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"LI B R.A RY

OF THE UN IVLRSITY Of ILLINOIS

1811

SENSE

AND

SENSIBILITY

A NOVEL.

JN THREE VOLUMES.

BY A LADY.

VOL. II.

PRINTED FOR THE AUTHOR,

By C. Roworlh, Bell-yard, Temple-bar, AND PUBLISHED BY T. EGERTON, WHITEHALL.

1811.

«aK- j>

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SENSE & SENSIBILITY.

CHAPTER I.

However small her general depend- ance on Lucy's veracity might be, it was impossible for her on serious reflection to suspect it in the present case, where no temptation could be answerable to the folly of inventing a falsehood of such a description. What Lucy had asserted to be true, therefore, Elinor could not, dared «ot longer doubt; supported as it was too on every side by such pro- babilities and proofs, and contra- dicted bv nothina: but her own wishes. Their opportunity of ac- VOL. II. B quaintance

( 2 )

quaintance in the house of Mr. Pratt was a foundation for the rest, at once indisputable and alarming; and Edward's visit near Plymouth, his melancholy state of mind, his dissatisfaction at his own prospects, his uncertain behaviour towards her- self, the intimate knowledge of the Miss Steeles as to Norland and their family connections, which had often surprised her, the picture, the letter, the ring, formed altogether such a body of evidence, as overcame every fear of condemning him unfairly, and established as a fact which no par- tiality could set aside, his ill-treat- ment of herself. — Her resentment of such behaviour, her indignation at having been its dupe, for a short time made her feel only for herself; but other ideas, other considerations soon arose. Had Edward been in- tentionally deceiving her? Had he

feigned

( 3 )

feigned a regard for her which he did not feel ? Was his engagement to Lucy, an engagement of the heart? No; whatever it might once have been, she could not believe it such at present. His affection was all her own. She could not be deceived in that. Her mother, sisters, Fanny, all had been conscious of his regard for her at Norland ; it was not an illu- sion of her ovra vanity. He cer- tamly loved her. What a softener of the heart was this persuasion ! How much could it not tempt her to for- give ! He had been blameable, highly blameable in remaining at Norland after he first felt her influence over him to be more than it ought to be. In that, he could not be defended; but if he had injured her, how much more had he injured himself; if her case were pitiable, his was hopeless. His imprudence had made her miser- B 2 able

( 4 )

able for a while; but it seemed to have deprived himself of all chance of ever being otherwise. She might in time regain tranquillity; but hey Avhat had he to look forward to? Could he ever be tolerably happy with Lucy Steele; could he, were his affection for herself out of the question, with his integrity, his de- licacy, and well-informed mind, be satisfied with a wife like her — illi- terate, artful, and selfish?

The youthful infatuation of nine- teen woidd naturally blind him to every thing but her beauty and good nature; but the four succeeding years — years, which if rationally spent, give such improvement to the understanding, must have opened his eyes to her defects of education, while the same period of time, spent on her side in inferior society and more frivolous pursuits, had perhaps

robbed

( 5 )

robbed her of that simplicity, which might once have given an interesting character to her beauty.

If in the supposition of his seeking to marry herself, his difficulties from his mother had seemed great, how much greater were they now likely to be, when the object of his en- gagement was undoubtedly inferior in connections, and probably infe- rior in fortune to herself. These dif- ficulties indeed, with an heart so alienated from Lucy, might not press very hard upon his patience; but melancholy was the state of the per- vson, by whom the expectation of family opposition and unkindness, could be felt as a relief!

As these considerations occurred to her in painful succession, she wept for him, more than for herself. Supported by the conviction of hav- ing done nothing to merit her pre- c 3 sent

( 6 )

sent unhappiness, and consoled by the belief that Edward had done no- thing to forfeit her esteem, she thought she could even now, under the- first smart of the heavy blow% command herself enough to guard every suspi- cion of the truth from her mother and sisters. And so well was she able to answer her own expectations, that when she joined them at dinner only two hours after she had first suffered the extinction of all her dearest hopes, no one would have supposed from the appearance of the sisters, that Elinor w^as mourning in secret over obstacles which must di- vide her for ever from the object af her love, and that Marianne was in- ternally dwelling on the perfections of a man, of w hose whole heart she felt thoroughly possessed and whom she expected to see in every carriage w hich drove near their house.

The

( 7 )

The necessity of concealing from her mother and Marianne, Avhat had been entrusted in confidence to her- self, 4lao ugh it obliged her to un- ceasing exertion, was no aggravation of Elinor's distress. On the contrary it was a relief to her, to be spared the communication of what would give such affliction to them, and to be saved likewise from hearing that condemnation of Edward, which would probably flow from the excess of their partial affection for herselfi and which was more than she felt equal to support.

From their counsel, or tlieir con- versation she knew she could receive ho assistance, their tenderness and sorrow must add to her distress, while her self-command would nei- ther receive encouragement from their example nor from their praise. She was stronger alone, and her own B 4 good

( 8 )

§ood sense so well supported her, tliat her firmness was as unshaken, her appearance of cheerfulness as invari- able, as with regrets so poignant and so fresh, it was possible for them to be.

Much as she had suffered from her first conversatian with Lucy on the subject, she soon felt an earnest wish of renewing it ; and this for more reasons than one. She wanted to hear many particulars of their en* gagement repeated again, she wanted more clearly to understand what Lucy really felt for Edward, whether there were any sincerity in her de- claration of tender regard for him, and she particularly wanted to con- vince Lucy, by her readiness to enter on the matter again, and her calm- ness in conversing on it, that she was no otherwise interested in it than as a friend, which she very much

feared

( 9 )

feared her involuntary agitation, in their morning discourse, must have left at least doubtful. That Lucy- was disposed to be jealous of her, appeared very probable ; it was plain that Edward had always spoken highly in her praise, not merely from Lucy's assertion, but from her ven- turing to trust her on so short a per- sonal acquaintance, with a secret, so confessedly and evidently important. And even Sir John's joking intelli- gence must have had some v* eight. But indeed, while Elinor remained so well assured within herself of being really beloved by Edward, it re- quired no other consideration of pro- babilities to make it natural that Lucy should be jealous; and that she was so, her very confidence was a proof. What other reason for the disclosure of the affair could there be, but that Elinor might be informed by it of B 5 Lucy's

( 10 )

Lucy's superior claims on Edward, and be taught to avoid him in future ? She had little difficulty in under- standing thus much of her rival's in- tentions, and while she was firmly resolved to act by her as every prin- ciple of honour and honesty directed, to combat her own affection for Ed- ward and to see him as little as pos- sible ; she could not deny herself the comfort of endeavouring to convince Lucy that her heart w as unwounded. And as she could now have nothing more painful to hear on the subject than had already been told, she did not mistrust her own ability of going through a repetition of particulars with composure.

But it was not immediately that an opportunity of doing so could be commanded^ though Lucy was as well disposed as herself to take ad- vantage of any that occurred; for

the

( n )

the weather was not often fine enough to allow of their joinhig in a walk, where they might most easily separate themselves from the others; and though they met at least every other evening either at the park or cot- tage, and chiefly at the former, they could not be supposed to meet for the sake of conversation. Such a thought would never enter either Sir John or Lady Middleton's head, and there- fore very little leisure was ever given for general chat, and none at all for particular discourse. They met for the sake of eating, drinking, and laughing together, playing at cards, or consequences, or any other game that was sufficiently noisy.

One or two meetings of this kind had taken place, without affording Elinor any chance of engaging Lucy in private, when Sir John called at the cottage one morning, to beg in B 6 the

( 12 )

the name of charity, that they would all dine with Lady Middleton that day, as he was obliged to attend the club at Exeter, and she would other- wise be quite alone, except her mo- ther and the two Miss Steeles. Eli- nor, who foresaw a fairer opening for the point she had in view, in such a party as this was likely to be, more at liberty among themselves under the tranquil and well-bred direction of Lady Middleton than when her husband united them together in one noisy purpose, immediately accepted the invitation ; Margaret, with her mother's permission, was equally com- pliant, and Marianne, though always unwilling to join any of their parties, was persuaded by her mother, who could not bear to have her seclude herself from any chance of amuse- ment, to go likewise.

The young ladies went, and Lady

Middleton

( 13 )

Middleton was happily preserved from the frightful solitude which had threatened her. The insipidity of the meeting was exactly such as Elinor had expected ; it produced not one novelty of thought or expression, and nothing could be less interesting than the whole of their discourse both in the dining parlour and drawing room : to the latter, the children accom- panied them, and while they re- mained there, she was too well con- vinced of the impossibility of engag- ing Lucy's attention to attempt it. They quitted it only with the removal of the tea-things. The card-table was then placed, and Elinor began to wonder at herself for having ever en- tertained a hope of finding time for conversation at the park. They all rose up in preparation for a round game.

" I am glad," said Lady Middle- ton

( 14 )

ton to Lucy, "you are not going to finish poor little Annamaria's basket this evening; for I am sure it must hurt your eyes to work fillagree by candlelight. And we will make the dear little love some amends for her disappointment to-morrow, and then I hope she will not much mind it."

This hint was enough, Lucy recol- lected herself instantly and replied, " Indeed you are very much mis- taken. Lady Middleton ; I am only waiting to know whether you can make your party without me, or I should have been at my fillagree al- ready. I would not disappoint the little angel for all the world, and if you want me at the card-table now, I am resolved to finish the basket after supper."

" You are very good, I hope it won't hurt your eyes — will you ring the bell for some working candles?

My

( 15 )

My poor little girl would be sadly disappointed, I know, if the basket was not finished to-morrow, for though I told her it certainly would not, I am sure she depends upon hav- ing it done."

Lucy directly drew her work table near her and reseated herself with an alacrity and cheerfulness which seemed to infer that she could taste no greater delight than in making a fillagree basket for a spoilt child.

Lady Middleton proposed a rub- ber of cassino to the others. No one made any objection but Marianne, who with her usual inattention to the forms of general civility, exclaimed, " Your ladyship will have the good- ness to excuse me — you know I detest cards. I shall go to the piano-fort^ ; I have not touched it since it was tuned." And without farther cere- mony,

( 16 )

mony, she turned away and walked to the instrument.

Lady Middleton looked as if she thanked heaven that she had never made so rude a speech.

" Marianne can never keep long from that instrument you know, ma'am," said Elinor, endeavouring to smooth away the offence; " and 1 do not much wonder at it; for it is the very best toned piano-forte I ever heard."

The remaining five were now to draw their cards.

" Perhaps," continued Elinor, '* if I should happen to cut out, I may be of some use to Miss Lucy Steele, in rolling her papers for her; and there is so much still to be done to the basket, that it must be impossi- sible I think for her labour singly, to finish it this evening. I should like

the

( 17 )

the work exceedingly, if she would allow me a share in it."

** Indeed I shall be very much obliged to you for your help," cried Lucy, " for I find there is more to be done to it than I thought there was; and it would be a shocking thing to disappoint dear Annamaria after all."

*' Oh ! that would be terrible in- deed," said Miss Steele—" Dear little soul, how I do love her !"

" You are very kind," said Lady Middleton to Elinor: " and as you really like the work, perhaps you will be as well pleased not to cut in till another rubber, or will you take your chance now?"

Elinor joyfully profited by the first of these proposals, and thus by a little of that address, which Marianne could never condescend to practise, gained her own end, and pleased

Lady

( 18 )

Lady Middleton at the same time. Lucy made ix)om for her with ready attention, and the two fair rivals were thus seated side by side at the same table, and with the utmost harmony engaged in forwarding the same work. The piano-fort^, at which Marianne, wrapt up in her own mu- sic and her own thoughts, had by this time forgotten that any body was in the room besides herself, was luckily so near them that Miss Dash- wood now judged, she might safely, under the shelter of its noise, intro- duce the interesting subject, without any risk of being heard at the card table.

CHAP-

( 19 )

CHAPTER II.

In a firm, though cautious tone, Eli- nor thus began.

** 1 should be undeserving of the confidence you have honoured me with, if I felt no desire for its conti- nuance, or no farther cui'iosity on its subject. I will not apologize there- fore for bringing it forward again."

" Thank you," cried Lucy warmly, '' for breaking the ice; you have set my heart at ease by it; for I was somehow or other afraid I had of- fended you by what I told you that Monday."

" Offended me! How could you suppose so? Believe me," and Eli- nor spoke it with the truest since- rity, '' nothing could be farther

from

( 20 )

from my intention, than to give you such an idea. Could you have a mo- tive for the trust, that was not ho- nourable and flattering to me?"

" And yet I do assure you," re- plied Lucy, her little sharp eyes full of meaning, " there seemed to me to be a coldness and displeasure in your manner, that made me quite uncom- fortable. I felt sure that you was angry with me; and have been quar- relling with myself ever since, for having took such a liberty as to trouble you with my affairs. But I am very glad to find it was only my own fancy, and that you do not really blame me. If you knew what a con- solation it was to me to relieve my heart by speaking to you of what I am always thinking of every mo- ment of my life, your compassion would make you overlook every thing- else I am sure."

" Indeed

( 21 )

" Indeed I can easily believe that it was a very great relief to you, to acknowledge your situation to me, and be assured that you shall never have reason to repent it. Your case is a very unfortunate one; you seem to me to be surrounded with difficul- ties, and you will have need of all your mutual affection to support you under them. Mr. Ferrars, I believe, is entirely dependant on his mother.**

" He has only two thousand pounds of his own ; it would be mad- ness to marry upon that, though for my own part, I could give up every prospect of more without a sigh. I have been always used to a very small income, and could struggle with any poverty for him ; but I love him too well to be the selfish means of robbing him, perhaps, of all that bis mother might give him if he mar- ried to please her. AVe must wait,

it

( 22 )

it may be for many years. With al- most every other man in the world, it would be an alarming prospect; but Edward's affection and con- stancy nothing can deprive me of I know."

" That conviction must be every thing to you; and he is undoubtedly supported by the same trust in your's. If the strength of your reciprocal at- tachment had failed, as between many people and under many cir- cumstances it naturally would dur- ing a four years* engagement, your situation would have been pitiable indeed."

Lucy here looked up; but Elinor was careful in guarding her counte- nance from every expression that could give to her words a suspicions tendency.

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

the

( 23 )

the test, by our long, very long ab- sence since we were first engaged, and it has stood the trial so well, that I should be unpardonable to doubt it now. I can safely say that he has never gave me one moment's alarm on that account from the first."

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

Lucy went on. " I am rather of a jealous temper too by nature, and from our different situations in life, from his being so much more in the world than me, and our continual separation, I w^as enough inclined for suspicion, to have found out the truth in an instant, if there had been the slightest alteration in his beha- viour to me when we met, or any lowness of spirits that I could not account for, or if he had talked more of one lady than another, or seemed in any respect less happy at Long- staple

( 24 )

staple than he used to be. I do not mean to say that I am particularly observant or quick-sighted in general, but in such a case I am sure I could not be deceived."

" All this," thought Elinor, '' is very pretty; but it can impose upon neither of us."

" But what," said she after a short silence, " are your views ? or have have you none but that of waiting for Mrs. Ferrars' death, which is a melancholy and shocking extremity? Is her son determined to submit to this, and to all the tediousness of the many years of suspense in which it may involve you, rather than run the risk of her displeasure for a while by owning the truth ?

** If we could be certain that it would be only for a while ! But Mrs. Ferrars is a very headstrong proud woman, and in her first fit of anger

upon

( 25 )

upon hearing it, would very likely se- cure every thing to Robert, and the idea of that, for Edward's sake, frightens away all my inclination for hasty measures."

" And for your own sake too, or you are carrying your disinterested- ness beyond reason."

Lucy looked at Elinor again, and was silent.

" Do you know Mr. Robert Fer- rars?" asked Elinor.

" Not at all — I never saw him ; but I fancy he is very unlike his bro- ther— silly and a great coxcomb."

" A great coxcomb!" repeated Miss Steele, whose ear had caught those w^ords by a sudden pause in Mari- anne's music. — " Oh ! they are talk- ing of their favourite beaux, I dare say."

*' No, sister," cried Lucy, " you are mistaken there, our favourite beaux are 7iot great coxcombs."

VOL. II. c *' I can

( 26 )

" I can answer for it that Miss Dashwood's is not," said Mrs. Jen- nings, laughing heartily ; " for he is one of the modestest, prettiest behaved young men I ever saw ; but as for Lucy, she is such a s^y little crea- ture, there is no finding out who she likes."

** Oh !'^ cried Miss Steele, looking signif v'ari.iv ;ound at them, " I dare say Lucys oeau is quite as modest and pretty behaved as Miss Dash- wood's."

Elinor blushed in spite of herself. Lucy bit her lip, and looked angrily at her sister. A mutual silence took place for some time. Lucy first put an end to it by saying in a lower tone, though Marianne was then giving them the powerful protection of a very magnificent concerto —

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

mv

( 27 )

my head, for bringing matters to bear; indeed lam bound to let you into the secret, for you are a party concerned. I dare say you have seen enough of Edward to know that ne would prefer the church to every other profession; now my plan i^: that he should take orders as soon as he can, and then through your infrrest, which I am sure you s-'ov^ ^ \ j Krid enough to use out of fneudship ror him, and I hope out of some regard to me, your brother might be persuaded to give him Norland living; which I un- derstand is a very good one, and the present incumbent not likely to live a great while. That would be enough for us to marry upon, and we might trust to time and chance for the rest." " I should be always happy," re- plied Elinor, " to shew any mark of my esteem and friendship for Mr. Ferrars; but do not you perceive c 2 that

( 28 )

that my interest on such an occasion would be perfectly unnecessary? He is brother to Mrs. John Dash wood — that must be recommendation enough to her husband."

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

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

They were again silent for many minutes. At length Lucy exclaimed with a deep sigh,

" I believe it would be the wisest way to put an end to the business at once by dissolving the engage- ment. We seem so beset with diffi- culties on every side, that though it would make us miserable for a time, we should be happier perhaps in the end. But you will not give me your advice. Miss Dashwood ?"

" No;" answered Elinor, with a

smile,

( 29 )

smile, which concealed very agi- tated feelings, " on such a subject I certainly will not. You know very well that my opinion would have no weight with you, unless it were on the side of your wishes."

** Indeed you wrong me," replied Lucy with great solemnity ; " I know nobody of whose judgment I think so highly as I do of yours; and I do really believe, that if you was to say to me, * I advise you by all means to put an end to your engage- ment with Edward Ferrars, it will be more for the happiness of both of you,' I should resolve upon doing it immediately."

Elinor blushed for the insincerity of Edward's future wife, and replied, " this compliment would effectually frighten me from giving any opinion on the subject had I formed one. It c 3 raises

( 30 )

raises my influence much too high ; the power of dividing two people so tenderly attached is too much for an indifferent person."

" 'Tis because you are an indiffe- rent person," said Lucy, with some pique, and laying a particular stress on those words, " that your judg- ment might justly have such weight with me. If you could be supposed to be biassed in any respect by your own feelings, your opinion would not be worth having."

Elinor thought it wisest to make no answer to this, lest they might provoke each other to an unsuitable increase of ease and unreserve; and was even partly determined never to mention the subject again. Another pause therefore of many minutes du- ration, succeeded this speech, and Lucy was still the first to end it.

*' Shall

( 31 )

" Shall you be in town this win- ter, Miss Dashwood ?" said she, with all her accustomary complacency.

" Certainly not."

" I am sorry for that," returned the other, while her eyes brightened at the information, " it would have gave me such pleasure to meet you there ! But I dare say you will go for all that. To be sure, your brother and sister will ask you to come to them,"

** It will not be in my power to. ac- cept their invitation if they do."

" How unlucky that is ! I had quite depended upon meeting you there. Anne and me are to go the latter end of January to some rela- tions who have been wanting us to visit them these several years! But I only go for the sake of seeing Ed- ward. He w ill be there in February, c 4 otherwise

( 32 )

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

Elinor was soon called to the card- table by the conclusion of the first rubber, and the confidential dis- course of the two ladies was there- fore at an end, to which both of them submitted without any reluctance, for nothing had been said on either side, to make them dislike each other less than they had done before; and Elinor sat down to the card table Avith the melancholy persuasion that Edward was not only without affec- tion for the person who was to be his wife ; but that he had not even the chance of being tolerably happy in marriage, which sincere affection on her side would have given, for self- interest alone could induce a woman to keep a man to an engagement, of

which

( 33 )

which she seemed so thoroughly aware that he was wearv.

