, and
that every body should be extremely merry all day long. Some more of the Careys
came to dinner; and they had the pleasure of sitting down nearly twenty to table,
which Sir John observed with great contentment. Willoughby took his usual place
between the two elder Misses Dashwood. Mrs. Jennings sat on Elinor's right-hand;
and they had not been long seated, before she lent behind her and Willoughby,
and said to Marianne, loud enough for them both to hear, "I have found you out
in spite of all your tricks. I know where you spent the morning."
Marianne coloured, and replied very hastily, "Where, pray."
"Did not you know," said Willoughby, "that we had been out in my
curricle?"
"Yes, yes, Mr. Impudence, I know that very well, and I was
determined to find out where you had been to. I hope you like your house, Miss
Marianne. It is a very large one, I know; and when I come to see you, I hope you
will have new-furnished it, for it wanted it very much when I was there six
years ago."
Marianne turned away in great confusion. Mrs. Jennings laughed
heartily; and Elinor found that in her resolution to know where they had been,
she had actually made her own woman enquire of Mr. Willoughby's groom; and that
she had by that method been informed that they had gone to Allenham, and spent a
considerable time there in walking about the garden, and going all over the
house.
Elinor could hardly believe this to be true; as it seemed very
unlikely that Willoughby should propose, or Marianne consent, to enter the house
while Mrs. Smith was in it, with whom Marianne had not the smallest acquaintance.
As soon as they left the dining-room, Elinor enquired of her about
it; and great was her surprise when she found that every circumstance related by
Mrs. Jennings was perfectly true. Marianne was quite angry with her for doubting
it.
"Why should you imagine, Elinor, that we did not go there, or that
we did not see the house? Is not it what you have often wished to do yourself?"
"Yes, Marianne, but I would not go while Mrs. Smith was there, and
with no other companion than Mr. Willoughby."
"Mr. Willoughby, however, is the only person who can have a right
to show that house; and as he went in an open carriage, it was impossible to
have any other companion. I never spent a pleasanter morning in my life."
"I am afraid," replied Elinor, "that the pleasantness of an
employment does not always evince its propriety."
"On the contrary, nothing can be a stronger proof of it, Elinor;
for if there had been any real impropriety in what I did, I should have been
sensible of it at the time, for we always know when we are acting wrong, and
with such a conviction I could have had no pleasure."
"But, my dear Marianne, as it has already exposed you to some very
impertinent remarks, do you not now begin to doubt the discretion of your own
conduct?"
"If the impertinent remarks of Mrs. Jennings are to be the proof of
impropriety in conduct, we are all offending every moment of our lives. I value
not her censure any more than I should do her commendation. I am not sensible of
having done anything wrong in walking over Mrs. Smith's grounds, or in seeing
her house. They will one day be Mr. Willoughby's, and-"
"If they were one day to be your own, Marianne, you would not be
justified in what you have done."
She blushed at this hint; but it was even visibly gratifying to her;
and after a ten minutes' interval of earnest thought, she came to her sister
again, and said with great good humour, "Perhaps, Elinor, it was rather ill-
judged in me to go to Allenham; but Mr. Willoughby wanted particularly to show
me the place; and it is a charming house, I assure you. There is one remarkably
pretty sitting room up stairs; of a nice comfortable size for constant use, and
with modern furniture it would be delightful. It is a corner room, and has
windows on two sides. On one side you look across the bowling-green, behind the
house, to a beautiful hanging wood, and on the other you have a view of the
church and village, and, beyond them, of those fine bold hills that we have so
often admired. I did not see it to advantage, for nothing could be more forlorn
than the furniture; but if it were newly fitted up- a couple of hundred pounds,
Willoughby says, would make it one of the pleasantest summer-rooms in England."
Could Elinor have listened to her without interruption from the
others, she would have described every room in the house with equal delight.
CHAPTER XIV
THE sudden termination of Colonel Brandon's visit at the Park, with
his steadiness in concealing its cause, filled the mind, and raised the wonder,
of Mrs. Jennings for two or three days: she was a great wonderer, as every one
must be who takes a very lively interest in all the comings and goings of all
their acquaintance. She wondered, with little intermission, what could be the
reason of it; was sure there must be some bad news, and thought over every kind
of distress that could have befallen him, with a fixed determination that he
should not escape them all.
"Something very melancholy must be the matter, I am sure," said she.
"I could see it in his face. Poor man! I am afraid his circumstances may be bad.
The estate at Delaford was never reckoned more than two thousand a year, and his
brother left everything sadly involved. I do think he must have been sent for
about money matters, for what else can it be? I wonder whether it is so. I would
give anything to know the truth of it. Perhaps it is about Miss Williams- and,
by the by, I dare say it is, because he looked so conscious when I mentioned her.
May be she is ill in town; nothing in the world more likely, for I have a notion
she is always rather sickly. I would lay any wager it is about Miss Williams. It
is not so very likely he should be distressed in his circumstances now, for he
is a very prudent man, and to be sure must have cleared the estate by this time.
I wonder what it can be! May be his sister is worse at Avignon, and has sent for
him over. His setting off in such a hurry seems very like it. Well, I wish him
out of all his trouble, with all my heart, and a good wife into the bargain."
So wondered, so talked Mrs. Jennings. Her opinion varying with
every fresh conjecture, and all seeming equally probable as they arose. Elinor,
though she felt really interested in the welfare of Colonel Brandon, could not
bestow all the wonder on his going so suddenly away, which Mrs. Jennings was
desirous of her feeling; for besides that the circumstance did not, in her
opinion, justify such lasting amazement or variety of speculation, her wonder
was otherwise disposed of. It was engossed by the extraordinary silence of her
sister and Willoughby on the subject, which they must know to be peculiarly
interesting to them all. As this silence continued, every day made it appear
more strange and more incompatible with the disposition of both. Why they should
not openly acknowledge to her mother and herself, what their constant behaviour
to each other declared to have taken place, Elinor could not imagine.
She could easily conceive that marriage might not be immediately in
their power; for though Willoughby was independent, there was no reason to
believe him rich. His estate had been rated by Sir John at about six or seven
hundred a year; but he lived at an expense to which that income could hardly be
equal, and he had himself often complained of his poverty. But for this strange
kind of secrecy, maintained by them relative to their engagement, which, in fact,
concealed nothing at all, she could not account; and it was so wholly
contradictory to their general opinions and practice, that a doubt sometimes
entered her mind of their being really engaged, and this doubt was enough to
prevent her making any enquiry of Marianne.
Nothing could be more expressive of attachment to them all than
Willoughby's behaviour. To Marianne it had all the distinguishing tenderness
which a lover's heart could give, and to the rest of the family it was the
affectionate attention of a son and a brother. The cottage seemed to be
considered and loved by him as his home; many more of his hours were spent there
than at Allenham; and if no general engagement collected them at the Park, the
exercise which called him out in the morning was almost certain of ending there,
where the rest of the day was spent by himself at the side of Marianne, and by
his favourite pointer at her feet.
One evening in particular, about a week after Colonel Brandon left
the country, his heart seemed more than usually open to every feeling of
attachment to the objects around him; and on Mrs. Dashwood's happening to
mention her design of improving the cottage in the spring, he warmly opposed
every alteration of a place which affection had established as perfect with him.
"What!" he exclaimed- "improve this dear cottage! No. That I will
never consent to. Not a stone must be added to its walls, not an inch to its
size, if my feelings are regarded."
"Do not be alarmed," said Miss Dashwood, "nothing of the kind will
be done; for my mother will never have money enough to attempt it."
"I am heartily glad of it", he cried. "May she always be poor, if
she can employ her riches no better."
"Thank you, Willoughby. But you may be assured that I would not
sacrifice one sentiment of local attachment of yours, or of any one whom I love,
for all the improvements in the world. Depend upon it that whatever unemployed
sum may remain, when I make up my accounts in the spring, I would even rather
lay it uselessly by than dispose of it in a manner so painful to you. But are
you really so attached to this place as to see no defect in it?"