From this time the subject was never revived by Elinor, and when entered on by Lucy, who seldom missed an opportunity of introducing it, and was particularly careful to inform her confidante, of her happi- ness whenever she received a letter from Edward, it was treated by the former with calmness and caution, and dismissed as soon as civility would allow; for she felt such con- versations to be an indulgence which Lucy did not deserve, and which were dangerous to herself.

The visit of the Miss Steeles at Barton Park was lengthened far be- yond what the first invitation implied. Their favour increased, they could not be spared ; Sir John would not hear of their going ; and in spite of their numerous and long arranged c o engagements

( 34 )

engagements in Exeter, in spite of the absolute necessity of their return- ing to fulfil them immediately, which was in full force at the end of every week, they were prevailed on to stay nearly two months at the park, and to assist in the due celebration of that festival which requires a more than ordinary share of private balls and large dinners to proclaim its import- ance.

CHAP-

( 35 )

CHAPTER III.

Though Mrs. Jennings was in the habit of spending a large portion of the year at the houses of her children and friends, she was not without a settled habitation of her own. Since the death of her husband, who had traded with success in a less elegant part of the town, she had resided every winter in a house in one of the streets near Portman-square. To- wards this home, she began on the approach of January to turn her thoughts, and tliither she one day abruptly, and very unexpectedly by them, asked the elder Miss Dash- woods to accompany her. Elinor, without observing the varying com- plexion of her sister, and the animated c 6 look

( 36 )

look which spoke no indifference to the plan, immediately gave a grate- ful but absolute denial for both, in which she believed herself to be speaking their united inclinations. The reason alleged, Avas their de- termined resolution of not leaving their mother at that time of year. Mrs. Jennings received the refusal with some surprize, and repeated her invitation immediately.

" Oh! Lord, I am sure your mo- ther can spare you very well, and I do beg you will favour me with your company, for I've quite set my heart upon it. Don't fancy that you will be any inconvenience to me, for I shan't put myself at all out of my way for you. It will only be send- ing Betty by the coach, and I hope I can afford that. We three shall be able to go very well in my chaise; and when we are in town, if you

do

( 37 )

do not like to go Avherever I do, Avell and good, you may always go with one of my daughters. I am sure your mother will not object to it; for I have had such good luck in getting my own children off my hands, that she will think me a very fit person to have the charge of you ; and if I don't get one of you at least well married before I have done with you, it shall not be my fault. I shall speak a good word for you to all the young men, you may depend on it."

" I have a notion," said Sir John, " that Miss Marianne would not ob- ject to such a scheme, if her elder sister would come into it. It is very hard indeed that she should not have a little pleasure, because Miss Dash- wood does not wish it. So I would advise you two, to set off for town, when you are tired of Barton, with- out

( 38 )

out saying a word to Miss Dash wood about it."

" Nay," cried Mrs. Jennings, " I am sure I shall be monstrous glad of Miss Marianne's company, whether Miss Dashwood will go or not, only the more the merrier say 1, and I thought it would be more comfort- able for them to be together ; because if they got tired of me, they might talk to one another, and laugh at my odd ways behind my back. But one or the other, if not both of them, I must have. Lord bless me! how do you think I can live poking by my- self, I who have been always used till this winter to have Charlotte with- me. Come, Miss Marianne, let us strike hands upon the bargain, and if Miss Dashwood will change her mind by and bye, why so much the better."

** I thank

( 39 )

" I thank you, ma'am, sincerely thank you," said Marianne, with warmth; " your invitation has in- sured my gratitude for ever, and it would give me such happiness, yes, almost the greatest happiness I am capable of, to be able to accept it. But my mother, my dearest, kindest mother, I feel the justice of what Eli- nor has urged, and if she were to be made less happy, less comfortable by our absence — Oh ! no, nothing should tempt me to leave her. It should not, must not be a struggle."

Mrs. Jennings repeated her assur- ance that Mrs. Dash wood could spare them perfectly well; and Elinor, who now understood her sister, and saw to what indifference to almost every thing else, she was carried by her eagerness to be with Willoughby again, made no farther direct oppo- sition to the plan, and merely re- ferred

( 40 )

ferred it to her mother's decision, from whom however she scarcely ex- pected to receive any support in her endeavour to prevent a visit, which she could not approve of for Mari- anne, and which on her own account she had particular reasons to avoid. Whatever Marianne was desirous of, her mother would be eager to pro- mote— she could not expect to in- fluence the latter to cautiousness of conduct in an affair, respecting which she had never been able to inspire her with distrust; and she dared not explain the motive of her own disin- clination for going to London. That Marianne, fastidious as she was, thoroughly acquainted with Mrs. Jennings' manners, and invariably dis- gusted by them, should overlook every inconvenience of that kind, should disregard whatever must be most womiding to her irritable feel- ings.

( 41 ;

ings, in her pursuit of one object, was such a proof, so strong, so full, of the importance of that object to her, as Elinor, in spite of all that had passed, was not prepared to witness.

On being informed of the invita- tion, Mrs. Dashwood, persuaded that such an excursion would be produc- tive of much amusement to both her daughters, and perceiving through all her affectionate attention to herself, how^ much the heart of Marianne was in it, would not hear of their de- clining the offer upon Iter account ; insisted on their both accepting it directly, and then began to foresee with her usual cheerfulness, a variety of advantages that would accrue to them all, from this separation.

" I am delighted with the plan," she cried, " it is exactly what I could wish. Margaret and I shall be as much benefited by it as yourselves.

When

( 42 )

When you and the Middletons are gone, we shall go on so quietly and happily together with our books and our music ! You will find Margaret so improved when you come back again ! And I have a little plan of al- teration for your bedrooms too, which may now be performed without in- convenience to any one. It is very right that you should go to town; I would have every young woman of your condition in life, acquainted with the manners and amusements of London. You will be under the care of a motherly good sort of woman, of whose kindness to you I can have no doubt. And in all probability you will see your brother, and what- ever may be his faults, or the faults of his wife, when I consider whose son he is, I cannot bear to have you so wholly estranged from each other."

" Thouo'h

( 43 )

" Though with your usual anxiety for our happines," said Elinor, " you have been obviating every impedi- ment to the present scheme which oc- curred to you, there is still one ob- jection which, in my opinion, cannot be so easily removed." : Marianne's countenance sunk.

" And what," said Mrs. Dashwood, " is my dear prudent Elinor going to suggest? What formidable obstacle is she now to bring forward? Do not let me hear a word about the expense of it."

" My objection is tliis; though I think very well of Mrs. Jennings' heart, she is not a woman whose society can afford us pleasure, or whose protection w ill give us conse- quence."

" That is Aery true," replied her mother; " but of her society, sepa- rately from that of other people, you

will

( 44 )

will scarcely have any thing at all, and you will almost always appear in public with Lady Middleton."

" If Elinor is frightened away by her dislike of Mrs. Jennings," said Marianne, '* at least it need not pre- vent my accepting her invitation. I have no such scruples, and I am sure, I could put up with every un- pleasantness of that kind with very little effort."

Elinor could not help smiling at this display of indifference towards the manners of a person, to whom she had often had difficulty in per- suading Marianne to behave with tolerable politeness; and resolved within herself, that if her sister per- sisted in going, she would go like- wise, as she did not think it proper that Marianne should be left to the sole guidance of her own judgment, or that Mrs. Jennings should be

abandoned

( 45 )

abandoned to the mercy of Mari- anne for all the comfort of her do- mestic hours. To this determination she was the more easily reconciled, by recollecting, that Edward Fer- rars, by Lucy's account, was not to be in town before February; and that their visit, without any unrea- sonable abridgment, might be previ- ously finished.

" I will have you both go,'* said Mrs. Dashwood ; " these objections are nonsensical. You v/ill have much pleasure in being in London, and especially in being together ; and if Elinor would ever condescend to an- ticipate enjoyment, she would fore- see it there from a variety of sources ; she would perhaps expect some from improving her acquaintance with her sister-in-law's family."

Elinor had often wished for an op- portunity of attempting to weaken

her

( 46 )

lier mother's dependence on the at- tachment of Edward and herself, that the shock might be the less when the whole truth were revealed, and now on this attack, though almost hope- less of success, she forced herself to begin her design by saying, as calmly as she covild, " I like Edward Fer- rars very much, and shall always be glad to see him ; but as to the rest of the family, it is a matter of perfect in- difference to me, whether I am ever known to them or not."

Mrs. Dashwood smiled and said nothing. Marianne lifted up her eyes in astonishment, and Elinor con- jectm-ed that she might as well have held her tongue.

After very little farther discourse, it was finally settled that the invita- tion should be fully accepted. Mrs. Jenninsfs received the information w ith a great deal of joy, and many

assurances

( 47 )

assurances of kindness and care; nor was it a matter of pleasure merely to her. Sir John was delighted; for to a man, whose prevailing anxiety was the dread of being alone, the ac- quisition of two, to the number of in- habitants in London, was something. Even Lady Middleton took the trouble of being delighted, which was putting herself rather out of her way; and as for the Miss Steeles, especially Lucy, they had never been so happy in their lives as this intelli- gence made them.

Elinor submitted to the arrangement which counteracted her wishes, with less reluctance than she had expected to feel. With regard to herself, it was now a matter of unconcern whe- ther she went to town or not, and when she saw her mother so tho- roughly pleased with the ])lan, and

her

( 48 )

iier sister exhilirated by it in look, voice, and manner, restored to all her usual animation, and elevated to more than her usual gaiety, she could not be dissatisfied with the cause, and would hardly allow herself to dis- trust the consequence.

Marianne's joy was almost a de- gree beyond happiness, so great was the perturbation of her spirits and her impatience to be gone. Her un- willingness to quit her mother was her only restorative to calmness; and at the moment of parting her grief on that score was excessive. Her mother's affliction was hardly less, and Elinor was the only one of the three, who seemed to con- sider the separation as any thing short of eternal.

Their departure took j)lace in the first week in January. The Mid-

dletons

( 49 )

dletons were to follow in about a week. The Miss Steeles kept their station at the park, and were to quit it only with the rest of the family.

VOL. II. D CHAP-

( 50 )

CHAPTER IV.

Elinor could not find herself in the carriage with Mrs. Jennings, and be- ginning a journey to London under her protection, and as her guest, without wondering at her own situa- tion, so short had their acquaintance with that lady been, so wholly un- suited were they in age and disposi- tion, and so many had been her ob- jections against such a measure only a few daj^s before! But these objec- tions had all, with that happy ardour of youth which Marianne and her mother equally shared, been over- come or overlooked ; and Elinor, in spite of every occasional doubt of Willoughby's constancy, could not

witness

( 51 )

Mdtness the rapture of delightful ex- pectation which filled the whole soul and beamed in the eyes of Mari- anne, without feeling how blank was her own prospect, how cheer- less her own slate of mind in the comparison, and how gladly she would engage in the solicitude of Marianne's situation to have the same animating object in view, the same possibility of hope. A short, a very short time however must now decide what Willoughby's intentions were: in all probability he was already in town. Marianne's eagerness to be gone declared her dependance on finding him there; and Elinor was resolved not only upon gaining every new light as to his character which her own observation or the intelli- gence of others could give her, but likewise upon watching his behaviour D 2 to

( 52 )

to her sister with such zealous at- tention, as to ascertain what he was and what he meant, before many meetings had taken place. Should the result of her observations be un- favourable, she was determined at all events to open the eyes of her sister; should it be otherwise, her ex- ertions would be of a different na- ture— she must then learn to avoid every selfish comparison, and banish every regret which might lessen her satisfaction in the happiness of Mari- anne.

They were three days on their journey, and Marianne's behaviour as they travelled was a happy speci- men of what her future complaisance and companionableness to Mrs. Jen- nings might be expected to be. She sat in silence almost all the way, wrapt in her own meditations, and

scarcely

( 53 )

scarcely ever voluntarily speaking-, except when any object of pic- turesque beauty within their view drew from her an exclamation of de- light exclusively addressed to her sister. To atone for this conduct there- fore, Elinor took immediate posses- sion of the post of civility which she had assigned herself, behaved with the greatest attention to Mrs. Jen- nings, talked vvith her, laughed with her, and listened to her whenever she could ; and Mrs. Jennings on her side treated them both with all pos- sible kindness, Avas solicitous on every occasion for their ease and en- joyment, and only disturbed that she could not make them choose their own dinners at the inn, nor extort a confession of their preferring salmon to cod, or boiled fowls to veal cut- lets. They reached town by three o'clock the third day, glad to be re- - D 3 leased.

( 54 )

leased, after such a journey, from the roiifinemeiit of a carriage, and ready to enjoy all the luxury of a good tire.

The house was handsome and handsomely fitted up, and the young ladies were immediately put in pos- session of a very comfortable apart* ment. It had formerly been Char- lotte's, and over the mantlepiece still hung a landscape in coloured silks of her performance, in proof of her hav- ing spent seven years at a great school in town to some effect.

As dinner was not to be ready in less than two hours from their arrival, Elinor determined to employ the in- terval in writing to her mother, and sat down for that purpose. In a few moments Marianne did the same. ** /am writing home, Marianne," said Elinor; " had not you better defer your letter for a day or two?"

" lam

C 55 )

" I am not going to write to my mother," replied Marianne hastily, and as if wishing to avoid any farther enquiry. Elinor said no more; it im- mediately struck her that she must then be writing to Willoughby, and the conclusion which as instantly fol- lowed was, that however mysteri- ously they might wish to conduct the affair, they must be engaged. This conviction, though not entirely satis- factory, gave her pleasure, and she continued her letter with greater ala- crity. Marianne's was finished in a very few minutes; in length it could be no more than a note: it was then folded up, sealed and directed with eager rapidity. Elinor thought she could distinguish a large W. in the direction, and no sooner was it com- plete than Marianne, ringing the bell, requested the footman who answered it, to get that letter conveyed for her D 4 to

( 56 )

to the two-penny post. This decided the matter at once. ' Her spirits still continued very high, but there was a flatter in them which prevented their giving much pleasure to her sister, and this agita- tion increased as the evening drew on. She could scarcely eat any din- ner, and when they afterwards re- turned to the drawing room, seemed anxiously listening to the sound of every carriage.

It was a great satisfaction to Eli- nor that Mrs. Jennings, by being much engaged in her own room, could see little of what was passing. The tea things were brought in, and al- ready had Marianne been disap- pointed more than once by a rap at a neighbouring door, when a loud one was suddenly heard which could not be mistaken for one at any other house. Elinor felt secure of its an- nouncing

( 57 )

nouncing Willoughby's approach, and Marianne starting up moved to- wards the door. Every thing was silent; this could not be borne many seconds, she opened the door, ad- vanced a few steps towards the stairs, and after listening half a minute, re- turned into the room in all the agita- tion which a conviction of having heard him would naturally produce; in the extasy of her feelings at that instant she could not help exclaiming, " Oh! Elinor, it is Willoughby, in- <:leed it is !" and seemed almost ready to throw herself into his arms, when Colonel Brandon appeared.

It was too great a shock to be borne with calmness, and she imme- diately left the room. Elinor was disappointed too ; but at the same time her regard for Colonel Brandon ensured his welcome with her, and she felt particularly hurt that, a man D 5 go

( 58 )

^o partial to her sister should per- ceive that she experienced nothing but grief and disappointment in see- ing him. She instantly saw that it was not unnoticed by him, that he even observed Marianne as she quit- ted the room, with such astonishment and concern, as hardly left him the recollection of what civility demanded towards herself.

" Is your sister ill?" said he.

Elinor answered m some distress that she was, and then talked of head-aches, low spirits, and over fa- tigues ; and of every thing to which she could decently attribute her sister's behaviour.

He heard her with the most earnest attention, but seeming to recollect himself, said no more on the subject, and began directly to speak of his pleasure at seeing them in London, making the usual enquiries about

their

( 59 )

their journey and the friends they had left behind.

In this calm kind of way> with very little interest on either side, they con- tinued to talk, both of the n oi;t of spirits, and the thoughts of both en- gaged elsewhere. Elinor wished very much to ask whether Willoughby were then in town, but she was afraid of giving him pain by any enquiry after his rival ; and at length by way of saying something, she asked if he had been in London ever since she had seen him last. " Yes," he replied with some embarrassment, " almost ever since; I have been once or twice at Delaford for a few days, but it has never been in my power to return to Barton."

This, and the manner in Avhich it was said, immediately brought back to her remembrance, all the circum- stances of his quitting that place, with D 6 the

( 60 )

the uneasiness and suspicions they had caused to Mrs. Jennings, and she was fearful that her question had implied much more curiosity on the subject than she had ever felt.

Mrs. Jennings soon came in. "Oh! Colonel," said she, with her usual noisy cheerfulness, " I am monstrous glad to see you — sorry I could not come before — beg your pardon, but I have been forced to look about me a little, and settle my matters ; for it is a long while since I have been at home, and you know one has al- ways a world of little odd things to do after one has been away for any time ; and then I have had Cartwright to settle with — Lord, I have been as busy as a bee ever since dinner! But pray, Colonel, how came you to con- jure out that I should be in tawvt to-day?"

" I had the pleasure of hearing it

at

( 61 y

Sit Mr. Palmer's, where I have been dining."

" Oh! you did; well, and how do they all do at their house? How does Charlotte do ? I warrant you she is a fine size by this time."

" Mrs. Palmer appeared quite well, and I am commissioned to tell you, that you will, certainly see her to-morrow."

" Aye, to be sure, I thought as much. Well, Colonel, I have brought two young ladies with me, you see — - that is, you see but one of them now, but there is another somewhere. Your friend Miss Marianne, too — which you will not be sorry to hear. I do not know what you and Mr. Willoughby will do between you about her. Aye, it is a fine thing to be young and handsome. Well ! I was young once, but I never was very handsome — worse luck forme. How- ever

( 62 )

ever I got a very good husband, and I don't know what the greatest beauty can do more. Ah ! poor man ! he has been dead these eight years and better. But Colonel, where have you been to since we parted ? And how does your business go on? Come, come, let's have no secrets among friends."

He replied with his accustomary mildness to all her inquiries, but without satisfying her in any. Eli- nor now began to make the tea, and Marianne was obliged to appear again.

After her entrance, Colonel Bran- don became more thoughtful and silent than he had been before, and Mrs. Jennings could not prevail on him to stay long. No other visitor appeared that evening, and the ladies were unanimous in agreeing to go early to bed.

Marianne

( 63 )

Marianne rose the next mbrhihg with recovered spirits and happy lookSi The disappointment of the evening' before seemed forgotten in the expectation of what was to hap- pen that day. They had not long finished their breakfast before Mrs. Palmer's barouche stopt at the door, and in a few minutes she came laugh- ing into the room; so delighted to see them all, that it was hard to say whether she received most pleasure from meeting her mother or the Miss Dashwoods again. So surprised at their coming to town, though it was what she had rather expected all along ; so angry at their accepting her mother's invitation after having declined her own, though at the same time she would never have forgiven them if they had not come !

" Mr. Palmer will be so happy to see you," said she ; " what do you

think

( ^4 )

think he said when he heard of your coining with mama? 1 forget what it was now, but it was something so droll!"

After an hour or two spent in what her mother called comfortable chat, or in other words, in every variety of inquiry concerning all their acquaint- ance on Mrs. Jennings's side, and in laughter without cause o» Mrs. Palmer's, it was proposed by the latter that they should all accompany her to some shops where she had business that morning, to which Mrs. Jennings and Elinor readily con- sented, as having likewise some pur- chases to make themselves ; and Ma- rianne, though declining it at first, w as induced to go likewise.

Wherever they went, she was evi- dently always on the watch. In Bond-street especially, where much of their business lay, her eyes were

in

( 65 )

in constant inquiry; and in whatever shop the party were engaged, her mind was equally abstracted from every thing actually before them, from all that interested and occupied the others. Restless and dissatisfied every where, her sister could never obtain her opinion of any article of purchase, however it might equally concern them both ; she received no pleasure from any thing; was only im- patient to be at home again, and could with difficulty govern her vexation at the tediousness of Mrs. Palmer, whose eye was caught by every thing pretty, expensive, or new; who was wild to buy all, could determine on none, and davr died away her time in rapture and indecision.

It was late in the morning before they returned home; and no sooner had they entered the house than Ma- rianne flew eagerly up stairs, and

when

( 06 )

when Elinor followed, she found her turning from the table with a sorrow- ful countenance, which declared that no Willoughby had been there.

" Has no letter been left here for me since we went out ?" said she to the footman who then entered with the parcels. She was answered in the negative. " Are you quite sure of it?" she replied. " Are you certain that no servant, no porter has left any letter or note?"

The man replied that none had.

" How very odd!" said she in a low and disappointed voice, as she turned away to the window.

" How odd indeed !" repeated Eli- nor within herself, regarding her sister with uneasiness. " If she had not known him to be in town she would not have written to him, as she did; she would have written to Combe Magna; and if he is in town, how odd

that

( 67 )

that he should neither come nor write ! Oh! my dear mother, you must be wrong in permitting an engagement between a daughter so young, a man so little known, to be carried on in so doubtful, so mysterious a manner ! / long to inquire; but how will my interference be borne!"

She determined after some consi- deration, that if appearances conti- nued many days longer, as unplea- sant as they now were, she would re- present in the strongest manner to her mother the necessity of some se- rious inquiry into the affair.

Mrs. Palmei and two elderly ladies of Mrs. Jennings's intimate ac- quaintance, whom she had met and invited in the morning, dined with them. The former left them soon after tea to fulfil her evening engage- ments; and Elinor was obliged to assist in making a whist-table for the

others.

( 68 )

others. Marianne was of no use on these occasions, as she would never learn the game, but though her time was therefore at her own disposal^ the evening was by no means more productive of pleasure to her than to Elinor, for it was spent in all the anxiety of expectation and the pain of disappointment. She sometimes endeavoured for a few minutes to read; but the book was soon thrown aside, and she returned to the more interesting employment of walking backwards and forwards across the room, pausing for a moment when- ever she came to the window, in hopes of distinguishing the long-expected rap.

CHAP-

( '69 )

CHAPTER V.

" If this open weather, holds much longer," said Mrs. Jennings, when they met at breakfast the following morning, " Sir John will not like leav- ing Barton next week; 'tis a sad thing for sportsmen to lose a day's pleasure. Poor souls ! I always pity them when they do; they seem to take it so much to heart."

" That is true," cried Marianne in a cheerfid voice, and walking to the window as she spoke, to examine the day, " I had not thought of that. This weather will keep many sports- men in the country."

It was a lucky recollection, all her good spirits were restored by it. " It is charming weather for them in- deed."

( 70 )

deed," she continued, as she sat down to the breakfast table with a happy countenance. " How much they must enjoy it! But" (with a little return of anxiety) " it cannot be expected to last long. At this time of year, and after such a series of rain, we shall certainly have very little more of it. Frosts will soon set in, and in all probability with se- verity. In another day or two per- haps; this extreme mildness can hardly last longer — nay, perhaps it may freeze to-night !"

" At any rate," said Elinor, wish- ing to prevent Mrs. Jennings from seeing her sister's thoughts as clearly as she did, " I dare say we shall have Sir John and Lady Middleton in town by the end of next week."

" Aye, my dear, I'll warrant you we do. Mary always has her own way."

'' And

( 71 )

" And now," silently conjectured Elinor, " she will write to Combe by this day's post."

But if she did, the letter was writ- ten and sent away with a privacy which eluded all her watchfulness to ascertain the fact. Whatever the truth of it might be, and far as Elinor was from feelino; thorou2:h content- ment about it, yet while she saw Ma- rianne in spirits, she could not be very uncomfortable herself. And Marianne was in spirits; happy in the mildness of the weather, and still happier in her expectation of a frost.

The morning was chiefly spent in leaving cards at the houses of Mrs. Jennings's acquaintance to inform them of her being in town ; and Ma- rianne was all the time busy in ob- serving the direction of the wind, watching the variations of the sky and imagining an alteration in the air.

" Don't

< 72 )

** Don't you find it coldef than it was in the morning, Elinor? There seems to me a very decided differ- ence. I can hardly keep my hands warm even in my muff. It was not 60 yesterday, I think. The clouds seem parting too, the sun will be out in a moment; and we shall have a clear afternoon."

Elinor was alternately diverted and pained; but Marianne persevered, and saw every night in the brightness of the fire, and every morning in the appearance of the atmosphere, the certain symptoms of approaching frost.

The Miss Dashwoods had no greater reason to be dissatisfied with Mrs. Jennings's stile of living, and set of acquaintance, than with her behaviour to themselves, which Avas invariably kind. Every thing in her household arrangements was con- ducted

( 73 )

ducted on the most libeml plan, and excepting a few old city friends, whom, to Lady Middleton's regret, she had never dropped, she visited no one, to whom an introduction could at all discompose the feelings of her young companions. Pleased to find herself more comfortably si- tuated in that particular than she had expected, Elinor was very willing to compound for the want of much real enjoyment from any of their evening- parties, which, whether at home or abroad, formed only for cards, could have little to amuse her.

Colonel Brandon, who had a ge- neral invitation to the house, was with them almost every day; he came to look at Marianne and talk to Eli- nor, who often derived more satis- faction from conversing with him than from any other daily occurrence, but who saw at the same time with

VOL. II. E much

( 74 )

much concern his contmued regard for her sister. She feared it was a strengthening regard. It grieved her to see the earnestness with which he often watched Marianne, and his spirits were certainly worse than when at Barton.

About a week after their arrival it became certain that Willoiighby was also arrived. His card was on the table, when they came in from the morning's drive.

" Good God !" cried Marianne, •* he has been here while we were out." Elinor, rejoiced to be assured of his being in London, now ven- tured to say, " depend upon it he will call again to-morrow." But Marianne seemed hardly to hear her, and on Mrs. Jennings's entrance, escaped with the precious card.

This event, while it raised the f^pirits of Elinor, restored to those of

her

( 75 )

her sister, all, and more than all, their former agitation. From this moment her mind was never quiet; the expectation of seeing him every hour of the day, made her unfit for anything. She insisted on being left behind, the next morning, when the others went out.

Elinor's thoughts were full of what might be passing in Berkeley street during their absence ; but a moment's glance at her sister when they re- turned was enough to inform her, that Willoughby had paid no second visit there. A note was just then brought in, and laid on the table.

" For me ?" cried Marianne, step- ping hastily forward.

" IVo, ma'am, for my mistress."

But Marianne, not convinced, took it instantly up.

" It is indeed for Mrs. Jennings, how provoking!"

E 2 " You

( 76 )

** You are expecting a letter then ?" said Elinor, unable to be longer silent.

" Yes; a little — not much."

After a short pause, '* you have no confidence in me, Marianne."

" Nay, Elinor, this reproach from you — you who have confidence in no one!"

" Me !" returned Elinor in some confusion; " indeed, Marianne, I have nothing to tell."

" Nor I," answered Marianne with energy, " our situations then are alike. We have neither of us any- thing to tell; you, because you com- municate, and I, because I conceal nothing."

Elinor, distressed by this charge of reserve in herself, which she was not at liberty to do away, knew not how, under such circumstances, to

press

( 77 )

press for greater openness in Mari- anne.

Mrs. Jennings soon appeared, and the note being given her, she read it aloud. It was from Lady Middle- ton, announcing their arrival in Con- duit-street the night before, and re- questing the company of her mother and cousins the following evening. Business on Sir John's part, and a violent cold on her own, prevented their calling in Berkeley-street. The invitation was accepted; but when the hour of appointment drew near, ne- cessary as it was in common civility to Mrs. Jennings, that they should both attend her on such a visit, Eli- nor had some difficulty in persuading her sister to go, for still she had seen nothing of Willoughby; and there- fore was not more indisposed for amusement abroad, than unwilling to E 3 run

( 78 )

run the risk of his calling again in her absence.

Elinor found, when the evening was over, that disposition is not ma- terially altered by a change of abode, for although scarcely settled in town. Sir John had contrived to collect around him, nearly twenty young people, and to amuse them with a ball. This was an affair, however, of which Lady Middleton did not ap- prove. In the country, an unpreme- ditated dance was very allowable; but in London, where the reputation of elegance was more important and less easily attained, it was risking too much for the gratification of a few girls, to have it known that Lady Middleton had given a small dance of eight or nine couple, with two vio- lins, and a mere side-board collation.

Mr. and Mrs. Palmer were of the

party ;

( 79 )

party; from the former, whom they had not seen before since their ar- rival in town, as he was careful to avoid the appearance of any attention to his mother-in-law, and therefore never came near her, they received no mark of recognition on their en- trance. He looked at them slightly, without seeming to know who they were, and merely nodded to Mrs. Jennings from the other side of the room. Marianne gave one glance round the apartment as she entered ; it was enough, he was not there — and she sat down, equally ill-dis- posed to receive or communicate pleasure. After they had been as- sembled about an hour, Mr. Palmer sauntered towards the Miss Dash- woods to express his surprise on see- ing them in town, though Colonel Brandon had been first informed of their arrival at his house, and he had E 4 himself

.( 80 )

himself said something very droll on hearing that they were to come.

" I thought you were both in De- vonshire," said he.

" Did you?" replied Elinor.

" When do you go back again ?"

" I do not know." And thus end- ed their discourse.

Never had Marianne been so un- willing to dance in her life, as she was that evening, and never so much fatigued by the exercise. She com- plained of it as they returned to Berkeley-street.

** Aye, aye," said Mrs. Jennings, " we know the reason of all that very well; if a certain person, who shall be nameless, had been there, you would not have been a bit tired ; and to say the truth it was not very pretty of him, not to give you the meeting when he was invited."

*' Invited !" cried Marianne.

" 80

( 81 )

" So my daughter Middleton told me, for it seems Sir John met him somewhere in the street this morn- ing." Marianne said no more, but looked exceedingly hurt. Impatient in this situation to be doing some- thing that might lead to her sister's relief, Elinor resolved to write the next morning to her mother, and hoped by awakening her fears for the health of Marianne, to procure those inquiries which had been so long de- layed ; and she was still more eagerly bent on this measure, by perceiving after breakfast on the morrow, that Marianne was again writing to Wil- loughby, for she could not suppose it to be to any other person.

About the middle of the day, Mrs. Jennings went out by herself on busi- ness, and Elinor began her letter di- rectly, while Marianne, too restless for employment, too anxious for con- E 5 versation.

( 82 )

versation, walked from one window to the other, or sat down by the fire in melancholy meditation. Elinor was very earnest in her application to her mother, relating all that had pas* sed, her suspicions of Willoughby's inconstancy, urging her by every plea of duty and affection to demand from Marianne, an account of her real si- tuation with respect to him.

Her letter was scarcely finished, when a rap foretold a visitor, and Colonel Brandon was announced. Marianne who had seen him from the window, and who hated com- pany of any kind, left the room be- fore he entered it. He looked more than usually grave, and though ex- pressing satisfaction in finding Miss Dashwood alone, as if he had some- what in particular to tell her, sat for some time without saying a word. Elinor, persuaded that he had some

com-

( 83 )

communication to make in which her sister was concerned, impatiently ex- pected its opening. It was not the first time of her feeling the same kind of conviction; for more than once be- fore, beginning with the observation of " your sister looks unwell to-day," or " your sister seems out of spirits," he had appeared on the point, either of disclosing, or of inquiring, some- thing particular about her. After a pause of several minutes, their silence was broken, by his asking her in a voice of some agitation, when he was to congratulate her on the acquisition of a brother? Elinor v/as not prepared for such a question, and having no ansv/er ready, was obliged to adopt the simple and common expedient, of asking what he meant? He tried to smile as he replied, " your sisters engagement to Mr. Willoughby is very generally known."

E 6 "It

( 84 )

" It cannot be generally known," returned Elinor^ " for her own family do not know it."

He looked surprised and said, *' I beg your pardon, I am afraid my in- quiry has been impertinent; but I had not supposed any secrecy in- tended, as they openly correspond, and their marriage is universally talked of,"

" How can that be? By whom can you have heard it mentioned ?"

" By many — by some of whom you know nothing, by others with whom you are most intimate, Mrs, Jennings, Mrs. Palmer and the Mid- dletons. But still I might not have believed it^ for where the mind is per- haps rather unwilling to be convinced, it will always find something to sup- port its doubts, if I had not, when the servant let me in to-day, acci- dentally seen a letter in his hand, di- rected

( 85 )

reeled to Mr. Willoughby in your sister's writing. I came to inquire, but I was convinced before I could ask the question. Is every thing finally settled ? Is it impossible to — ? But I have no right, and I could have no chance of succeeding. Excuse me, Miss Dashwood. I believe I have been wrong in saying so much, but I hardly know what to do, and on your prudence I have the strongest de- pendance. Tell me that it is all ab- solutely resolved on, that any at- tempt, that in short concealment, if concealment be possible, is all that re- mains."

These words, which conveyed to Elinor, a direct avowal of his love for her sister, affected her very much. She was not immediately able to say anything, and even when her spirits were recovered, she debated for a short time, on the answer it would

be

( 86 )

be most proper to give. The real state of things between Willoughby and her sister was so little known to herself, that in endeavouring to ex- plain it, she might be as liable to say too much as too little. Yet as she was convinced that Marianne's affec- ' tion for Willoughby, could leave no hope of Colonel Brandon's success, whatever the event of that affection might be, and at the same time wished to shield her conduct from censure, she thought it most prudent and kind, after some consideration, to say more than she really knew or believed. She acknowledged, therefore, that though she had never been informed by themselves of the terms on which they stood with each other, of their mutual affection she had no doubt, and of their correspondence she was not astonished to hear.

He listened to her with silent at- tention,

( 87 )

tention, and on her ceasing to speak, rose directly from his seat, and after saying in a voice of emotion, " to your sister I wish all imaginable hap- piness; to Willoughby that he may en- deavour to deserve her,"^ — took leave, and went away.

Elinor derived no comfortable feel- ings from this conversation, to lessen the uneasiness of her mind on other points ; she was left, on the contrary, with a melancholy impression of Co- lonel Brandon's unhappiness, and was prevented even from wishing it removed, by her anxiety for the very event that must confirm it.

CHAP-

( 88 )

CHAPTER VI.

•

Nothing occurred during the next three or four days, to make Elinor regret what she had done, in apply- ing to her mother; for Willoughby neither came nor wrote. They were engaged about the end of that time to attend Lady Middleton to a par- ty, from which Mrs. Jennings was kept away by the indisposition of her youngest daughter; and for this party, Marianne, wholly dispirited, care- less of her appearance, and seeming equally indifferent whether she went or staid, prepared, without one look of hope, or one expression of plea- sure. She sat by the drawing room fire after tea, till the moment of Lady

Middleton's

( 89 )

Middleton's arrival, without once stirring from her seat, or altering her attitude, lost in her own thoughts and insensible of her sister's presence ; and Avhen at last they were told that Lady Middleton \yaited for them at the door, she started as if she had forgotten that any one was expected. They arrived in due time at the place of destination, and as soon as the string of carriages before them would allow, alighted, ascended the stairs, heard their names announced from one landing-place to another in an audible voice, and entered a room splendidly lit up, quite full of com- pany, and insuperably hot. AVhen they had paid their tribute of polite- ness by curtseying to the lady of the house, they were permitted to mingle in the croud, and take their share of the heat and inconvenience, to which their arrival must necessarily add.

After

( 90 )

After some time spent in saying little and doing less, Lady Middleton sat down to cassino, and as Marianne was not in spirits for moving about, she and Elinor, luckily succeeding to chairs, placed themselves at no great distance from the table.

They had not remained in this man- ner long, before Elinor perceived Willoughby, standing within a few yards of them, in earnest conversa- tion, wdth a very fashionable looking young woman. She soon caught his eye, and he immediately bowed, but without attempting to speak to her, or to approach Marianne, though he could not but see her; and then con- tinued his discourse with the same lady. Elinor turned involuntarily to Marianne, to see whether it could be unobserved by her. At that moment she first perceived him, and her whole countenance glowing with sudden de- light,

( 91 )

light, she would have moved towards hhn instantly, had not her sister caught hold of her.

" Good heavens 1" she exclaimed, " he is there — he is there. — Oh ! why does he not look at me? why can- not I speak to him ?"

" Pray, pray "be composed," cried Elinor, " and do not betray what you feel to every body present. Perhaps he has not observed you yet."

This however was more than she could believe herself, and to be com- posed at such a moment was not only beyond the reach of Marianne, it was beyond her w ish. She sat in an agony of impatience, which affected every feature.

At last he turned round again, and regarded them both; she started up, and pronouncing his name in a tone of affection, held out her hand to him. He approached, and addressing

himself

( 92 )

himself rather to Elinor than Ma- rianne, as if wishing to avoid her eye, and determined not to observe her attitude, inquired in a hurried man- ner after Mrs. Dashwood, and asked how long they had been in town. Elinor was robbed of all presence of mind by such an address, and was unable to say a word. But the feel- ings of her sister were instantly ex- pressed. Her face was crimsoned over, and she exclaimed in a voice of the greatest emotion, " Good God ! Willoughby, what is the meaning of this ? Have you not received my let- ters ? Will you not shake hands with me ?"

He could not then avoid it, but her touch seemed painful to him, and he held her hand only for a moment. During all this time he was evidently struggling for composure. Elinor watched his countenance and saw

its

( 93 )

its expression becoming more tran- quil. After a moment's pause, he spoke with calmness.

" I didmyself the honour of calling in Berkeley-street last Tuesday, and very much regretted that I was not fortunate enough to find yourselves and Mrs. Jennings at home. My card was not lost, I hope."

" But have you not received my notes ?" cried Marianne in the wildest anxiety. '' Here is some mistake I am sure — some dreadful mistake. What can be the meaning of it ? Tell me, Willoughby ; for heaven's sake tell me, what is the matter?"

He made no reply; his complexion changed and all his embarrassment returned ; but as if, on catching the eye of the young lady with whom he had been previously talking, he felt the necessity of instant exertion, he recovered himself again, and after

saying,

( 94 )

saying, " Yes, I had the pleasure of receiving the information of your ar- rival in town, which you were so good as to send me," turned hastily away w ith a slight bow and joined his friend.

Marianne, now looking dreadfully white, and unable to stand, sunk into her chair, and Elinor, expecting every moment to see her faint, tried to screen her from the observation of others, while reviving her with laven- dar water.

" Go to him, Elinor," she cried, as soon as she could speak, "and force him to come to me. Tell him I must see him again — must speak to him instantly. — I cannot rest — I shall not have a moment's peace till this is ex- plained— some dreadful misapprehen- sion or other. — Oh go to him this mo- ment."

" How can that be done ? No, my

dearest

( 05 )

dearest Marianae, you must wait. This is not a place for explanations. Wait only till to-morrow."

With difficulty however could she prevent her from following him her- self; and to persuade her to check her agitation, to wait, at least, with the appearance of composure, till she might speak to him with more privacy and more effect, was impos- sible; for Marianne continued inces- santly to give way in a low voice to the misery of her feelings, by excla- mations of wretchedness. In a short time Elinor saw Willoughby quit the room by the door towards the stair- case, and telling Marianne that he was gone, urged the impossibility of speaking to him again that evening, as a fresh argument for her to be calm. She instantly begged her sis- ter would intreat Lady Middleton to

take

( 96 )

take them home, as she was too mi- serable to stay a minute longer.