"I am," said he. "To me it is faultless. Nay, more, I consider it
as the only form of building in which happiness is attainable, and were I rich
enough I would instantly pull Combe down, and build it up again in the exact
plan of this cottage."
"With dark narrow stairs and a kitchen that smokes, I suppose,"
said Elinor.
"Yes," cried he in the same eager tone, "with all and every thing
belonging to it;- in no one convenience or in-convenience about it, should the
least variation be perceptible. Then, and then only, under such a roof I might
perhaps be as happy at Combe as I have been at Barton."
"I flatter myself," replied Elinor, "that, even under the
disadvantage of better rooms and a broader staircase, you will hereafter find
your own house as faultless as you now do this."
"There certainly are circumstances," said Willoughby, "which might
greatly endear it to me; but this place will always have one claim of my
affection, which no other can possibly share."
Mrs. Dashwood looked with pleasure at Marianne, whose fine eyes
were fixed so expressively on Willoughby, as plainly denoted how well she
understood him.
"How often did I wish," added he, "when I was at Allenham this time
twelvemonth, that Barton cottage were inhabited! I never passed within view of
it without admiring its situation, and grieving that no one should live in it.
How little did I then think that the very first news I should bear from Mrs.
Smith, when I next came into the country, would be that Barton cottage was taken;
and I felt an immediate satisfaction and interest in the event, which nothing
but a kind of prescience of what happiness I should experience from it can
account for. Must it not have been so, Marianne?" speaking to her in a lowered
voice. Then continuing his former tone, he said, "And yet this house you would
spoil, Mrs. Dashwood? You would rob it of its simplicity by imaginary
improvement! and this dear parlour in which our acquaintance first began, and in
which so many happy hours have been since spent by us together, you would
degrade to the condition of a common entrance, and every body would be eager to
pass through the room which has hitherto contained within itself more real
accommodation and comfort than any other apartment of the handsomest dimensions
in the world could possibly afford."
Mrs. Dashwood again assured him that no alteration of the kind
should be attempted.
"You are a good woman," he warmly replied. "Your promise makes me
easy. Extend it a little farther, and it will make me happy. Tell me that not
only your house will remain the same, but that I shall ever find you and yours
as unchanged as your dwelling; and that you will always consider me with the
kindness which has made everything belonging to you so dear to me."
The promise was readily given, and Willoughby's behaviour during
the whole of the evening declared at once his affection and happiness.
"Shall we see you to-morrow to dinner?" said Mrs. Dashwood, when he
was leaving them. "I do not ask you to come in the morning, for we must walk to
the Park, to call on Lady Middleton."
He engaged to be with them by four o'clock.
CHAPTER XV
MRS. DASHWOOD'S visit to Middleton took place the next day, and two
of her daughters went with her; but Marianne excused herself from being of the
party, under some trifling pretext of employment; and her mother, who concluded
that a promise had been made by Willoughby the night before of calling on her
while they were absent, was perfectly satisfied with her remaining at home.
On their return from the Park they found Willoughby's curricle and
servant in waiting at the cottage, and Mrs. Dashwood was convinced that her
conjecture had been just. So far it was all as she had foreseen; but on entering
the house she beheld what no foresight had taught her to expect. They were no
sooner in the passage than Marianne came hastily out of the parlour apparently
in violent affliction, with her handkerchief at her eyes, and without noticing
them ran up stairs. Surprised and alarmed, they proceeded directly into the room
she had just quitted, where they found only Willoughby, who was leaning against
the mantel-piece with his back towards them. He turned round on their coming in,
and his countenance showed that he strongly partook of the emotion which
overpowered Marianne.
"Is anything the matter with her?" cried Mrs. Dashwood, as she
entered:- "is she ill?"
"I hope not," he replied, trying to look cheerful; and with a
forced smile presently added, "It is I who may rather expect to be ill- for I am
now suffering under a very heavy disappointment!"