Lady Middleton, though in the middle of a rubber, on being inform- ed that Marianne was unwell, was too polite to object for a moment to her wish of going away, and making over her cards to a friend, they de- parted as soon as the carriage could be found. Scarcely a word was spo- ken durins: their return to Berkeley- street. Marianne was in a silent ago- ny, too much oppressed even for tears; but as Mrs. Jennings was luck- ily not come home, they could go directly to their own room, where hartshorn restored her a little to her- self. She was soon undressed and in bed, and as she seemed desirous of being alone, her sister then left her, and while she waited the return of Mrs. Jennings had leisure enough for thinking over the past.

That

( 97 )

That some kind of engagement had subsisted between Willoughby and Marianne she could not doubt; and that Willoughby was weary of it, seemed equally clear; for however Marianne might still feed her own wishes, she could not attribute such behaviour to mistake or misappre- hension of any kind. Nothing but a thorough change of sentiment could account for it. Her indignation would have been still stronger than it was, had she not witnessed that embarrassment which seemed to speak a consciousness of his own misconduct, and prevented her from believing him so unprincipled as to have been sporting with the affections of her sister from the first, without any design that would bear investi- gation. Absence might have weak- ened his regard, and convenience might have determined him to over-

voL. II. F come

( 98 )

come it, but that such a regard had formerly existed she could not bring herself to doubt.

As for Marianne, on the pangs which so unhappy a meeting must already have given her, and on those still more severe which might await her in its probable consequence, she could not reflect without the deepest concern. Her own situation gained in the comparison; for while she could esteem Edward as much as ever, however they might be divided in future, her mind might be always supported. But every circumstance that could embitter such an evil seem- ed uniting to heighten the misery of Marianne in a final separation from Willoughby — in an immediate and ir- reconcileable rupture with him.

CHAP

( 99 )

CHAPTER VII.

Before the house-maid had lit their fire the next day, or the sun gained any power over a cold, gloomy morning in January, Mari- anne, only half dressed, was kneeling against one of the window-seats for the sake of all the little light she could command from it, and writing as fast as a continual flow of tears would permit her. In this situation, Elinor, roused from sleep by her agi- tation and sobs, firr^t perceived her; and after observing her for a few mo- ments with silent anxiety, said, in a tone of the most considerate gentle^ ness,

" Marianne, may 1 ask?" —

F 2 " No,

( 100 )

" No, Elinor," she replied, " ask nothing ; you will soon know all."

The sort of desperate calmness with which this was said, lasted no longer than while she spoke, and was immediately followed by a return of the same excessive affliction. It was some minutes before she could go on with her letter, and the frequent bursts of grief which still obliged her, at intervals, to withhold her pen, were proofs enough of her feeling how more than probable it was that she was writing for the last time to Willoughby.

Elinor paid her every quiet and unobtrusive attention in her power; and she would have tried to sooth and tranquillize her still more, had not Marianne entreated her, with all the eagerness of the most nervous ir- ritability, not to speak to her for the world. In such circumstances, it

was

( 101 )

was better for both that they should not be long together ; and the restless state of Marianne's mind not only prevented her from remaining in the room a moment after she was dress- ed, but requiring at once solitude and continual change of place, made her wander about the house till breakfast time, avoiding the sight of every body.

At breakfast she neither ate, nor attempted to eat any thing; and Eli- nor's attention was then all employed, not in urging her, not in pitying her, nor in appearing to regard her, but in endeavouring to engage Mrs. Jen- nings's notice entirely to herself

As this was a favourite meal with Mrs. Jennings, it lasted a considera- ble time, and they were just setting themselves, after it, round the common working table, when a letter was de- livered to Marianne, which she eagerly F 3 caught

( 102 )

caught from the servant, and, turn- ing of a death-like paleness, instantly ran out of the room. EUnor, who saw as plainly by this, as if she had jseen the direction, that it must come from Willoughby, felt immediately such a sickness at heart as made her hardly able to hold up her head, and sat in such a general tremour as made her fear it impossible to escape Mrs. Jennings's notice. That good lady, however, saw only that Ma- rianne had received a letteV from Willoughby, which appeared to her a very good joke, and which she treated accordingly, by hoping, with a laugh, that she would find it to her liking. Of Elinor's distress, she was too busily employed in measuring lengths of worsted for her rug, to see any thing at all ; and calmly continu- ing her talk, as soon as Marianne dis- appeared, she said,.

" Upon

( 103 )

" Upon my word I never saw a young woman so desperately in love in my life ! My girls were nothing to her, and yet they used to be foolish enough; but as for Miss Marianne, she is quite an altered creature. I hope, from the bottom of my heart, he wo'nt keep her waiting much longer, for it is quite grievous to see her look so ill and forlorn. Pray, when are they to be married?"

Elinor, though never less disposed to speak than at that moment, obliged herself to answer such an attack as this, and, therefore, trying to smile, replied, ** And have you really. Ma'am, talked yourself into a persuasion of my sister's being en- gaged to Mr. Willoughby ? I thought it had been only a joke, but so se- rious a question seems to imply more; and I must beg, therefore, that you will not deceive yourself any ' . F 4 longer.

( 104 )

longer. I do assure you that nothing- would surprise me more than to hear of their being going to be married."

" For shame, for shame, Miss Dashwood! how can you talk so! Don't we all know that it must be a match, that they were over head and ears in love w ith each other from the first moment they met? Did not I see them together in Devonshire every day, and all day long ; and did not I know that your sister came to town with me on purpose to buy wedding clothes? Come, come, this wo'nt do. Because you are so sly about it yourself, you think nobody else has any senses; but it is no such thing, I can tell you, for it has been known all over the town this ever so long. I tell every body of it, and so does Charlotte."

*' Indeed, Ma'am," said Elinor, very seriously, " you are mistaken. Indeed,

you

( 105 )

you are doing a very unkind thing in spreading the report, and you will find that you have, though you will not be- lieve me now."

Mrs. Jennings laughed again, but Elinor had not spirits to say more, and ea2:er at all events to know what Willoughby had written, hurried away to their room, where, on open- ing the door, she saw Marianne stretched on the bed, almost choaked by grief, one letter in her hand, and two or three others lying by her. Elinor drew near, but without saying a word; and seating herself on the bedy took her hand, kissed her affec- tionately several times, and then gave way to a burst of tears, which at first was scarcely less violent than Mari- anne's. The latter, though unable to speak, seemed to feel all the tender- ness of this behaviour, and after some time thus spent in joint affliction, she E 5 put

( 106 )

put all the letters into Elinor's hands ; and then covering her face with her handkerchief, almost screamed with agony. Elinor, who knew that such grief, shocking as it was to witness it, must have its course, watched by her till this excess of suffering had somewhat spent itself, and then turn- ing eagerly to Willoughby's letter^ read as follows :

JBo7id Street, Janucai/,

My Dear Madam,

I HAVE just had the ho- nour of receiving your letter, for which I beg to return my sincere acknow- ledgments. I am much concerned to find there was any thing in my be- haviour last night which did not meet your approbation; and though I am quite at a loss to discover in what point I could be so unfortunate as to offend you, I intreat your forgiveness

of

( 107 >

of what I can assure you to have been perfectly unintentional. I shall never reflect on my former acquaint- ance with your family in Devonshire without the most grateful pleasure, and flatter myself it will not be bro- ken by any mistake or misapprehen- sion of my actions. iNIy esteem for your whole family is very sincere; but if I have been so unfortunate as to give rise to a belief of more than I felt, or meant to express, I shall reproach myself for not having been more guarded in my professions of that esteem. That I should ever have meant more, you will allow to be impossible, when you understand that my affections have been long engaged elsewhere, and it will not be many weeks, I believe, before this engagement is fuliilled. It is with great regret that I obey your com- mands of returning the letters, with F G which

( 108 >

which I have been honoured from you, and the lock of hair, which you so obligingly bestowed on me.

I am, dear Madam,

Your most obedient humble Servant,

John Willoughby.

With what indignation such a letter as this must be read by Miss Dashwood may be imagined. Though aware, before she began it, that it must bring a confession of his incon- stancy, and confirm their separation for ever, she was not aware that such language could be suffered to announce it; nor could she have sup- posed Willoughby gapable of depart- ing so far from the appearance of every honourable and delicate feeling -—so far from the common decorum of a gentleman, as to send a letter so

impudently

( 109 )

impudently cruel: a letter which ^ in- stead of bringing with his desire of a release any professions of regret, ac- knowledged no breach of faith, de- nied all peculiar affection whatever — a letter of which every line was an insult, and which proclaimed its wri- ter to be deep in hardened villany.

She paused over it for some time with indignant astonishment; then read it again and again; but every pernsal only served to increase her abhorrence of the man, and so bitter were her feelings against him, that she dared not trust herself to speak, lest she might wound Marianne still deeper by treating their disengage- ment, not as a loss to he.r of any pos- sible good, but as an escape from the worst and most irremediable of evils^ a connection, for life, with an unprin- cipled man, as a deliverance the most real, a blessing the most important- la

( no )

In her earnest meditations on the contents of the letter, on the depra- vity of that mind which could dic- tate it, and, probably, on the very different mind of a very different per- son, who had no other connection whatever with the affair than what her heart gave him with every thing that passed, Elinor forgot the imme- diate distress of her sister, forgot that she had three letters on her lap yet unread, and so entirely forgot how long she had been in the room, that when, on hearing a carriage drive up to the door, she went to the window to see who could be coming so unreasonably early, she was all astonishment to perceive Mrs. Jen- nings's chariot, which she knew had not been ordered till one. Deter- mined not to quit Marianne, though hopeless of contributing, at present, to her ease, she hurried away to ex- cuse

( 111 )

cnse herself from attending Mrs. Jennings, on account of her sister being indisposed. Mrs. Jennings, with a thoroughly good-humoured concern for its cause, admitted the excuse most readily, and Elinor, after seeing her safe off, returned to Ma- rianne, whom she found attempting to rise from the bed, and whom she reached just in time to prevent her from falling on the floor, faint and giddy from a long want of proper rest and food; for it was many days since she had any appetite, and many nights since she had really slept ; and noAV, when her mind was no longer supported by the fever of suspense, the consequence of all this was felt in an aching head, a weakened sto- mach, and a general nervous faint- ness. A glass of wine, which Elinor procured for her directly, made her

more

( 112 )

more comfortable, and she was at last able to express some sense of her kindness, by saying,

" Poor Elinor ! how unhappy I make you !"

" I only wish," replied her sister, " there were any thing I could do, which might be, of comfort to you."

This, as every thing else would have been, was too much for Mari- anne, who could only exclaim, in the anguish of her heart, " Oh ! Elinor, I am miserable indeed," before her voice was entirely lost in sobs^

Elinor could no longer witness this torrent of unresisted grief in silence.

" Exert yourself, dear Marianne," she cried, " if you would not kill yourself and all who love you. Think of your mother; think of her misery while you suffer; for her sake you must exert yourself!"

" I cannot.

( 113 )

" 1 cannot, I cannot," cried Mari- anne; ''leave me, leave me, if I dis- tress you; leave me, hate me, forget me; but do not torture me so. Oh! how easy for those who have no sor- row of their own to talk of exertion ! Happy, happy Elinor, you cannot have an idea of what I suffer."

" Do you call me happy, Marianne ? Ah! if you knew! — And can you believe me to be so, while I see you so wretched I"

" Forgive me, forgive me," throw- ing her arms round her sister's neck; "I know you feel for me; 1 know what a heart you have ; but yet you are — you must be happy; Edward loves you — what, oh! what can do away such happiness as that ?"

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

" No, no, no," cried Marianne wild-

( H4 )

ly, " he loves you, and only you. You can have no grief."

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

" And you will never see me other- wise. Mine is a misery which no- thing can do away."

" You must not talk so, Marianne. Have you no comforts? no friends? Is your loss such as leaves no open- ing for consolation ? Much as you suffer now, think of what you would have suffered if the discovery of his character had been delayed to a later period — if your engagement had been carried on for months and months, as it might have been, before he chose to put an end to it. Every additional day of unhappy confi* dence, on your side, would have made the blow more dreadful."

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

" No

( 115 )

•* No engagement!"

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

" But he told you that he loved you?" —

" Yes — no — never absolutely. It was every day -implied, but never professedly declared. Sometimes I thought it had been — but it never was."

** Yet you wrote to him?" —

" Yes — could that be wrong after all that had passed? — But 1 cannot talk."

Elinor said no more, and turning again to the three letters which now raised a much stronger curiosity than before, directly ran over the contents of all. The first, which was what her sister had sent him on their arri- val in town, was to this effect.

Berkeley

BerAelei/ Street, January, . «How surprised you will be, Wil- loughby, on receiving this; and I think you will feel something more than surprise, when you know that I am in town. An opportunity of com- ing hither, though with Mrs. Jen- nings, was a temptation we could not resist. I wish you may receive this in time to come here to-night, but I will not depend on it. At any rate I shall expect you to-morrow. For the present, adieu.

M. D.

Her second note, which had been written on the morning after the dance at the Middletons', was in these words: —

" I cannot express ray disappoint- ment in having missed you the day before yesterday, nor my astonish- ment at not having received any an- swer to a note which I sent you

above

( 117 )

above a week ago. I have been ex- pecting to hear from yoii, and still more to see yon, every hour of the day. Pray call again as soon as pos- sible, and explain the reason of my having expected this in vain. You had better come earlier another time, because we are generally out by one. We were last night at Lady Middle- ton's, where there was a dance. I have been told that you were asked to be of the party. But could it be so? You must be very much altered indeed since we parted, if that could be the case, and you not there. But 1 will not suppose this possible, and I hope very soon to receive your per- gonal assurance of its being other- wise."

M. D.

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

" What am I to imagine, Willough-

"by.

( 118 )

by, by your behaviour last uiglit? Again I demand an explanation of it. I was prepared to meet you with the pleasure which our separation natu- rally produced, with the familiarity which our intimacy at Barton ap- peared to me to justify. I was re- pulsed indeed! I have passed a wretched night in endeavouring to excuse a conduct which can scarcely be called less than insulting; but though I have not yet been able to form any reasonable apology for your behaviour, I am perfectly ready to hear your justification of it. You have perhaps been misinformed, or purposely deceived, in something concerning me, which may have low- ered me in your opinion. Tell me what it is, explain the grounds on which you acted, and I shall be sa- tisfied, in being able to satisfy you. It would grieve me indeed to be obli- ged

( 119 )

ged to think ill of you ; but if I am to do it, if I am to learn that you are not what we have hitherto believed you, that your regard for us all was insincere, that your behaviour to me was intended only to deceive, let it be told as soon as possible. My feelings are at present in a state of dreadful indecision; I wish to acquit you, but certainty on either side will be ease to what I now suffer. If your senti- ments are no longer what they were, you will return my notes, and the lock of my hair which is in your pos- session."

M. D. That such letters, so full of affec- tion and confidence, could have been so answered, Elinor, for Willoughby's sake, would have been unwilling to believe. But her condemnation of him did not blind her to the impro- priety of their hi^ving been written at

all;

( 120 )

all; and she was silently grieving over the imprudence which had hazarded such unsolicited proofs of tenderness, not warranted by anything preceding, and most severely condemned by the event, when Marianne, perceiving that she had finished the letters, observed to her that they contained nothing but what any one would have written in the same situation.

" I felt myself/' she added, " to be as solemnly engaged to him, as if the strictest legal covenant had bound us to each other."

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

" He did feel the same, Elinor — for weeks and weeks he felt it. I know he did. Whatever may have changed him now, (and nothing but the blackest art employed against me can have done it,) I was once as

dear

( 121 )

dear to him as my own soul could wish. This lock of hair, which now he can so readily give up, was begged of me with the most earnest suppli- cation. Had you seen his look, his manner, had you heard his voice at that moment! Have you forgot the last evening of our being together at Barton? The morning that we parted too ! When he told me that it might be many weeks before we meet again — his distress— can I ever forget his dis- tress!"

For a moment or two she could say no more; but when this emotion had passed away, she added, in a firmer tone,

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

" Dearest Marianne, who but him- self? By whom can he have been in- stigated?"

" By all the world, rather than by

VOL. II. G his

( 122 )

his own heart. I could rather believe every creature of my acquaintance leagued together to ruin me in his opinion, than believe his nature capa- ble of such cruelty. This woman of whom he Avrites — whoever she be — or any one, in short, but your own dear self, mama, and Edward, may have been so barbarous to bely me. Beyond you three, is there a creature in the world whom I would not ra- ther suspect of evil than Willoughby, whose heart I know so well ?"

Elinor would not contend, and on- ly replied, " Whoever may have been so detestably your enemy, let them be cheated of their malignant triumph, my dear sister, by seeing how^ nobly the consciousness of your ow^n inno- cence and good intentions supports your spirits. It is a reasonable and laudable pride which resists such ma- levolence."

. " No,

( 123 )

" No, no," cried Marianne, " mi- sery such as mine has no pride. I care not who knows that I am wretch- ed. The triumph of seeing- me so may be open to all the world. Eli- nor, Elinor, they who suffer little may be proud and independent as they like — may resist insult, or return mor- tification— but I cannot. I must feel — I must be wretched — and they are welcome to enjoy the consciousness of it that can."

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

" I would do more than for my own. But to appear happy when I am so miserable — Oh ! who can re- quire it?"

Again they were both silent. Eli- nor was employed in walking thought- fully from the fire to the window, from the window to the fire, without knowing that she received warmth G 2 from

( 124 )

from one, or discerned objects through the other; and Marianne, seated at the foot of the bed, with her head leaning against one of its posts, again took up Willoughby's let- ter, and after shuddering over every sentence, exclaimed —

" It is too much! Oh! Willough- by, Willoughby, could this be your's ! Cruel, cruel — nothing can acquit you, Elinor, nothing can. Whatever he might have heard against me— ought he not to have suspended his belief? ought he not to have told me of it, to have given me the power of clear- ing myself? * The lock of hair, (re- peating it from the letter,) which you so obligingly bestowed on me' — That is unpardonable. Willoughby, where was your heart, when you wrote those words? Oh! barbarously insolent! — Elinor, can he be justified?"

"No,

( 125 )

" No, Marianne, in no possible way."

" And yet this woman — who knows what her art may have been — how long it may have been premeditated, and how deeply contrived by her! — Who is she? — Who can she be? — Whom did I ever hear him talk of as young and attractive among his fe- male acquaintance? — Oh! no one, no one — he talked to me only of myself."

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

" Elinor, I must go home. I must go and comfort mama. Cannot we be gone to-morrow?"

" To-morrow, Marianne!"

" Yes; why should I stay here? I came only for Willoughby's sake — and now who cares for me? Who re- gards me?"

" It would be impossible to go to- G 3 morrow.

( 126 )

morrow. We owe Mrs. Jenning.* much raore than civility ; and civility of the commonest kind must prevent such a hasty removal as that."

" Well then, another day or two, perhaps; but I cannot stay here long, I cannot stay to endure the questions and remarks of all these people. The Middletons and Palmers — how am I to bear their pity? The pity of such a woman as Lady Middleton! Oh! what would he say to that!"

Elinor advised her to lie down again^ and for a moment she did so; but no attitude could give her ease; and in restless pain of mind and body she moved from one posture to ano- ther, till growing more and more hys- terical, her sister could with difficul- ty keep her on the bed at all, and for some time was fearful of being con- strained to call for assistance. Some lavender drops, however, which she

wa«

( 127 )

\vas at length persuaded to take, were of use; and from that time till Mrs. Jennings returned, she continued on the bed quiet and motionless.

« 4 CHAP-

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CHAPTER VIII.

Mrs. Jennings came immediately to their room on her return, and without waiting to have her request of admit- tance answered, opened the door and walked in with a look of real concern.

" How do you do, my dear?" — said she in a voice of great compassion to Marianne, who turned away her face without attempting to answer.

" How is she. Miss Dashwood ? — Poor thing ! she looks very bad. — No wonder. Aye, it is but too true. He is to be married very soon — a good- for-nothing fellow ! I have no patience with him. Mrs. Taylor told me of it half an hour ago, and she was told it by a particular friend of Miss Grey /K^ herselfi

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herself, else I am sure I should not have believed it; and I was almost ready to sink as it was. Well, said I, all I can say is, that if it is true, he has used a young lady of my acquain- tance abominably ill, and I wish with all my soul his wife may plague his heart out. And so I shall always say, my dear, you may depend on it. I have no notion of men's going on in this way; and if ever I meet him again, I will give him such a dressing as he has not had this many a day. But there is one comfort, my dear Miss Marianne; he is not the only young man in the world worth having ; and with your pretty face you will never want admirers. Well, poor thing! I won't disturb her any longer, for she had better have her cry out at once and have done with it. The Parrys and Sandersons luckily are comins: G 5 to-night

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to-night you know, and that will amuse her."

She then went away, walking on tiptoe out of the room, as if she sup- posed her young friend's affliction could be increased by noise.

Marianne, to the surprise of her sister, determined on dining with them. Elinor even advised her against it. But "no, she would go down; she could bear it very w^ell, and the bustle about her would be less." Eli- nor, pleased to have her governed for a moment by such a motive, though believing it hardly possible that she could sit out the dinner, said no more; and adjusting her dress for her as well as she could while Marianne still re- mained on the bed, was ready to as- sist her into the dining room as soon as they were summoned to it.

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

calmer

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calmer than her sister had expected. Had she tried to speak, or had she been conscious of half Mrs. Jennings's well-meant but ill-judged attentions to her, this calmness could not have been maintained ; but not a syllable escaped her lips, and the abstraction of her thoughts preserved her in igno- rance of every thing that was passing before her.

Elinor, who did justice to Mrs. Jennings's kindness, though its effu- sions were often distressing, and sometimes almost ridiculous, made her those acknowledgments, and returned her those civilities, which her sister could not make or return for herself. Their good friend saw that Marianne was unhappy, and felt that every thing was due to her which might make her at all less so. She treated her therefore, with all the in- dtdgent fondness of a parent towards G 6 a favourite

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a favourite child on the last day of its holidays. Marianne was to have the best place by the fire, was to be tempted to eat by every delicacy in the house, and to be amused by the relation of all the news of the day. Had not Elinor, in the sad counten- ance of her sister, seen a check to all mirth, she could have been enter- tained by Mrs. Jennings's endeavours to cure a disappointment in love, by a variety of sweetmeats and olives, and a good fire. As soon, however, as the consciousness of all this was forced by continual repetition on Marianne, she could stay no longer. With an hasty exclamation of Misery, and a sign to her sister not to follow her, she directly got up and hurried out of the room.

" Poor soul !" cried Mrs. Jennings, as soon as she was gone, how it grieves me to see her ! And I declare if she

is

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is not gone away without finishing her wine ! And the dried cherries too ! Lord ! nothing seems to do her any good. I am sure if I knew of any thing she would like, I would send all over the town for it. Well, it is the oddest thing to me, that a man should use such a pretty girl so ill! But when there is plenty of money on one side, and next to none on the other, Lord bless you! they care no more about such things! — "

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

" Fifty thousand pounds, my dear. Did you ever see her? a smart, stilish girl they say, but not handsome. I remember her aunt very well, Biddy Henshawe; she married a very wealthy man. But the family are all rich together. Fifty thousand pounds ! and by all accounts it wo'nt come before it's wanted; for they say he is

aU

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all to pieces. No wonder ! dashing about with his curricle and hunters ! Well, it don't signify talking, but when a young man, be he who he will, comes and makes love to a pretty girl, and promises marriage, he has no business to fly off from his word only because he grows poor, and a richer girl is ready to have him. Why don't he, in such a case, sell his horses, let his house, turn off his servants, and make a thorough reform at once ? I warrant you. Miss Marianne w ould have been ready to wait till matters came round. But that won't do, now-a-days; no- thing in the Avay of pleasure can ever be given up by the young men of this age."

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

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

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tioiied; except that Mrs. Taylor did say this morning, that one day Miss Walker hinted to her, that she believ- ed Mr. and Mrs. Ellison would not be sorry to have Miss Grey married, for she and Mrs. Ellison could never agree." —

" And who are the Ellisons ?" " Her guardians, my dear. But now she is of age and may choose for herself; and a pretty choice she has made! — What now," after pausing a moment — " your poor sister is gone to her own room I suppose to moan by herself. Is there nothing one can get to comfort her? Poor dear, it seems quite cruel to let her be alone. Well, by-and-bye we shall have a few friends, and that will amuse her a little. What shall we play at? She hates whist I know; but is there no round game she cares for ? "

" Dear Ma'am, this kindness is

quite

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quite unnecessary. Marianne I dare say will not leave her room again this evening. I shall persuade her if I can to go early to bed, for I am sure she wants rest."

" Aye, I believe that will be best for her. Let her name her own sup- per, and go to bed. Lord ! no won- der she has been looking so bad and so cast down this last week or two, for this matter I suppose has been hanging over her head as long as that. And so the letter that came to-day finished it ! Poor soul ! I am sure if I had had a notion of it, I would not have joked her about it for all my money. But then you know, how should I guess such a thing? I made sure of its being nothing but a com- mon love-letter, and you know young people like to be laughed at about them. Lord ! how concerned Sir John and my daughters will be when they hear it ! If I had had my senses

about

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about me I might have called in Con- duit-street in my way home, and told them of it. But I shall see them to- morrow."

*' It would be unnecessary I am sure, for you to caution Mrs. Palmer and Sir John against ever naming Mr. Willoughby, or making the slightest allusion to what has passed, before my sister. Their own good-nature must point out to them the real cruelty of appearing to know any thing about it when she is present; and the less that may ever be said to myself on the subject, the more my feelings will be spared, as you my dear madam will easily believe."

" Oh ! Lord ! yes, that I do indeed. It must be terrible for you to hear it talked of; and as for your sister, I am sure I would not mention a word about it to her for the world. You saw I did not all dinner time. No more would Sir John nor my daugh- ters,

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ters, for they are all very thoughtful and considerate; especially if I give them a hint, as I certainly will. For my part, I think the less that is said about such things, the better, the sooner 'tis blown over and forgot. And M hat good does talking ever do you know ?'*

" In this affair it can only do harm ; more so perhaps than in many cases of a similar kind, for it has been at- tended by circumstances which, for the sake of every one concerned in it, make it unfit to become the public conversation. I must do this justice to Mr. Willoughby — he has broken no positive engagement with my sis- ter."

" Law, my dear ! Don't pretend to defend him. No positive engage- ment indeed ! after taking her all over AUenham House, and fixing on the very rooms they were to live in here- after!"

Elinor,

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Elinor, for her sister's sake, could not press the subject farther, and she hoped it was not required of her for Willoughby's; since, though Mari- anne might lose much, he could gain very little by the inforcement of the real truth. After a short silence on both sides, Mrs. Jennings, with all her natural hilarity, burst forth again.

" Well, my dear, 'tis a true saying about an ill wind, for it will be all the better for Colonel Brandon. He will have her at last; aye, that he will. Mind me, now, if they an't married by Midsummer. Lord! how he'll chuckle over this news ! I hope he will come to-night. It will be all to one a better match for your sister. Two thousand a year without debt or drawback — except the little love- child, indeed; aye, I had forgot her; but she may be 'prenticed out at small cost, and then what does it signify ?

Delaford

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Delaford is a nice place, I can tell you ; exactly what I call a nice old fashioned place, full of comforts and conveniences; quite shut in with great garden walls that are covered with the best fruit-trees in the coun- try : and such a mulberry tree in one corner! Lord! how Charlotte and I did stuff the only time we were there! Then, there is a dove-cote, some delightful stewponds, and a very pretty canal; and every thing, in short, that one could wish for: and, moreover, it is close to the church, and only a quarter of a mile from the turnpike-road, so 'tis never duUj for if you only go and sit up in an old yew arbour behind the house, you may see all the carriages that pass along. Oh! 'tis a nice place! A butcher hard by in the village, and the parsonage-house within a stone's throw. To my fancy, a thousand

times

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times prettier than Barton Park, where they are forced to send three miles for their meat, and have not a neighbour nearer than your mother. Well, I shall spirit up the Colonel as soon as I can. One shoulder of mutton, you know, drives another down. If we can but put Willough- by out of her head !"

" Aye, if we can but do that, Ma'am," said Elinor, " we shall do very well with or without Colonel Brandon." And then rising, she went away to join Marianne, whom she found, as she expected, in her own room, leaning, in silent misery, over the small remains of a fire which, till Elinor's entrance, had been her only light.

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

" I will leave you," said Elinor,

"if

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•' if you will go to bed." But this, from the momentary perverseness of impatient suffering, she at first re- fused to do. Her sister's earnest, though gentle persuasion, however, soon softened her to compliance, and Elinor saw her lay her aching head on the pillow, and saw her, as she hoped, in a way to get some quiet rest before she left her.

In the drawing-room, whither she then repaired, she was soon joined by Mrs. Jennings, with a wine-glass, full of something, in her hand.

" My dear," said she, entering, " I have just recollected that I have some of the finest old Constantia wine in the house, that ever was tasted, so I have brought a glass of it for your sister. My poor husband ! how fond he was of it! Whenever he had a touch of his old cholicky gout, he said it did him more good than any

thing

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thing else in the world. Do take it to your sister."

" Dear Ma'am," replied Elinor, smiling at the difference of the com- plaints for which it w as recommend- ed, " how good you are! But I have just left Marianne in bed, and, I hope, almost asleep; and as I think no- thing will be of so much service to her as rest, if you will give me leave, I will drink the wine myself"

Mrs. Jennings, though regretting that she had not been five minutes earlier, was satisfied with the com- promise; and Elinor, as she swal- lowed the chief of it, reflected that, though its good effects on a cholicky gout were, at present, of little impor- tance to her, its healing powers on a disappointed heart might be as rea- sonably tried on herself as on her sister.

Colonel Brandon came in while

the

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the party were at tea, and by his manner of looking round the room for Marianne, Elinor immediately fancied that he neither expected, nor wished to see her there, and, in short, that he was already aware of what occasioned her absence. Mrs. Jen- nings was not struck by the same thought ; for, soon after his entrance, she walked across the room to the tea-table where Elinor presided, and whispered — " The Colonel looks as grave as ever you see. He knows nothing of it ; do tell him, my dear."

He shortly afterwards drew a chair close to her's, and, with a look which perfectly assured her of his good in- formation, inquired after her sister.

'"Marianne is not well," said she. *^She has been indisposed all day, and we have persuaded her to go to bed."

" Perhaps, then," he hesitatingly . . replied,

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replied, " what I heard this morning may be — there may be more truth in it than I could believe possible at first."

"What did you hear?"

" That a gentleman, whom I had reason to think — in short, that a man, whom I knew to be engaged — but how shall I tell you? If you know it already, as surely you must, I may be spared."

" You mean," answered Elinor, with forced calmness, " Mr. Wil- loughby's marriage with Miss Grey. Yes, we do know it all. This seems to have been a day of general eluci- dation, for this very morning first un- folded it to us. Mr. Willoughby is unfathomable ! Where did you hear it?"

" In a stationer's shop in Pall Mall, where I had business. Tv,o ladies were waiting for their carriage,

VOL. II. H and

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and one of them was giving the other an account of the intended match, in a voice so little attempting conceal- ment, that it was impossible for me not to hear all. The name of Wil- loughby, John Willoughby, frequent- ly repeated, first caught my attention, and what followed was a positive as- sertion that every thing was now finally settled respecting his marriage with Miss Grey — it was no longer to be a secret — it would take place even within a few weeks, with many particulars of preparations and other matters. One thing, especially, 1 re- member, because it served to identify the man still more: — ^as soon as the ceremony was over, they were to go to Combe Magna, his seat in Somer- setshire. My astonishment! But it would be impossible to describe what I felt. The communicative lady I learnt, on inquiry, for I staid in the

shop

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shop till they were gone, was a Mrs. Ellison, and that, as I have been since informed, is the name of Miss Grey's guardian."

" It is. But have you likewise heard that Miss Grey has fifty thou- sand pounds? In that, if in any thing, we may find an explanation."

" It may be so; but Willoughby is capable — at least I think" — he stopped a moment; then added in a voice which seemed to distrust itself, " And your sister — how did she — "

" Her sufferings have been very severe. I have only to hope that they may be proportionably short. It has been, it is a most cruel afflic- tion. Till yesterday, I believe, she never doubted his regard; and even now, perhaps — but / am almost con- vinced that he never was really at- tached to her. He has been very de- H 2 ceitfull

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ceitful! and, in some points, there seems a hardness of heart about him."

" Ah!" said Colonel Brandon, " there is, indeed! But your sister does not — I think you said so — she does not consider it quite as you do?"

" You know her disposition, and may T^elieve how eagerly she would still justify him if she could."

He made no answer; and soon af- terwards, by the removal of the tea- things, and the arrangement of the card parties, the subject was neces- sarily dropped. Mrs. Jennings, who had watched them with pleasure while they were talking, and who ex- pected to see the effect of Miss Dashwood's communication, in such an instantaneous gaiety on Colonel Brandon's side, as might have be- come

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come a man in the bloom of youth, of hope and happiness, saw him, with amazement, remain the whole evening more serious and thoughtful than usual.

H 3 CHAP-

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CHAPTER IX.

From a night of more sleep than she had expected, Marianne awoke the next morning to the same conscious- ness of misery in which she had closed her eyes.

•Elinor encouraged her as much as possible to talk of what she felt ; and before breakfast was ready, they had gone through the subject again and again; with the same steady convic- tion and affectionate counsel on Eli- nor's side, the same impetuous feel- ings and varying opinions on Mari- anne's, as before. Sometimes she could believe Willoughby to be as unfortunate and as innocent as her- self, and at others, lost every conso- lation

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lation in the impossibility of acquit- ting him. At one moment she was absolutely indifferent to the observa- tion of all the world, at another she would seclude herself from it for ever, and at a third could resist it with energy. In one thing, however, she was uniform, when it came to the point, in avoiding, w here it was pos^ sible, the presence of Mrs. Jennings, and in a determined silence when obliged to endure it. Her heart was hardened against the belief of Mrs. Jennings's entering into her sorrows with any compassion.

" No, no, no, it cannot be," she cried; " she cannot feel. Her kind- ness is not sympathy ; her good na- ture is not tenderness. All that she wants is gossip, and she only likes me now because I supply it."

Elinor had not needed this to be

assured of the injustice to which her

H 4 sister

( 15-2 )

sister was often led in her opinion of others, by the irritable refinement of her own mind, and the too great importance placed by her on the de- licacies of a strong sensibility, and the graces of a polished manner. Like half the rest of the world, if more than half there be that are clever and good, Marianne, with ex- cellent abilities, and an excellent dis- position, was neither reasonable nor candid. She expected from other people the same opinions and feelings as her own, and she judged of their motives by the immediate effect of their actions on herself. Thus a cir- cumstance occurred, while the sisters were together in their own room after breakfast, which sunk the heart of Mrs. Jennings still lower in her estimation ; because, through her own weakness, it chanced to prove a jBOurce of fresh pain to herself,

thoug^h

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

With a letter in her out-stretched hand, and countenance gaily smiling, from the persuasion of bringing com- fort," she entered their room, saying,

" Now, my dear, I bring you some- thing that I am sure will do you good."

Marianne heard enough. In one moment her imagination placed be- fore her a letter from Willoughby, full of tenderness and contrition, ex- planatory of all that had passed, sa- tisfactory, convincing; and instantly followed by Willoughby himself, rushing eagerly into the room to in- force, at her feet, by the eloquence of his eyes, the assurances of his letter. The work of one moment was de- stroyed by the next. The hand wri- ting of her mother, never till then un- H 5 welcome.

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welcome, was before her; and, in the acuteness of the disappointment which followed such an extasy of more than hope, she felt as if, till that instant, she had never suffered.

The cruelty of Mrs. Jennings no language, within her reach in her mo- ments of happiest eloquence, could have expressed; and now she could reproach her only by the tears which streamed from her eyes with pas- sionate violence — a reproach, how- ever, so entirely lost on its object, that after many expressions of pity, she withdrew, still referring her to the letter for comfort. But the letter, when she was calm enough to read it, brought little comfort. Willough- by filled every page. Her mother still confident of their engagement, and relying as warmly as ever on his constancy, had only been roused by Elinor's application, to intreat from

Marianne

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Marianne greater openness towards them both; and this, with such ten- derness towards her, such affection for Willoughby, and such a conviction of their future happiness in each other, that she wept with agony through the whole of it.

All her impatience to be at home again now returned; her mother was dearer to her than ever; dearer through the very excess of her mis- taken confidence in Willoughby, and she was wildly urgent to be gone. Elinor, unable herself to determine whether it were better for Marianne to be in London or at Barton, offered no counsel of her own except of pa- tience till their mother's wishes could be known; and at length she obtain- ed her sister's consent to wait for that knowledge.

Mrs. Jennings left them earlier than

usual; for she could not be easy till

uG the

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the Middletons and Palmers were able to grieve as much as herself; and positively refusing Elinor's offered at- tendance, went out alone for the rest of the morning. Elinor, with a very heavy heart, aware of the pain she -was going to communicate, and per- ceiving by Marianne's letter how ill she had succeeded in laying any foun- dation for it, then sat down to write her mother an account of what had passed, and intreat her directions for the future; while Marianne, who came into the drawing-room on Mrs. Jen- nings's going away, remained fixed at the table where Elinor wrote, watch- ing the advancement of her pen, grieving over her for the hardship of such a task, and grieving still more fondly over its effect on her mother.

In this manner they had continued about a quarter of an hour, when Ma- rianne, whose nerves could not then

bear

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bear any sudden noise, was startled by a rap at the door.

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

Marianne moved to the window. —

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

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

" I will not trust to that,'' retreat- ing to her own room. " A man who has nothing to do with his own time has no conscience in his intrusion on that of others."

The event proved her conjecture right, though it was founded on in- justice and error, for Colonel Bran- don did come in; and Elinor, who was convinced that solicitude for Marianne brought him thither, and who saw that solicitude in his dis- turbed

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turbed and melancholy look, and in his anxious though brief inquiry after her, could not forgive her sister for esteeming him so lightly.

" I met Mrs. Jennings in Bond- street," said he, after the first saluta- tion, " and she encouraged me to come on; and I was the more easily encouraged, because I thought it pro- bable that I might find you alone, which I was very desirous of doing. My object — my wish— my sole wish in desiring it — I hope, I believe it is — is to be a means of giving comfort; — no, I must not say comfort — not pre- sent comfort — but conviction, lasting- conviction to your sister's mind. My regard for her, for yourself, for your mother — will you allow me to prove it, by relating some circumstances, which nothing but a very sincere re- gard— nothing but an earnest desire

of being useful . I think I am

justified.

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justified — though where so many hours have been spent in convincing myself that I am right, is there not some reason to fear I may be wrong?" He stopt.

" I understand you," said Elinor. " You have something to tell me of Mr. Willoughby, that will open his character farther. Your telling it will be the greatest act of friendship that can be shewn Marianne. My gratitude will be insured immediately by any information tending to that end, and hers must be gained by it in time. Pray, pray let me hear it."

" You shall; and, to be brief, when I quitted Barton last October, — but this will give you no idea — I must go farther back. You will find me a ve- ry awkw^ard narrator, Miss Dash- wood; I hardly know where to begin. A short account of myself, I believe, will be necessary, and it shall be a

short

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short one. On such a subject," sigh- ing heavily, " I can have little temp- tation to be diffuse."