"Yes, for I am unable to keep my engagement with you. Mrs. Smith
has this morning exercised the privilege of riches upon a poor, dependent cousin,
by sending me on business to London. I have just received my despatches, and
taken my farewell of Allenham; and by way of exhilaration I am now come to take
my farewell of you."
"To London!- and are you going this morning?"
"Almost this moment."
"This is very unfortunate. But Mrs. Smith must be obliged; and her
business will not detain you from us long, I hope."
He coloured as he replied, "You are very kind; but I have no idea
of returning into Devonshire immediately. My visits to Mrs. Smith are never
repeated within the twelvemonth."
"And is Mrs. Smith your only friend? Is Allenham the only house in
the neighbourhood to which you will be welcome? For shame, Willoughby, can you
wait for an invitation here?"
His colour increased; and, with his eyes fixed on the ground, he
only replied, "You are too good."
Mrs. Dashwood looked at Elinor with surprise. Elinor felt equal
amazement. For a few moments every one was silent. Mrs. Dashwood first spoke.
"I have only to add, my dear Willoughby, that at Barton cottage you
will always be welcome; for I will not press you to return here immediately,
because you only can judge how far that might be pleasing to Mrs. Smith; and on
this head I shall be no more disposed to question your judgment than to doubt
your inclination."
"My engagements at present," replied Willoughby, confusedly, "are
of such a nature- that- I dare not flatter myself-"
He stopt. Mrs. Dashwood was too much astonished to speak, and
another pause succeeded. This was broken by Willoughby, who said, with a faint
smile, "It is folly to linger in this manner. I will not torment myself any
longer by remaining among friends whose society it is impossible for me now to
enjoy."
He then hastily took leave of them all, and left the room. They saw
him step into his carriage, and in a minute it was out of sight.
Mrs. Dashwood felt too much for speech, and instantly quitted the
parlour to give way in solitude to the concern and alarm which this sudden
departure occasioned.
Elinor's uneasiness was at least equal to her mother's. She thought
of what had just passed with anxiety and distrust. Willoughby's behaviour in
taking leave of them, his embarrassment, and affection of cheerfulness, and,
above all, his unwillingness to accept her mother's invitation, a backwardness
so unlike a lover, so unlike himself, greatly disturbed her. One moment she
feared that no serious design had ever been formed on his side; and the next
that some unfortunate quarrel had taken place between him and her sister:- the
distress in which Marianne had quitted the room was such as a serious quarrel
could most reasonably account for, though, when she considered what Marianne's
love for him was, a quarrel seemed almost impossible.
But whatever might be the particulars of their separation, her
sister's affliction was indubitable; and she thought with the tenderest
compassion of that violent sorrow which Marianne was in all probability not
merely giving way to as a relief, but feeding and encouraging as a duty.
In about half an hour her mother returned, and though her eyes were
red, her countenance was not uncheerful.
"Our dear Willoughby is now some miles from Barton, Elinor," said
she, as she sat down to work, "and with how heavy a heart does he travel?"
"It is all very strange. So suddenly to be gone! It seems but the
work of a moment. And last night he was with us so happy, so cheerful, so
affectionate? And now, after only ten minutes' notice,- gone, too, without
intending to return!- something more than what be owned to us must have happened.
He did not speak, he did not behave like himself. You must have seen the
difference as well as I. What can it be? Can they have quarrelled? Why else
should he have shown such unwillingness to accept your invitation here?"
"It was not inclination that he wanted, Elinor; I could plainly see
that. He had not the power of accepting it. I have thought it all over, I assure
you, and I can perfectly account for everything that at first seemed strange to
me as well as to you."
"Can you, indeed!"
"Yes. I have explained it to myself in the most satisfactory way;
but you, Elinor, who love to doubt where you can- it will not satisfy you, I
know; but you shall not talk me out of my trust in it. I am persuaded that Mrs.