He stopt a moment for recollec- tion, and then, with another sigh, went on.

" You have probably entirely for- gotten a conversation — (it is not to be supposed that it could make any impression on you) — a conversation between us one evening at Barton Park — it was the evening of a dance — in which I alluded to a lady I had once known, as resembling, in some measure, your sister Marianne."

" Indeed," answered Elinor, " I have not forgotten it." He looked pleased by this remembrance, and added,

" If I am not deceived by the un- certainty, the partiality of tender re- collection, there is a very strong re- semblance between them, as well in

mind

( lejl )

mind as person. The same warmth of heart, the same eagerness of fancy and spirits. This lady was one of my nearest relations, an orphan from her infancy, and under the guardian- ship of my father. Our ages were nearly the same, and from our ear- liest years we were playfellows and friends. 1 cannot remember the time when I did not love Eliza; and my affection for her, as we grew up, was such, as perhaps, judging from my present forlorn and cheerless gravity, you might think me incapable of hav- ing ever felt. Her's, for me, w as, I believe, fervent as the attachment of your sister to Mr. Willoughby, and it was, though from a different cause, no less unfortunate. At seventeen, she w as lost to me for ever. She was married — married against her incli- nation to my brother. Her fortune was large, and our family estate much

en-

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encumbered. And this, I fear, is all that can be said for the conduct of one, who was at once her uncle and guardian. My brother did not de- serve her; he did not even love her. 1 had hoped that her regard for me would support her under any difficul- ty, and for some time it did; — but at last the misery of her situation, for she experienced great unkindness, overcame all her resolution, and though she had promised me that

nothing but how blindly I relate !

I have never told you how this was brought on. We were within a few hours of eloping together for Scot- land. The treachery, or the folly, of my cousin's maid betrayed us. I was banished to the house of a relation far distant, and she was allowed no liberty, no society, no amusement, till my father's point was gained. I had depended on her fortitude too far, and

the

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the blow was a severe one — but had her marriage been happy, so young as I then was, a few months must have reconciled me to it, or at least I should not have now to lament it. This however was not the case. My brother had no regard for her; his pleasures were not what they ought to have been, and from the first he treated her unkindly. The conse- quence of this, upon a mind so young, so lively, so inexperienced as Mrs. Brandon's, was but too natural. She resigned herself at first to all the mi- sery of her situation; and happy had' it been if she had not lived to over- come those regrets which the remem- brance of me occasioned. But can we wonder that Avith such a husband to provoke inconstancy, and without a friend to advise or restrain her, (for my father lived only a few months af- ter their marriage, and I was with my

regiment

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regiment in the East Indies) she should fall ? Had I remained in Eng- land, perhaps— but I meant to pro- mote the happiness of both by remov- ing from her for years, and for that purpose had procured my exchange. The shock which her marriage had given me," he continued, in a voice of great agitation, " was of trifling weight — was nothing — to what I felt when I heard, about two years after- wards, of her divorce. It was that Avhich threw this gloom, — even now the recollection of what I suffered — " He could say no more, and rising hastily walked for a few minutes about the room. Elinor, affected by his relation, and still more by his dis- tress, could not speak. He saw her concern, and coming to her, took her hand, pressed it, and kissed it with grateful respect. A few minutes more

(A

( 16.3 )

of silent exertion enabled him to pro- ceed with composure.

" It was nearly three years after this unhappy period before I returned to England. My first care, when I did arriv e, was of course to seek for her; but the search was as fruitless as it was melancholy. I could not trace her beyond her first seducer, and there was every reason to fear that she had removed from him only to sink deeper in a life of sin. Her legal allowance was not adequate to her fortune, nor sufficient for her com- fortable maintenance, and 1 learnt from my brother, that the power of receiving it had been made over some months before to another per- son. He imagined, and calmly could he imagine it, that her extravagance and consequent distress had obliged her to dispose of it for some immedi- ate relie£ At last, however, and

after

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after I had been six months in Eng- land, I did find her. Regard for a former servant of my own, who had since fallen into misfortune, carried me to visit him in a spunging-house, where he was confined for debt; and there, in the same house, under a similar confinement, was my unfor- tunate sister. So altered — so faded — worn down by acute suffering of every kind! hardly could I believe the melancholy and sickly figure be- fore me, to be the remains of the lovely, blooming, healthful girl, on whom I had once doated. What I endured in so beholding her — but I have no right to wound your feelings by attempting to describe it — I have pained you too much already. That she was to all appearance, in the last stage of a consumption, was — yes, in such a situation it was my greatest comfort. Life could do nothing for

her,

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her, beyond giving time for a better preparation for death ; and that was given. I saw her placed in com- fortable lodgings, and under proper attendants ; I visited her every day during the rest of her short life ; I was with her in her last moments."

Again he stopped to recover him- self; and Elinor spoke her feelings in an exclamation of tender concern, at the fate of his unfortmiate friend.

" Your sister, I hope, cannot be offended," said he, "by the resemblance I have fancied between her and my poor disgraced relation. Their fates, their fortunes cannot be the same ; and had the natural sweet disposition of the one been guarded by a firmer mind, or an happier marriage, she might have been all that you will live to see the other be. But to what does ali this lead? I seem to have been distressing you for nothing. Ah !

Miss

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Miss Dashwood — a subject such as this — untouched for fourteen years — it is dangerous to handle it at all ! I will be more collected — more concise. She left to my care her only child, a little girl, the offspring of her first guilty connection, who was then about three years old. She loved the child, and had always kept it with her. It was a valued, a precious trust to me ; and gladly would I have dis- charged it in the strictest sense, by watching over her education myself, had the nature of our situations allowed it; but 1 had no family, no home: and my little Eliza was there- fore placed at school. I saw her there whenever I could, and after the death of my brother, (which happened about five years ago, and which left to me the possession of the family property,) she frequently visited me at Delaford. I called her a distant

relation ;

( 169 )

relation; but I am well aware that 1 have in general been suspected of a much nearer connection with her. It is now three years ago, (she had just reached her fourteenth year,) that I removed her from school, to place her under the care of a very respec- table woman, residing in Doi-setshire, who had the charge of four or five other girls of about the same time of life; and for two years I had every reason to be pleased with her situa- tion. But last February, almost a twelvemonth back, she suddenly dis- appeared. I had allowed her, (im- prudently, as it has since turned out,) at her earnest desire, to go to Bath with one of her young friends, who was attending her father there for his health. I knew him to be a very good sort of man, and I thought well of his daughter — better than she de- served, for, with a most obstinate and VOL. II. I ill-judged

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ill-judged secrecy, she would tell nothing, would give no clue, though she certainly knew all. He, her father, a well-meaning, but not a quick sighted man, could really, I believe, give no information; for he had been generally confined to the house, while the girls were ranging over the town and making what acquaintance they chose; and he tried to convince me, as thoroughly as he was convinced himself, of his daughter's being en- tirely unconcerned in the business. In short, I could learn nothing but that she was gone ; all the rest, for eight long months, was left to con- jecture. What I thought, what I feared, may be imagined ; and what I suffered too."

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

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

( 171 )

ter from herself, last October. It was forwarded to me from Delaford, and I received it on the very morning of our intended jDarty to Whitwell; and this was the reason of my leaving Barton so suddenly, which I am sure must at the time have appeared strange to every body, and which I believe gave offence to some. Little did Mr. Willoughby imagine, I sup- pose, when his looks censured me for incivility in breaking up the party, that I was called away to the relief of one, w hom he had made poor and miserable; but had he known it, what would it have availed? Would he have been less gay or less happy in the smiles of your sister? No, he had already done that, which no man w ho can feel for another, would do. He had left the girl whose youth and innocence he had seduced, in a situa- tion of the utmost distress, with no 1 2 creditable

( 172 )

creditable home, no help, no friends, ignorant of his address! He had left her promising to return; he neither retm-ned, nor wrote, nor relieved her." " This is beyond every thing!" exclaimed Elinor. " His character is now before you; expensive, dissi- pated, and worse than both. Know- ing all this, as I have now known it many weeks, guess what I must have felt on seeing your sister as fond of him as ever, and on being assured that she was to marry him; guess what I must have felt for all your sakes. When I came to you last week and found you alone, I came determined to know the truth; though irresolute what to do when it was known. My behaviour must have seemed strange to you then ; but now you will comprehend it. To suffer you all to be so deceived ; to see your sister — ^but what could I do? I had

no

( 173 )

no hope of iaterfering with success ; and sometimes I thought your sisters influence might yet reclaim him. But now, after such dishonourable usage, who can tell what were his designs on her? Whatever they may have beeUj however, she may now, and hereafter she doubtless ivill, turn with gratitude towards her own condition, when she compares it with that of ray poor Eliza, when she considers the wretch- ed and hopeless situation of this poor girl, and pictures her to herself, with an affection for him as strong, still as strong as her own, and with a mind tormented by self-reproach, which must attend her through life. Surely this comparison must have its use with her. She will feel her own sufferings to be nothing. They pro- ceed from no misconduct, and can bring no disgrace. On the contrary, every friend must be made still more I 3 her

( 174 )

her friend by them. Concern for her imhappiness, and respect for her for- titude under it, must strengthen every attachment. Use your own discre- tion however, in communicating to her what I have told you. You must know best what will be its effect ; but had I not seriously, and from my heart believed it might be of service^ might lessen her regrets, I would not have suffered myself to trouble you with this account of my family afflic- tions, with a recital which may seem to have been intended to raise myself at the expence of others."

Elinor's thanks follow ed this speech with grateful earnestness ; attended too with the assurance of her expecting material advantage to Marianne, from the communication of what had passed.

** 1 have been more pained," said she, *^by her endeavours to acquit him

thau

( 175 )

than by all the rest; for it irritates her mind more than the most perfect conviction of his unworthiness can do. Now, though at first she will suffer much, I am sure she will soon be- come easier. Have you," she con- tinued, after a short silence, " ever seen Mr. Willoughby since you left him at Barton ?"

" Yes," he replied gravely, "once 1 havCi One meeting was unavoidable."

Elinor, startled by his manner, look- ed at him anxiously, saying,

" What ! have you met him to — "

" I could meet him in no other way. Eliza had confessed to me, though most reluctantly, the name of her lover; and when he returned to town, which was within a fortnight after myself, we met by appointment, he to defend, I to punish his conduct. We returned unwounded, and the meeting, therefore, never got abroad." 1 4 Elinor

( 176 )

Elinor sighed over the fancied ne- eessity of this; but to a man and a soldier, she presumed not to censure it.

" Such," said Colonel Brandon, after a pause, " has been the unhap- py resemblance between the fate of mother and daughter! and so imper- fectly have I discharged my trust 1"

" Is she still in town ?"

'* No ; as soon as she recovered from her lying-in, for I found her near her delivery, I removed her and her child into the country, and there she remains."

Recollecting, soon afterwards, that he was probably dividing Elinor from her sister, he put an end to his visit, receiving from her again the same grateful acknowledgments, and leav- ing her full of compassion and esteem for him.

CHAP-

( 177 )

CHAPTER X.

When the particulars of this conver- sation were repeated by Miss Dash- wood to her sister, as they very soon were, their effect on her was not en- tirely such as the former had hoped to see. Not that Marianne appeared to distrust the truth of any part of it, for she listened to it all with the most steady and submissive attention, made neither objection nor remark, at- tempted no vindication of Willough- by, and seemed to shew by her tears that she felt it to be impossible. But though this behaviour assured Elinor that the conviction of his guilt was carried home to her mind, though she saw with satisfaction the effect of it, 1 5 in

( 178 )

in her no longer avoiding Colonel Brandon when he called, in her speaking to him, even voluntarily speaking, with a kind of compas- sionate respect, and though she saw her spirits less violently irritated than before, she did not see her less wretched. Her mind did become settled, but it was settled in a gloomy dejection. She felt the loss of Wil- loughby's character yet more heavily than she had felt the loss of his heart; his seduction and desertion of Miss Williams, the misery of that poor girly and the doubt of what his de- signs might once have been on herself, preyed altogether so much on her spirits, that she could not bring her- self to speak of what she felt even to Elinor; and brooding over her sor- rows ill silence, gave more pain to her sister than could have been commu- nicated

( 179 )

nicated by the most open and most frequent confession of them.

To give the feelings or the language of Mrs. Dashwood on receiving and answering Elinor's letter, would be only to give a repetition of what her daughters had already felt and said; of a disappointment hardly less pain- ful than Marianne's, and an indigna* tion even greater than Elinor's. Long letters from her, quickly succeeding each other, arrived to tell all that she suffered and thought; to express her anxious solicitude for Marianne, and entreat she would bear up with for- titude under this misfortune. Bad indeed must the nature of Marianne's affliction be, when her mother could talk of fortitude ! mortifvins; and hu- miliating must be the origin of those regrets, which she could wish her not to indulge 1

Against the interest of her own in- I 6 dividual

( 180 )

dividual comfort, Mrs. Dashwood had determined that it would be bet-^ ter for Mariamie to be anywhere, at that time, than at Barton, where every- thing within her view would be bring- ing back the past in the strongest and most afflicting manner, by constantly placing Willoughby before her, such as she had always seen him there. She recommended it to her daughters, therefore, by all means not to shorten their visit to Mrs. Jennings; the length of which, though never exact- ly fixed, had been expected by all to comprise at least five or six weeks. A variety of occupations, of objects, and of company, which could not be procured at Barton, would be inevit- able there, and might yet, she hoped, cheat Marianne, at times, into some interest beyond herself, and even into some amusement, much as the idea

of

( 181 )

of both might now be spurned by her.

From all danger of seeing Wil- loughby again, her mother considered her to be at least equally safe in town as in the country, since his acquain- tance must now be dropped by all who called themselves her friends. Design could never bring them in each other's way; negligence could never leave them exposed to a sur- prise; and chance had less in its fa- vour in the croud of London than even in the retirement of Barton, where it might force him before her while paying that visit at Allenham on his marriage, which Mrs. Dash- wood, from foreseeing at first as a probable event, had brought herself to expect as a certain one.

She had yet another reason for wishing her children to remain where they were; a letter from her son-in^

law

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law had told her that he and his wife were to be in town before the middle of February, and she judged it right that they should sometimes see their brother.

Marianne had promised to be guided by her mother's opinion, and she submitted to it therefore without opposition, though it proved perfectly different from what she wished and expected, though she felt it to be en- tirely wrong, formed on mistaken grounds, and that by requiring her longer continuance in London it de- prived her of the only possible allevi^ ation of her wretchedness, the per- sonal sympathy of her mother, and doomed her to such society and such scenes as must prevent her ever knowing a moment's rest.

But it was a matter of great con- solation to her, that what brought evil to herself would bring good to

her

( IB3 )

her sister; and Elinor, on the other hand, suspecting' that it woukl not ])e in her power to avoid Edward en- tirelyj comforted herself by thinking", that though their longer stay would therefore militate against her own happiness, it w ould be better for Ma- rianne than an immediate return into Devonshire.

Her carefulness in guarding her sis- ter from ever hearing Willoughby's name mentioned, was not thrown away. Marianne, though without knowing it herself, reaped all its ad- vantage; for neither Mrs. Jennings, nor Sir John, nor even Mrs. Palmer herself, ever spoke of him before her. Elinor wished that the same forbear- ance could have extended towards lierself, but that was impossible, and she was obliged to listen day after day to the indignation of them all.

Sir John could not have thought it

( 184 )

possible. " A man of whom he had always had such reason to think well ! Such a good-natured fellow! He did not believe there was a bolder rider in England! It was an unaccountable business. He wished him at the de- vil with all his heart. He would not speak another word to him, meet him where he might, for all the world! No, not if it were to be by the side of Barton covert, and they were kept waiting for two hours together. Such a scoundrel of a fellow ! such a de- ceitful dog! It was only the last time they met that he had offered him one of Folly's puppies ! and this was the end of it!"

Mrs. Palmer, in her way, was equally angry. " She was determin- ed to drop his acquaintance immedi- ately, and she was very thankful that she had never been acquainted with him at all. She wished with all her

heart

( 185 )

heart Combe Magna was not so near Cleveland ; but it did not signify, for it was a great deal too far off to visit; she hated him so much that she was resolved never to mention his name again, and she should tell ever\i3ody she saw, how^ good-for-nothing he was."

The rest of Mrs. Palmer's sympa- thy was shewn in procuring all the particulars in her power of the ap- proaching marriage, and communi- cating them to Elinor. She could soon tell at what coachmaker's the new carriage was building, by what painter Mr. Willoughby's portrait was drawn, and at what warehouse Miss Grey's clothes might be seen.

The calm and polite unconcern of Lady Middleton on the occasion was an happy relief to Elinor's spirits, op- pressed as they often were by the clamorous kindness of the others.

It

( 186 )

It was a great comfort to her, to be sure of exciting no interest in one person at least among their circle of friends ; a great comfort to know that there was otie who would meet her without feeling any curiosity after particulars, or any anxiety for her sister's health.

Every qualification is raised at times, by the circumstances of the moment, to more than its real value; and she was sometimes worried down by officious condolence to rate good- breeding as more indispensable to comfort than good-nature.

Lady Middleton expressed her sense of the affair about once every day, or twice, if the subject occurred very often, by saying, " It is very shocking indeed !" and by the means of this continual though gentle vent, was able not only to see the Miss Dashwoods from the first without the

smallest

( 187 )

smallest emotion, but very soon to see them without recollecting a word of the matter; and having thus sup- ported the dignity of her own sex, and spoken her decided censure of what was wrong in the other, she thought herself at liberty to attend ta the interest of her own assemblies-, and therefore determined (though ra- ther against the opinion of Sir John) that as Mrs. Willoughby would at once be a woman of elegance and for- tune, to leave her card with her as soon as she married.

Colonel Brandon's delicate unob- trusive inquiries were never unwel- come to Miss Dashwood. He had abundantly earned the privilege of intimate discussion of her sister's dis- appointment, by the friendly zeal with which he had endeavoured to soften it, and they always conversed with confidence. His chief reward for the

painful

( 1B8 )

painful exertion of disclosing past sorrows and present humiliations, was given in the pitying eye with which Marianne sometimes observed him, and the gentleness of her voice when- ever (though it did not often happen) she was obliged, or could oblige her- self to speak to him. These assured him that his exertion had produced an increase of good-will towards him- self, and these gave Elinor hopes of its being farther augmented hereafter; but Mrs. Jennings, who knew nothing of all this, who knew only that the Colonel continued as grave as ever, and that she could neither prevail on him to make the offer himself, nor commission her to make it for him, began, at the end of two days, to think that, instead of Midsummer, they would not be married till Mi- chaelmas, and by the end of a week that it would not be a match at all.

The

( 189 )

The good understanding between the Colonel and Miss Dash\yood seemed rather to declare tliat the honours of the mulberry-tree, the canal, and the yew arbour, would all be made over to her; and Mrs. Jennings had for some time ceased to think at all of Mr. Ferrars.

Early in February, within a fort- night from the receipt of Willoughby's letter, Elinor had the painful office of informing her sister that he w as married. She had taken care to have the intelligence conveyed to herself, as soon as it w as known that the ce- remony was over, as she was desirous that Marianne should not receive the first notice of it from the public pa- pers, which she saw her eagerly exa- mining every morning.

She received the news with reso- lute composure; made no observa- tion on it, and at first shed no tears ;

but

( 190 )

but after a short time they would burst out, and for the rest of the day, she was in a state hardly less pitiable than when she first learnt to expect the event.

The Willoughbys left town as soon as they were married; and Elinor now hoped, as there could be no danger of her seeing either of them, to prevail on her sister, who had ne- ver yet left the house since the blow first fell, to go out again by degrees as she had done before.

About this time, the two Miss Steeles, lately arrived at their cou- sin's house in Bartlett's Buildings, Holborn, presented themselves again before their more grand relations in Conduit and Berkeley-street; and were welcomed by them all with great cordiality.

Elinor only was sorry to see them. Their presence always gave her pain,

and

( 191 )

and she hardly knew how to make a very gracious return to the overpow- ering delight of Lucy in finding her still in town.

" I should have been quite disap- pointed if I had not found you here still J' said she repeatedly, with a strong emphasis on the word. " But I always thought 1 should. I was al- most sure you would not leave Lon- don yet awhile; though you told me, you know, at Barton, that you should not stay above a month. But I thought, at the time, that you would most likely change your mind when it came to the point. It would have been such a great pity to have w ent away before your brother and sister came. And now to be sure you will be in no hurry to be gone. I am ama- zingly glad you did not keep to your word.''

Elinor perfectly understood her,

and

( 192 )

and was forced to use all her self- command to make it appear that she did not.

" Well, my dear," said Mrs. Jen- nings, " and how did you travel?'*

" Not in the stage, I assure you," replied Miss Steele, with quick exul- tation; " we came post all the way, and had a very smart beau to attend us. Dr. Davies was coming to town, and so we thought we'd join him in a post-chaise; and he behaved very gen- teelly, and paid ten or twelve shil- lings more than we did."

" Oh, oh!" cried Mrs. Jennings; " very pretty, indeed! and the Doc- tor is a single man, I warrant you."

" There now," said Miss Steele, affectedly simpering, " everybody laughs at me so about the Doctor, and I cannot think why. My cou- sins say they are sure 1 have made a conquest; but for my part I declare

I nevei*

( 193 )

I never think about him from one hour's end to another. ' Lord! here comes your beau, Nancy,' my cousin said t'other day, when she saw him crossing the street to the house. My beau, indeed! said I — I cannot think who you mean. The Doctor is no beau of mine."

*' Aye, aye, that is very pretty talk- ing— but it won't do — the Doctor is the man, I see."

'' No, indeed!" replied her cousin, w ith affected earnestness, " and I beg you will contradict it, if you ever hear it talked of"

Mrs. Jennings directly gave her the gratifying assurance that she certainly would not, and Miss Steele was made completely happy.

" I suppose you will go and stay with your brother and sister, Miss Dashvvoo<:l, when they come to town," said Lucy, returning, after a cessa- tion of hostile hints, to the charge.

VOL. II. K " A^o,

( 194 )

" No, I do not think we shall/'

" Oh, yes, I dare say you will."

Elinor would not humour her by farther opposition.

" What a charming thing it is that Mrs. Dashwood can spare you both for so long a time together!"

" Long a time, indeed !" interposed Mrs. Jennings. ** Why, their visit is but just begun!"

Lucy was silenced.

" I am sorry we cannot see your sister. Miss Dashwood," said Miss Steele. " I am sorry she is not well ;" for Marianne had left the room on their arrival.

'' You are very good. My sister will be equally sorry to miss the plea- sure of seeing you; but she has been very much plagued lately with ner- vous head-akes, which make her un- fit for company or conversation."

" Oh, dear, that is a great pity !

but

( J95 )

but such old friends as Lucy and me ! — I think she might see m; and I am sure we would not speak a word."

Elinor, with great civility, declined the proposal. Her sister was perhaps laid down upon the bed, or in her dressing gown, and therefore not able to come to them.

" Oh, if that's all," cried Miss Steele, " we can just as well go and see her J'

Elinor began to find this imperti- nence too much for her temper; but she was saved the trouble of check- ing it, by Lucy's sharp reprimand, which now, as on many occasions, though it did not give much sweet- ness to the manners of one sister, was of advantage in governing those of the other.

K 2 CHAP-

( 196 )

CHAPTER XI.

After some opposition, Marianne yielded to her sister's entreaties, and consented to go out with her and Mrs. Jennings one morning, for half an hour. She expressly conditioned however, for paying no visits, and would not do more than accompany them to Gray's in Sackville street, where Elinor was carrying on a nego- ciation for the exchange of a few old- fashioned jewels of her mother.

When they stopped at the door, Mrs. Jennings recollected that there was a lady at the other end of the street, on whom she ought to call; and as she had no business at Gray's, it was resolved, that while her young

friends

( 197 )

friends transacted their s, she should pay her visit, and return for them.

On ascending the stairs, the Miss Dashwoods found so many people before them in the room, that there was not a person at liberty to attend to their orders ; and they were obliged to wait. All that coukl be done was, to sit down at that end of the counter which seemed to promise the quick- est succession; one gentleman only was standing there, and it is probable that Elinor was not without hopes of exciting his politeness to a quicker dispatch. But the correctness of his eye, and the delicacy of his taste, proved to be beyond his politeness. He was giving orders for a toothpick- case for himself, and till its size, shape, and ornaments were determined, all of which, after examining and de- bating for a quarter of an hour over e\^ry toothpick-case in the shop, K 3 were

( 198 )

were finally arranged by his own in- ventive fancy, be bad no leisure to bestow any otber attention on tbe two ladies, than what was comprised in three or four very broad stares; a kind of notice which served to imprint on Elinor, the remembrance of a per- son and face, of strong, natural, ster- ling insignificance, though adorned in the first stile of fashion.

Marianne was spared from the troublesome feelings of contempt and resentment, on this impertinent exa- mination of their features, and on the puppyism of his manner in deciding on all the diflTerent horrors of the differ- ent toothpick-cases presented to his inspection, by remaining unconscious of it all ; for she was as well able to collect her thoughts within herself, and be as ignorant of what was pass- ing around her, in Mr. Gray's shop, as in her own bed-room.

At

( 199 )

At last the affair was decided. Tlie ivory, the gold, and the pearls, all re- ceived their appointment, and the gentleman having named the last day on which his existence could be con- tinued without the possession of the toothpick-case, drew on his gloves with leisurely care, and bestowing another glance on the Miss Dash- woods, but such a one as seemed rather to demand than express admi- ration, walked off with an happy air of real conceit and affected indiffer- ence.

Elinor lost no time in bringing her business forward, and was on the point of concluding it, when another gentleman presented himself at her side. She turned her eyes towards his face, and found him with some surprise to be her brother.

Their affection and pleasure in

meeting, was just enough to make a

K 4 very

( 200 )

very creditable appearance in Mr. Graj:'s shop. John Dashwood was really far from being sorry to see hij4 sisters again; it rather gave them satisfaction ; and his enquiries after their mother were respectful and at- tentive.

Elinor found that he and Fanny had been in town two days.

" I wished very much to call upon you yesterday," said he, "but it was impossible, for we wei^ obliged to take Harry to see the wild beasts at Exeter Exchange : and we spent the rest of the day with Mrs. Ferrars. Harry was vastly pleased. This morning I had fnlly intended to call on you, if I could possibly find a spare half hour, but one has always so much to do on first coming to town. I am come here to bespeak Fanny a seal. But to-morrow I think I shall certainly be able to call in

Berkeley

( 201 )

Berkeley-street, and be introduced to your friend Mrs. Jennings. 1 understand she is a woman of very good fortune. And the Middletons too, you must introduce me to them. As my mother-in-law's relations,! shall be happy to shew them every respect. They are excellent neighbours to you in the country I understand."

'' Excellent indeed. Their atten- tion to our comfort, their friendliness in every particular, is more than I can express,"

" 1 am extremely glad to hear it^ upon my word; extremely glad in- deed. But so it ought to be ; they are people of large fortune, they are related to you, and every civility and accommodation that can serve to make your situation pleasant, might be reasonably expected. And so you are most comfortably settled in your little cottage and want for notliing! K o Edward

( 202 )

Edward brought us a most cliax*ming account of the place; the most com- plete thing of its kind, he said, that ever was, and you all seemed to enjoy it beyond any thing. It was a great satisfaction to us to hear it, I assure you."

Elinor did feel a little ashamed of her brother: and was not sorrv to be

7 *l

spared the necessity of answering him, by the arrival of Mrs. Jennings's^i servant, who came to tell her that his mistress waited for them at the door.

Mr.Dashwood attended them down stairs, was introduced to Mrs. Jen- nings at the door of her carriage, and repeating his hope of being able to call on them the next day, took leave.

His visit was duly paid. He came with a pretence at an apology from their sister-in-law, for not coming too; ** but she was so much engaged with

feer

( 203 )

her mother, that really she had no leisure for going any where." Mrs. Jennings, however, assured him di- rectly, that she should not stand upon ceremony, for they were all cousins, or something like it, and she should certainly wait on Mrs. John Dash- wood \ery soon, and bring her sisters to see her. His manners to them, though calm, were perfectly kind ; to Mrs. Jennings most attentively civil; and on Colonel Brandon's coming in soon after himself, he eyed him with a curiosity which seemed to say, that he only wanted to know him to be rich, to be equally civil to him.

After staying with them half an hour, he asked Elinor to walk Avitli him to Conduit-street, and introduce him to Sir John and LadyMiddleton. The weather was remarkably fine, and she readily consented. As soon K (> as

( 204 )

as they were out of the house, his en- quiries began.

" Who is Colonel Brandon? Is he a man of fortune ?"

" Yes ; he has very good property in Dorsetshire." " I am glad of it. He seems a most gentlemanlike man ; and I think, Elinor, I may congratu- late you on the prospect of a very respectable establishment in life."

" Me, brother ! what do you mean ?"

'' He likes you. I observed him narrowly, and am convinced of it. What is the amount of his fortune?"

" I believe about two thousand a year."

" Two thousand a-year;" and then working himself up to a pitch of enthusiastic generosity, he added, "Elinor, I wish with all my heart, it were tivice as much, for your sake."

" Indeed I believe you," replied Elinor, "but I am very sure that

Colonel

( 2Cro )

Colonel Brandon has not the smallest wish of marrvins: meT

" You are mistaken, Elinor; you are very much mistaken. A very little trouble on your side secures him. Perhaps just at present he may be undecided ; the smallness of your fortune may make him hans: back; his friends mav all advise him against it. But some of those little atten- tions and encouragements which la- dies can so easily give, will fix him,, in spite of himself And there can be no reason why you should not try for him. It is not to be supposed that any prior attachment on your side — in shart, you know as to an at* tachment of that kind, it is quite out of the question, the objections are insurmountable — you have too much sense not to see all that. Colonel Brandon must be the man; and no

civility

( 206 )

civility shall be wanting on my part, to make him pleased with you and your family. It is a match that must give universal satisfaction. In short, it is a kind of thing that" — lowering his voice to an important whisper — ** will be exceedingly welcome to all parties^ Recollecting himself, how- ever, he added, " That is, I mean to say — your friends are all truly anxious to see you well settled ; Fanny parti- cularly, for she has your interest very much at heart, I assure you. And her mother too, Mrs. Ferrars, a very good-natured woman, I am sure it would give her great pleasure; she said as much the other day."

Elinor would not vouchsafe any answer.

" It would be something remark- able now," he continued, " some- thing droll, if Fanny should have a

brother

( 207 )

brother and I a sister settling at the same time. And yet it is not very unlikely."

" Is Mr. Edward Ferrars," said Elinor, with resolution, " going* to be married ?"

" It is not actually settled, but there is such a thing in agitation. He has a most excellent mother. Mrs. Ferrars, with tlie utmost liberality, will come forward, and settle on him a thousand a-year, if the match takes place. The lady is the Hon. Miss Morton, only daughter of the late Lord Morton, with thirty thousand pounds. A very desirable connec- tion on both sides, and I have not a doubt of its taking place in time. A thousand a-year is a great deal for a mother to give away, to make over for e^ er; but Mrs. Ferrars has a noble spirit. To give you another instance of her liberality : — The other day, as

soon

( 208 )

soon as we came to town, aware that money could not be very plenty with us just now, she put bank-notes into Fanny "s hands to the amount of two hundred pounds. And extremely ac- ceptable it is, for we must live at a great expence while we are here."

He paused for her assent and com- passion; and she forced herself to say,

" Your expences both in town and country must certainly be consider- able, but your income is a large one.*'

**^ Not so large^ I dare say, as many people suppose. I do not mean to complain, however; it is undoubtedly a comfortable one, and I hope will in time be better. The inclosure of Norland Common, now carrying on,. is a most serious drain. And then I have made a little purchase within- this half year; East Kingham Farm^ you must remember the place, w here

old

( 209 )

old Gibson used to live. The lami was so very desirable for me in every respect, so immediately adjoining my own property, that I felt it my duty to buy it. I could not have answered it to my conscience to let it fall into any other hands. A man must pay for his convenience; and it has cost me a vast deal of money."

" More than you think it really and intrinsically worth."

" Why, I hope not that. I might have sold it again the next day, for more than I gave : but with regard to the purchase-money, I might have been very unfortunate indeed ; for the stocks were at that time so low, that if I had not happened to have the necessary sum in my banker's hands, I must have sold out to very great loss."

Elinor could only smile.

*' Other great and inevitable ex- pen ces

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pences too we have had on first com- ing to Norland. Our respected father, as you well know, bequeathed all the Stanhill effects that remained at Nor- land (and very valuable they were) to your mother. Far be it from me to repine at his doing so ; he had an undoubted right to dispose of his own property as he chose. But, in con- sequence of it, we have been obliged to make large purchases of linen, china, &c. to supply the place of what was taken away. You may guess, after all these expences, how very far we must be from being rich, and how acceptable Mrs. Ferrars's kindness is."

" Certainly," said Elinor; " and as- sisted by her liberality, I hope you may yet live to be in easy circum- stances."

" Another year or two may do much towards it," he gravely replied;

" but

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" but however there is still a great deal to be done. There is not a stone laid of Fanny's greenhouse, and nothing but the plan of the flower-garden marked out."

" Where is the green-house to be?"

" Upon the knoll behind the house. The old walnut trees are all come down to make room for it. It will be a very fine object from many parts of the park, and the flower-garden will slope down just before it, and be exceedingly pretty. We have cleared away all the old thorns that grew in patches over the brow."

Elinor kept her concern and her censure to herself; and was very thankful that Marianne was not pre- sent, to share the provocation.

Having now said enough to make his poverty clear, and to do away the necessity of buying a pair of

ear-

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ear-rings for each of his sisters, in his next visit at Gray's, his thoughts took a cheerfnller turn, and he began to congratulate Elinor on having such a friend as Mrs. Jennings.

" She seems a most valuable wo- man indeed. — Her house, her stile of living, all bespeak an exceeding good income; and it is an acquaintance that has not only been of great use to you hitherto, but in the end may prove materially advantageous. — Her inviting you to town is certainly a vast thing in your favour ; and in- deed, it speaks altogether so great a regard for you, that in all proba- bility v,hen she dies you will not be forgotten. — She must have a great deal to leave."

" Nothing at all, I should rather suppose; for she has only her fur- niture, which will descend to her children."

'' But

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" But it is not to be ima2:ined that she lives up to her income. Few people of common prudence will do that; and whatever she saves, she will be able to dispose of,"

" And do you not think it more likely that she should leave it to her daughters, than to us?"

" Her daughters are both exceed- ingly well married, and therefore I cannot perceive the necessity of her remembering them farther. Whereas, in my opinion, by her taking so much notice of you, and treating you in this kind of way, she has given you a sort of claim on her future considera- tion, which a conscientious woman wouW not disregard. Nothing can be kinder than her behaviour; and she can hardly do all this, without being aware of the expectation she raises. '

*' But she raises none in those

most

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most concerned. Indeed, brother, your anxiety for our welfare and prosperity carries you too far."

" Why to be sure," said he, seem- ing to recollect himself, " people have little, have very little in their power. But, my dear Elinor, what is the matter with Marianne? — she looks very unwell, has lost her co- lour, and is grown quite thin. Is she ill?"

" She is not well, she has had a nervous complaint on her for seve- ral weeks."

" I am sorry for that. At her time of life, any thing of an illness destroys the bloom for ever ! Her's has been a very short one ! She was as handsome a girl last September, as any I ever saw; and as likely to attract the men. There was some- thing in her stile of beauty, to please them particularly. I remember

Fannv

( 215 )

Fanny used to say that she would marry sooner and better tlian you did; not but what she is exceed- ingly fond oi you, but so it happened to strike her. She will be mistaken, however. I question wlietiier Mari- anne now, will marry a man worth more than five or six hundred a year, at the utmost, and I am very much deceived if you do not do better. Dorsetshire! I know very little of Dorsetshire, but, my dear Elinor, I shall be exceedingly glad to know more of it; and I think I can answer for your having Fanny and myself among the earliest and best pleased of your visitors."

Elinor tried very seriously to con- vince him that there was no likeli- hood of her marrying Colonel Bran- don; but it was an expectation of too much pleasure to himself to be relinquished, and he was really re- solved

( 21'> )

solved on seeking an intimacy with that gentleman, and promoting the marriage by every possible attention. He had just compunction enough for having done nothing for his sisters himself, to be exceedingly anxious that everybody else should do a great deal; and an offer from Colonel Brandon, or a legacy from Mrs. Jen- nings, was the easiest means of atoning for his ow^n neglect.

They were lucky enough to find Lady Middleton at home, and Sir John came in before their visit ended. Abundance of civilities passed on all sides. Sir John was ready to like anybody, and though Mr. Dashwood did not seem to know^ much about horses, he soon set him down as a very good-natured fellow ; w hile Lady Middleton saw enough of fashion in his appearance, to think his acquaintance worth having; and

Mr.

( 217 )

Mr, Dashwood went away delighted with both.

" I shall have a charming account to carry to Fanny," said he, as he walked back with his sister. " Lady Middleton is really a most elegant woman ! Such a woman as I am sure Fanny will be glad to know. And Mrs. Jennings too, an exceeding well- behaved woman, though not so ele- gant as her daughter. Your sister need not have any scruple even of visiting her^ which, to say the truth, 4ias been a little the case, and very naturally; for we only knew that Mrs. Jennings was the widow of a man, who liad got all his money in a low way; and Fanny and Mrs. Fer- rars were both strongly prepossessed that neither she nor her daughters were such kind of women as Fanny would like to associate with. But now I can carry her a most satisfac- tory account of both."

VOL. II. L CHAP-

( 218 )

CHAPTER XII.

Mrs. John Dashwood had so much confidence in her husband's judgment that she waited the very next day both on Mrs. Jennings and her daughter; and her confidence was rewarded by finding even the former, even the woman with whom her sis- ters were staying, by no means un- worthy her notice ; and as for Lady Middleton, she found her one of the most charming women in the world !

Lady Middleton was equally pleased with Mrs. Dashwood. There was a kind of cold hearted selfish- ness on both sides, which ■ mutually attracted them; and they sympa- thized

( 219 )

thized with each other in an insipid propriety of demeanour, and a gene- ral want of understanding.

Tlie same manners however, which recommended Mrs. John Da.shwood to the good opinion of Lady Middle- ton, did not suit the fancy of Mrs. Jennings, and to her she appeared nothing more than a little proud- looking woman of uncordial address, who met her husband's sisters with- out any affection, and almost without having any thing to say to them; for of the quarter of an hour bestowed on Berkeley-street, she sat at least seven minutes and a half in silence.

Elinor wanted very much to know, though she did not chuse to ask, whether Edward was then in town; but nothing would have induced Fanny voluntarily to mention his jiame before her, till able to tell her ihat his marriage with Miss Morton L 2 was

( 220 )

was resolved on, or till her husband^s expectations on Colonel Brandon were answered; because she believed them still so very much attached to each other, that they could not be too sedulously divided in word and deed on every occasion. The intelligence however, which she would not give, soon flowed from another quarter. Lucy came very shortly to claim Elinor's compassion on being unable to see Edward, though he had arrived in town with Mr. and Mrs. Dash- wood. He dared not come to Bart- lett's Buildings for fear of detection, and though their mutual impatience to meet, was not to be told, they could do nothing at present but write.

Edward assured them himself of his being in town, within a very short time, by twice calling in Berkeley- street. Twice was his card found on

the

( 221 )

the table, when they returned from their morninsrs' enQ-ag-ements. Elinor was pleased that he had called; and still more pleased that she had missed him.