Smith suspects his regard for Marianne, disapproves of it (perhaps because she
has other views for him), and on that account is eager to get him away; and that
the business which she sends him off to transact is invented as an excuse to
dismiss him. This is what I believe to have happened. He is, moreover, aware
that she does dissapprove the connection; he dares not therefore at present
confess to her his engagement with Marianne, and he feels himself obliged, from
his dependent situation, to give in to her schemes, and absent himself from
Devonshire for a while. You will tell me, I know, that this may or may not have
happened; but I will listen to no cavil, unless you can point out any other
method of understanding the affair as satisfactory at this. And now, Elinor,
what have you to say?"
"Nothing, for you have anticipated my answer."
"Then you would have told me, that it might or might not have
happened. Oh, Elinor, how incomprehensible are your feelings! You had rather
take evil upon credit than good. You had rather look out for misery for Marianne,
and guilt for poor Willoughby, than an apology for the latter. You are resolved
to think him blamable, because be took leave of us with less affection than his
usual behaviour has shown. And is no allowance to be made for inadvertence, or
for spirits depressed by recent disappointment? Are no probabilities to be
accepted, merely because they are not certainties? Is no thing due to the man
whom we have all such reason to love, and no reason in the world to think ill of?
To the possibility of motives unanswerable in themselves, though unavoidably
secret for a while? And, after all, what is it you suspect him of?"
"I can hardly tell myself. But suspicion of something unpleasant is
the inevitable consequence of such an alteration as we just witnessed in him.
There is great truth, however, in what you have now urged of the allowances
which ought to be made for him, and it is my wish to be candid in my judgment of
every body. Willoughby may, undoubtedly, have very sufficient reasons for his
conduct, and I will hope that he has. But it would have been more like
Willoughby to acknowledge them at once. Secrecy may be advisable; but still I
cannot help wondering at its being practiced by him."
"Do not blame him, however, for departing from his character, where
the deviation is necessary. But you really do admit the justice of what I have
said in his defence am happy and he is acquitted."
"Not entirely. It may be proper to conceal their engagement (if
they are engaged) from Mrs. Smith; and if that is the case, it must be highly
expedient for Willoughby to be but little in Devonshire at present. But this is
no excuse for their concealing it from us."
"Concealing it from us! my dear child, do you accuse Willoughby and
Marianne, of concealment? This is strange, indeed, when your eyes have been
reproaching them every day for incautiousness."
"I want no proof of their affection," said Elinor, "but of their
engagement I do."
"I am perfectly satisfied of both."
"Yet not a syllable has been said to you on the subject by either
of them."
"I have not wanted syllables where actions have spoken so plainly.
Has not his behaviour to Marianne and to all of us, for at least the last
fortnight, declared that he loved and considered her as his future wife, and
that he felt for us the attachment of the nearest relation? Have we not
perfectly understood each other? Has not my consent been daily asked by his
looks, his manner, his attentive and affectionate respect? My Elinor, is it
possible to doubt their engagement? How could such a thought occur to you? How
is it to be supposed that Willoughby, persuaded as he must be of your sister's
love, should leave her, and leave her perhaps for months, without telling her of
his affection,- that they should part without a mutual exchange of confidence?"
"I confess," replied Elinor, "that every circumstance except one,
is in favour of their engagement; but that one is the total silence of both on
the subject, and with me it almost outweighs every other."
"How strange this is! You must think wretchedly indeed of
Willoughby, if, after all that has openly passed between them, you can doubt the
nature of the terms on which they are together. Has he been acting a part in his
behaviour to your sister all this time? Do you suppose him really indifferent to
her?"
"No, I cannot think that. He must and does love her, I am sure."
"But with a strange kind of tenderness, if he can leave her with
such indifference, such carelessness of the future, as you attribute to him."
"You must remember, my dear mother, that I have never considered
this matter as certain. I have had my doubts, I confess; but they are fainter
than they were, and they may soon he entirely done away. If we find they
correspond, every fear of mine will be removed."
"A mighty concession, indeed! If you were to see them at the altar,
you would suppose they were going to be married. Ungracious girl! But I require
no such proof. Nothing in my opinion has ever passed to justify doubt; no
secrecy has been attempted; all has been uniformly open and unreserved. You
cannot doubt your sister's wishes. It must be Willoughby, therefore, whom you
suspect. But why? Is he not a man of honour and feeling? Has there been any
inconsistency on his side to create alarm? can he be deceitful?"
"I hope not, I believe not," cried Elinor. "I love Willoughby,
sincerely love him; and suspicion of his integrity cannot be more painful to
yourself than to me. It has been involuntary, and I will not encourage it. I was
startled, I confess, by the alteration in his manners this morning: he did not
speak like himself, and did not return your kindness with any cordiality. But
all this may be explained by such a situation of his affairs as you have
supposed. He had just parted from my sister, had seen her leave him in the
greatest affliction; and if he felt obliged, from a fear of offending Mrs. Smith,
to resist the temptation of returning here soon, and yet aware that by declining
your invitation, by saying that he was going away for some time, he should seem
to act an ungenerous, a suspicious part by our family, be might well be
embarrassed and disturbed. In such a case, a plain and open avowal of his
difficulties would have been more to his honour, I think, as well as more
consistent with his general character;- but I will not raise objections against
any one's conduct on so liberal a foundation, as a difference in judgment from
myself, or a deviation from what I may think right and consistent."
"You speak very properly. Willoughby certainly does not deserve to
be suspected. Though we have not known him long, be is no stranger in this part
of the world; and who has ever spoken to his disadvantage? Had he been in a
situation to act independently and marry immediately, it might have been odd
that he should leave us without acknowledging everything to me at once: but this
is not the case. It is an engagement in some respects not prosperously begun,
for their marriage must be at a very uncertain distance; and even secrecy, as
far as it can be observed, may now be very advisable."
They were interrupted by the entrance of Margaret; and Elinor was
then at liberty to think over the representations of her mother, to acknowledge
the probability of many, and hope for the justice of all.
They saw nothing of Marianne till dinner-time, when she entered the
room and took her place at the table without saying a word. Her eyes were red
and swollen; and it seemed as if her tears were even then restrained with
difficulty. She avoided the looks of them all, could neither eat nor speak, and
after some time, on her mother's silently pressing her hand with tender
compassion, her small degree of fortitude was quite overcome, she burst into
tears, and left the room.
This violent oppression of spirits continued the whole evening. She
was without any power, because she was without any desire of command over
herself. The slightest mention of anything relative to Willoughby overpowered
her in an instant; and though her family were most anxiously attentive to her
comfort, it was impossible for them, if they spoke at all, to keep clear of
every subject which her feelings connected with him.
CHAPTER XVI
MARIANNE would have thought herself very inexcusable had she been
able to sleep at all the first night after parting from Willoughby. She would
have been ashamed to look her family in the face the next morning, had she not
risen from her bed in more need of repose than when she lay down in it. But the
feelings which made such composure a disgrace, left her in no danger of
incurring it. She was awake the whole night, and she wept the greatest part of
it. She got up with a headache, was unable to talk, and unwilling to take any
nourishment; giving pain every moment to her mother and sisters, and forbidding
all attempt at consolation from either. Her sensibility was potent enough!
When breakfast was over she walked out by herself, and wandered
about the village of Allenham, indulging the recollection of past enjoyment, and
crying over the present reverse for the chief of the morning.
The evening passed off in the equal indulgence of feeling. She
played over every favourite song that she had been used to play to Willoughby,
every air in which their voices had been oftenest joined, and sat at the
instrument gazing on every line of music that he had written out for her, till
her heart was so heavy that no farther sadness could be gained; and this
nourishment of grief was every day applied. She spent whole hours at the piano-
forte, alternately singing and crying; her voice often totally suspended by her
tears. In books, too, as well as in music, she courted the misery which a
contrast between the past and present was certain of giving. She read nothing
but what they had been used to read together.
Such violence of affliction indeed could not be supported for ever;
it sunk within a few days into a calmer melancholy; but these employments, to
which she daily recurred, her solitary walks and silent meditations, still
produced occasional effusions of sorrow as lively as ever.
No letter from Willoughby came; and none seemed expected by
Marianne. Her mother was surprised, and Elinor again became uneasy. But Mrs.
Dashwood could find explanations whenever she wanted them, which at least
satisfied herself.
"Remember, Elinor," said she, "how very often Sir John fetches our
letters from the post, and carries them to it. We have already agreed that
secrecy may be necessary, and we must acknowledge that it could not be
maintained if their correspondence were to pass through Sir John's hands."
Elinor could not deny the truth of this, and she tried to find in
it a motive sufficient for their silence. But there was one method so direct, so
simple, and in her opinion so eligible, of knowing the real state of the affair
and of instantly removing all mystery, that she could not help suggesting it to
her mother.
"Why do you not ask Marianne at once," said she, "whether she is or
she is not engaged to Willoughby? From you, her mother, and so kind, so
indulgent a mother, the question could not give offence. It would be the natural
result of your affection for her. She used to be all unreserve, and to you more
especially."
"I would not ask such a question for the world. Supposing it
possible that they are not engaged, what distress would not such an enquiry
inflict! At any rate it would be most ungenerous. I should never deserve her
confidence again, after forcing from her a confession of what is meant at
present to be unacknowledged to any one. I know Marianne's heart: I know that
she dearly loves me, and that I shall not be the last to whom the affair is made
known, when circumstances make the revealment of it eligible. I would not
attempt to force the confidence of any one; of a child much less; because a
sense of duty would prevent the denial which her wishes might direct."
Elinor thought this generosity overstrained, considering her
sister's youth, and urged the matter farther, but in vain; common sense, common
care, common prudence, were all sunk in Mrs. Dashwood's romantic delicacy.
It was several days before Willoughby's name was mentioned before
Marianne by any of her family; Sir John and Mrs. Jennings, indeed, were not so
nice; their witticisms added pain to many a painful hour; but one evening, Mrs.
Dashwood, accidentally taking up a volume of Shakespeare, exclaimed,-
"We have never finished Hamlet, Marianne; our dear Willoughby went
away before we could get through it. We will put it by, that when he comes
again-; but it may be months, perhaps, before that happens."
"Months!" cried Marianne, with strong surprise. "No- nor many
weeks."
Mrs. Dashwood was sorry for what she had said; but it gave Elinor
pleasure, as it produced a reply from Marianne so expressive of confidence in
Willoughby and knowledge of his intentions.
One morning, about a week after his leaving the country, Marianne
was prevailed on to join her sisters in their usual walk, instead of wandering
away by herself. Hitherto she had carefully avoided every companion in her
rambles. If her sisters intended to walk on the downs, she directly stole away
towards the lanes; if they talked of the valley, she was as speedy in climbing
the hills, and could never be found when the others set off. But at length she
was secured by the exertions of Elinor, who greatly disapproved such continual
seclusion. They walked along the road through the valley, and chiefly in silence,
for Marianne's mind could not be controlled, and Elinor, satisfied with gaining
one point, would not then attempt more. Beyond the entrance of the valley, where
the country, though still rich, was less wild and more open, a long stretch of
the road which they had travelled on first coming to Barton lay before them; and
on reaching that point they stopped to look around them and examine a prospect
which formed the distance of their view from the cottage, from a spot which they
had never happened to reach in any of their walks before.
Amongst the objects in the scene, they soon discovered an animated
one; it was a man on horseback riding towards them. In a few minutes they could
distinguish him to be a gentleman; and in a moment afterwards Marianne
rapturously exclaimed,-
"It is he- it is indeed;- I know it is!" and was hastening to meet
him, when Elinor cried out,-
"Indeed, Marianne, I think you are mistaken. It is not Willoughby.
The person is not tall enough for him, and has not his air."
"He has, he has," cried Marianne, "I am sure he has. His air, his
coat, his horse. I knew how soon he would come."
She walked eagerly on as she spoke; and Elinor, to screen Marianne
from particularity, as she felt almost certain of its not being Willoughby,
quickened her pace and kept up with her. They were soon within thirty yards of
the gentleman. Marianne looked again; her heart sunk within her; and abruptly
turning round, she was hurrying back, when the voices of both her sisters were
raised to detain her; a third, almost as well known as Willoughby's, joined them
in begging her to stop, and she turned round with surprise to see and welcome
Edward Ferrars.
He was the only person in the world who could at that moment be
forgiven for not being Willoughby; the only one who could have gained a smile
from her; but she dispersed her tears to smile on him, and in her sister's
happiness forgot for a time her own disappointment.
He dismounted, and giving his horse to his servant, walked back
with them to Barton, whither he was purposely coming to visit them.
He was welcomed by them all with great cordiality, but especially
by Marianne, who showed more warmth of regard in her reception of him than even
Elinor herself. To Marianne, indeed, the meeting between Edward and her sister
was but a continuation of that unaccountable coldness which she had often
observed at Norland in their mutual behaviour. On Edward's side more
particularly, there was a deficiency of all that a lover ought to look and say
on such an occasion. He was confused, seemed scarcely sensible of pleasure in
seeing them, looked neither rapturous nor gay, said little but what was forced
from him by questions, and distinguished Elinor by no mark of affection.
Marianne saw and listened with increasing surprise. She began almost to feel a
dislike of Edward; and it ended, as every feeling must end with her, by carrying
back her thoughts to Willoughby, whose manners formed a contrast sufficiently
striking to those of his brother elect.
After a short silence which succeeded the first surprise and
enquiries of meeting, Marianne asked Edward if he came directly from London. No,
he had been in Devonshire a fortnight.
"A fortnight!" she repeated, surprised at his being so long in the
same county with Elinor without seeing her before.
He looked rather distressed as he added, that he had been staying
with some friends near Plymouth.
"Have you been lately in Sussex?" said Elinor.
"I was at Norland about a month ago."
"And how does dear, dear Norland look?" cried Marianne.
"Dear, dear Norland," said Elinor, "probably looks much as it
always does at this time of the year. The woods and walks thickly covered with
dead leaves."
"Oh," cried Marianne, "with what transporting sensation have I
formerly seen them fall! How have I delighted, as I walked, to see them driven
in showers about me by the wind! What feelings have they, the season, the air
altogether inspired! Now there is no one to regard them. They are seen only as a
nuisance, swept hastily off, and driven as much as possible from the sight."
"It is not every one," said Elinor, "who has your passion for dead
leaves."
"No; my feelings are not often shared, not often understood. But
sometimes they are." As she said this, she sunk into a reverie for a few moments;
but rousing herself again, "Now, Edward," said she, calling his attention to the
prospect, "here is Barton Valley. Look up it, and be tranquil if you can. Look
at those hills. Did you ever see their equals? To the left is Barton Park,
amongst those woods and plantations. You may see the end of the house. And there,
beneath that farthest hill, which rises with such grandour, is our cottage."
"It is a beautiful country," he replied; "but these bottoms must be
dirty in winter."
"How can you think of dirt, with such objects before you?"
"Because," replied he, smiling, "among the rest of the objects
before me, I see a very dirty lane."
"How strange!" said Marianne to herself, as she walked on.
"Have you an agreeable neighbourhood here? Are the Middletons
pleasant people?"
"No, not all," answered Marianne; "we could not be more
unfortunately situated."
"Marianne," cried her sister, "how can you say so? How can you be
so unjust? They are a very respectable family, Mr. Ferrars; and towards us have
behaved in the friendliest manner. Have you forgot, Marianne, how many pleasant
days we have owed to them?"
"No," said Marianne, in a low voice, "nor how many painful
moments."
Elinor took no notice of this; and directing her attention to their visitor,
endeavoured to support something like discourse with him, by talking of their present residence, its
conveniences, &c., extorting from him occasional questions and remarks. His coldness and reserve
mortified her severely; she was vexed and half angry; but resolving to regulate her behaviour to
him by the past rather than the present, she avoided every appearance of resentment or displeasure,
and treated him as she thought he ought to be treated from the family connection.
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