The Dashwoods were so prodigi- ously delighted with the Middletons, that though not much in the habit of giving any thing, they determined to give them — a dinner; and soon after their acquaintance began, invited them to dine in Harley-street, where they had taken a very good house for three months. Their sisters and Mrs. Jennings were invited likewise, and John Dashwood was careful to secure Colonel Brandon, who, always glad to be where the Miss Dash- woods were, received his eager civi- lities with some surprise, but much more pleasure. They were to meet Mrs. Feirars ; but Elinor could not learn whether her sons were to be of L 3 the

( -222 )

the party. The expectation of seeing her, however, was enough to make her interested in the engagement; for though she could now meet Ed- ward's mother without that strong anxiety which had once promised to attend such an introduction, though she could now see her with perfect indifference, as to her opinion of herself, her desire of being in com- pany with Mrs. Ferrars, her curiosity to know what she was like, was as lively as ever.

The interest with which she thus anticipated the party, was soon after- wards increased, more powerfully than pleasantly, by her hearing that the Miss Steeles were also to be at it.

So well had they recommended themselves to Lady Middleton, so agreeable had their assiduities made them to her, that though Lucy was

scarcely

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scarcely elegant, and her sister not even genteel, she was as ready as Sir John to ask them to spend a week or two in Conduit-street; and it happen- ed to be particularly convenient to the Miss Steeles, as soon as the Dash- woods' invitation was known, that their visit should begin a few days before the party took place.

Their claims on the notice of Mrs. John Dashwood, as the nieces of the gentleman who for many years had had the care of her brother, might not have done much, however, towards procuring them seats at her table; but as Lady Middleton's guests they must be welcome ; and Lucy, who had long wanted to be personally known to the family, to have a nearer view of their characters and her own difficulties, and to have an opportunity of endea- vouring to please them, had seldom been happier in her life than she was L 4 on

( 224 )

on receiving Mrs. John Dashwood's card.

On Elinor its effect was very dif- ferent. She began immediately to determine that Edward who lived with his mother, must be asked as his mother was, to a party given by his sister; and to see him for the first time after all that passed, in the com- pany of Lucy ! — she hardly knew how she could bear it!

These apprehensions perhaps were not founded entirely on reason, and certainly not at all on truth. They were relieved however, not by her own recollection, but by the good will of Lucy, who believed herself to be inflicting a severe disappointment when she told her that Edward cer- tainly would not be in Harley-street on Tuesday, and even hoped to be carrying the pain still farther by per- suading her, that he was kept away

by

( 225 )

by that extreme affection for herself, which he could not conceal when thev were tos-ether.

The important Tuesday came that was to introduce the two young ladies to this formidable mother-in-law.

*' Pity me, dear Miss Dashwood !" said Lucy, as they walked up the stairs together — for the Middletons arrived so directly after Mrs. Jen- nings, that they all followed the ser- vant at the same time — " There is nobody here but you, that can feel for me. — I declare I can hardly stand. Good gracious ! — In a moment I shall see the person that all my happiness depends on — that is to be my mo- ther!"—

Elinor could have given her imme- diate relief by suggesting the possibi- lity of its being Miss Morton's mo- ther, rather than her own, whom t!iey were about to behold; but instead of T. r> doinii'

( 226 )

doing that, she assured her, and with great sincerity, that she did pity her, — to the utter amazement of Lucy, who, though really uncomfortable herself, hoped at least to be an object of irrepressible envy to JElinor.

Mrs. Ferrars was a little, thin wo- man, upright, even to formality, iR her figure, and serious, even to sour- ness, in her aspect. Her complexion was sallow; and her features small, without beauty, and naturally with- out expression; but a lucky contrac- tion of the brow had rescued her countenance from the disgrace of in- sipidity, by giving it the strong cha- racters of pride and ill nature. She was not a woman of many words : for, unlike people in general, she propor- tioned them to the number of her ideas; and of the few syllables that did escape her, not one fell to the share of Miss Dashwood, whom she

eyed

( 227 )

eyed with the spirited deteniiination of disliking' her at all events.

Elinor could not 7iow be made un- happy by this behaviour. — A few months ago it would have hurt her exceedingly; but it was not in Mrs. Ferrars's power to distress her by it now; — and the difference of her man- ners to the Miss Steeles, a difference which seemed purposely made to humble her more, only amused her. She could not but smile to see the graciousness of both mother and daughter towards the very person — for Lucy was particularly distinguish" ed — whom of all others, had they known as much as she did, they would have been most anxious to mortify; while she herself, who had comparatively no power to wound them, sat pointedly slighted by both. But while she smiled at a gracious- ness so misapplied, she could not L f) reflect

( 228 )

reflect on the mean-spirited folly from which it sprung, nor observe the stu- died attentions with which the Miss Steeles courted its continuance, with- out thoroughly despising them all four.

Lucy was all exultation on being so honourably distinguished; and Miss Steele wanted only to be teazed about Dr. Davies to be perfectly happy.

The dinner was a grand one, the servants were numerous, and every thing bespoke the Mistress's incli- nation for shew, and the Master's abi- lity to support it. In spite of the im- provements and additions which were making to the Norland estate, and in spite of its owner having once been within some thousand pounds of be- ing obliged to sell out at a loss, no- thing gave any symptom of that indi- gence which he had tried to infer from it; — no poverty of any kind> except

of

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of conversation, appeared — but there, the deficiency was considerable. John Dash wood had not much to say for himself that was worth hearing, and his wife had still less. But there was no peculiar disgrace in this, for it was very much the case with the chief of their visitors, who almost all laboured under one or other of these disqualifi- cations for being agreeable — Want of sense, either natural or improved — want of elegance — want of spirits — or want of temper.

When the ladies withdrew to the drawing-room after dinner, this po- verty was particularly evident, for the gentlemen had supplied the discourse with some variety — the variety of po- litics, enclosing land, and breaking horses — but then it was all over; and one subject only engaged the ladies till coffee came in, which was the comparative heights of Harry Dash- wood,

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wood, and Lady Middleton's second son William, who were nearly of the same age.

Had both the children been there, the affair might have been determined too easily by measuring them at once; but as Harry only was present, it w as all conjectural assertion on both sides, and every body had a right to be equally positive in their opinion, and to repeat it over and over again as often as they liked.

The parties stood thus :

The two mothers, though each really convinced that her own son was the tallest, politely decided in favour of the other.

The two grandmothers, with not less partiality, but more sincerity, were eqtially earnest in support of their own descendant.

Lucy, who was hardly less anxious to please one parent than the other,

thought

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thought the boys were both remarka- bly tall for their age, and could not conceive that there could be the small- est difference in the world between them;' and Miss Steele, with yet greater address gave it, as fast as she could, in favour of each.

Elinor, having once delivered her opinion on William's side, by which she offended Mrs. Ferrars and Fanny still more, did not see the necessity of enforcing it by any farther assertion ; and Marianne, when called on for her's, offended them all, by declaring that she had no opinion to give, as she had never thoug^it about it.

Before her removing from Norland,. Elinor had painted a very pretty pair of screens for her sister-in-law, which being now just mounted and brought home, ornamented her present draw- ing-room: and these screens, catching the eye of John Dashwood on his fol- lowing

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lowing the other gentlemen into the room, were officiously handed by him to Colonel Brandon for his admira- tion.

" These are done by my eldest sis- ter/' said he; '' and you, as a man of taste, will, I dare say, be pleased with them. I do not know whether you ever happened to see any of her per- formances before, but she is in gene- ral reckoned to draw extremely well."

The Colonel, though disclaiming all pretensions to connoisseurship, warm- ly admired the screens, as he would have done any thing painted by Miss Dashwood ; and the curiosity of the others being of course excited, they were handed round for general inspec- tion. Mrs. Ferrars, not aware of their being Elinor's work, particularly re- quested to look at them; and after they had received the gratifying testi- mony of Lady Middleton's approba- tion.

( 233 )

tion, Fanny presented them to her mother, considerately informing her at the same time, that they were done by Miss Dashwood.

" Hum" — said Mrs. Ferrars — "very pretty," — and without regarding them at all, returned them to her daughter.

Perhaps Fanny thought for a mo- ment that her mother had been quite rude enough, — for, colouring a little, she immediately said,

" They are very pretty, ma'am — an't they ?" But then again, the dread of having been too civil, too encouraging herself, probably came over her, for she presently added,

" Do you not think they are some- thing in Miss Morton's stile of paint- ing, ma'am? — She does paint most delightfully! — How l)eautifully her last landscape is done!"

" Beautifully indeed ! But she does every thing well."

Marianne

( 234 )

Marianne could not bear this. — She was already greatly displeased with Mrs. Ferrars; and such ill-timed praise of another, at Elinor's expence, though she had not any notion of what was principally meant by it, provoked her immediately to say with warmth,

" This is admiration of a very par- ticular kind ! — what is Miss Morton to us ? — who knows, or who cares, for her? — it is Elinor of whom tve think and speak."

And so saying, she took the screens out of her sister-in-law's hands, to admire them herself as they ought to be admired.

Mrs. Ferrars looked exceedingly angry, and drawing herself up more stiffly than ever, pronounced in retort this bitter phillipic; " Miss Morton is Lord Morton's daughter."

Fanny looked very angry too, and her husband was all in a fright at his

sister's

( 235 )

bister's audacity. Elinor was much more hurt by Marianne's warmth, than she had been by what produced it; but Colonel Brandon's eyes, as they were fixed on Marianne, declared that he noticed only what was amiable in it, the affectionate heart which could not bear to see a sister slighted in the smallest point.

Marianne's feelings did not stop here. The cold insolence of Mrs. Ferrarss general behaviour to her sis- ter, seemed, to her, to foretel such "difficulties and distresses to Elinor, as her own wounded heart taught her to think of with horror ; and urged by a strong impulse of affectionate sensibility, she moved, after a mo- ment, to her sister's chair, and put- ting one arm round her neck, and one cheek close to her's, said in a low, but eager, voice,

" Dear, dear Elinor, don't mind

them.

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them. Don't let them make you un^ happy."

She could say no more ; her spirits were quite overcome, and hiding her face on Elinor's shoulder, she burst into tears. — Every body's attention was called, and almost every body was concerned. — Colonel Brandon rose up and went to them without knowing what he did. — Mrs. Jennings with a very intelligent " Ah ! poor dear," immediately gave her, her salts; and Sir John felt so desperately en- raged against the author of this ner- vous distress, that he instantly chang- ed his seat to one close by Lucy Steele, and gave her, in a whisper, a brief account of the whole shocking affair.

In a few minutes, however, Mari- anne was recovered enough to put an end to the bustle, and sit down among the rest ; though her spirits retained

the

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the impression of what had passed, the whole evening.

" Poor Marianne!" said her bro- ther to Colonel Brandon in a low voice, as soon as he could secure his atten- tion,— " She has not such good health as her sister, — she is very nervous, — she has not Elinor's constitution; — and one must allow that there is some- thing very trying to a young woman who has been a beauty, in the loss of her personal attractions. You would not think it perhaps, but Marianne was remarkably handsome a few months ago; quite as handsome as Elinor. — Now you see it is all gone."

CHAP-

( 238 )

CHAPTER XIII.

Elinor's curiosity to see Mrs. Fer- rars was satisfied. — She had found in her every thing that couki tend to make a farther connection between the families, undesirable. — She had seen enough of her pride, her mean- ness, and her determined prejudice against herself, to comprehend all the difficulties that must have perplexed the engagement, and retarded the marriage, of Edward and herself, had he been otherwise free ; — and she had seen almost enough to be thankful for her oiv7i sake, that one greater obstacle preserved her from suffernig under any other of Mrs. Ferrars's creation, preserved her from all de- pendence

( 239 )

pen den ce upon her caprice, or any solicitude for her good opinion. Or at least, if she did not bring herself quite to rejoice in Edward's being fettered to Lucy, she determined, that had Lucy been more amiable, she ought to have rejoiced.

She wondered that Lucy's spirits could be so very much elevated by the civility of Mrs. Ferrars ; — that her interest and her vanity should so very much blind her, as to make the attention which seemed only paid her because she* w as not Elinor, appear a compliment to herself — or to allow her to derive encouragement from a preference only given her, because her real situation was unknow n. But that it was so, had not only been de- clared by Lucy's eyes at the time, but was declared over again the next morning more openly, for at her par- ticular desire, Lady Middleton set

her

( 240 )

her down in Berkeley-street on the chance of seeing Elinor alone, to tell her how happy she was.

The chance proved a lucky one, for a message from Mrs. Palmer soon after she arrived, carried Mrs. Jen- nings away.

" My dear friend," cried Lucy as soon as they were by themselves, " I come to talk to you of my happiness. Could any thing be so flattering as Mrs. Ferrars's way of treating me yesterday? So exceeding affable as she was ! — You know^ how I dreaded the thoughts of seeing her; — but the very moment I was introduced, there w as such an affability in her behavi- our as really should seem to say, she had quite took a fancy to me. Now was not it so ? — You saw it all ; and was not you quite struck with it?"

" She was certainly very civil to you."

"Civil!

( 241 )

" Civil ! — Did you see nothing but only civility? — I saw a vast deal more. Such kindness as fell to the share of nobody but me! — No pride, no hau- teur, and your sister just the same — All sweetness and affability!"

Elinor wished to talk of something- else, but Lucy still pressed her to own that she had reason for her hap- piness; and Elinor was obliged to go on. — -.

" Undoubtedly, if they had known your engagenient," said she, " nothing could be more flattering than their treatment of you; — but as that was not the case"

'' I guessed you would say so" — re- plied Lucy quickly — " but there w as no reason in the world why Mrs. Fer- rars should seem to like me, if she did not, and her. liking me is every thing. You shan't talk me out of my

VOL, II. M sa,tisfac-

( 242 )

satisfaction. I am sure it will all end well, and there will be no difficulties at all, to what I used to think. Mrs. Ferrars is a charming woman, and so is your sister. They are both delight- ful women indeed ! — I wonder I should never hear you say how^ agreeable Mrs. Dashwood was!"

To this, Elinor had no answer to make, and did not attempt any.

" Are you ill. Miss Dashwood?— you seem low — you don't speak ; — sure, you an't well."

** I never was in better health."

" I am glad of it with all my heart, but really you did not look it. I should be so sorry to have you ill. You, that have been the greatest comfort to me in the world ! — Heaven knows what I should have done with- out your friendship." —

Elinor tried to make a civil answer,

though

( 243 )

though doubting her own success. But it seemed to satisfy Lucy, for she directly replied,

" Indeed I am perfectly convinced of your regard for me, and next to Edward's love> it is the greatest com- fort I have. — Poor Edward! — But now, there is one good thing, we shall be able to meet, and meet pretty often, for Lady Middleton's delight- ed with Mrs. Dashwood, so we shall be a good deal in Harley-street, I dare say, and Edward spends half bis time with his sister — besides, Lady Middleton and Mrs. Ferrars will visit now-, — and Mrs. Ferrars and your sister were both so good to say more than once, they should always be glad to see me. — They are such charming women! — I am sure if ever you tell your sister what 1 think of her, you cannot speak too iiigh."

M 2 But

( 244 )

But Elinor would not give her any encouragement to hope that she should tell her sister. Lucy conti- nued.

" I am sure I should have seen it in a moment, if Mrs. Ferrars had took a dislike to me. If she had only made me a formal curtsey, for in- stance, v^ithout saying a word, and never after had took any notice of me, and never looked at me in a pleasant way — you know what I mean, — if I had been treated in that forbidding sort of way, I should have gave it all up in despair. I could not have stood it. For where she does dislike, I know it is most vio- lent."

Elinor was prevented from making any reply to this civil triumph, by the door's being thrown open, the servant's announcing Mr. Ferrars, and Edward's immediately walking in.

It

( 245 )

It was a very awkward moment; and the countenance of each shewed that it was so. They all looked ex- ceedingly foolish ; and Edward seem- ed to have as great an inclination to walk out of the room again, as to ad- vance farther into it. The very cir- cumstance, in its unpleasantest form, which they would each have been most anxious to avoid, had fallen on them — They were not only all three together, but were together without the relief of any other person. The ladies recovered themselves first. It was not Lucy's business to put her- self forward, and the appearance of secrecy must still be kept up. She could therefore only look her tender- ness, and after slightly addressing him, said no more.

But Elinor had more to do; and

80 anxious was she, for his sake and

her own, to do it well, that she forced

M 3 herself*

( 246 )

herself, after a moment's recollection, to welcome him, with a look and manner that were almost easy, and almost open; and another struggle, another effort still improved them. She would not allow the presence of Lucy, nor the consciousness of some injustice towards herself, to deter her from saying that she was happy to see him, and that she had very much regretted being from home, when he called before in Berkeley- street. She would not be frightened from paying him those attentions which, as a friend and almost a rela- tion, were his due, by the observant eyes of Lucy, though she soon per- ceived them to be narrowly watching her.

Her manners gave some re-as- surance to Edward, and he had cou- rage enough to sit down ; but his em- barrassment still exceeded that of the

ladies

( 247 )

ladies in a proportion, which the case rendered reasonable, though his sex might make it rare ; for his heart had not the indifference of Lucy's, nor could his conscience have quite the ease of Elinor's.

Lucy, with a demure and settled air, seemed determined to make no contribution to the comfort of the others, and would not say a word; and almost every thing that was said, proceeded from Elinor, who was obliged to volunteer all the informa- tion about her mother's health, their coming to town, &c. which Edward ought to have enquired about, but never did.

Her exertions did not stop here; for she soon afterwards felt herself so heroically disposed as to determine, under pretence of fetching Marianne, to leave the others by themselves; and she really did it, and that in the M 4 hand-

( 248 )

handsomest manner, for she loitered away several minutes on the landing- place, with the most high-minded fortitude, before she went to her sister. When that was once done, however, it was time for the rapture* of Edward to cease ; for Marianne's joy hurried her into the drawing-room immediately. Her pleasure in see- ing him was like every other of her feelings, strong in itself, and strongly spoken. She met him with a hand that would be taken, and a voice that expressed the affection of a sister.

** Dear Edward T she cried, *-this is a moment of great happiness! — This would almost make amends for every thing!"

Edward tried to return her kind- ness as it deserved, but before such witnesses he dared not say half what he really felt. Again tliey all sat

down.

( 249 )

down, and for a moment or two all were silent; while Marianne was look- ing with the most speaking tender- ness, sometimes at Edward and some- times at Elinor, regretting only that their delight in each other should be checked by Lucy's unwelcome pre- sence. Edward was the first to speak, and it was to notice Marianne's altered looks, and express his fear of her not finding London agree with her;

" Oh ! don't think of me!" she replied, with spirited earnestness, though her eyes were filled with tears as she spoke, " don't think of iny health. Elinor is well, you see. That must be enough for us both."

This remark was not calculated to make Edward or Elinor more easy, nor to conciliate the good will of Lucy, who looked up at Marianne with no very benignant expression.

" Do you like London r" said Ed- >i 5 ward,.

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ward, willing to say any thing that might introduce another subject.

*' Not at all. I expected much pleasure in it, but I have found none. The sight of you, Edward, is tlie only comfort it has afforded; and, thank Heaven ! you are what you always were !"

She paused — no one spoke.

" I think, Elinor," she presently added, " we must employ Edward to take care of us in our return to Barton. In a week or two, I sup* pose, we shall be going; and, I trust, Edward will not be very unwilling to accept the charge."

Poor Edward muttered something, but what it was, nobody knew, not even himself. But Marianne, who saw his agitation, and could easily trace it to whatever cause best pleased herself, was perfectly satisfied, and soon talked of something else.

C 251 )

" We spent such a day, Edward, in Harley-street yesterday ! So dull, so wretchedly dull! — But 1 have much to say to you on that head, which cannot be said now."

And with this admirable discretion did she defer the assurance of her finding their mutual relatives more disagreeable than ever, and of her being- particularly disgusted with his mother, till they were more in pri- vate.

" But why were you not there, Ed- ward?— Why did you not come?"

" I was engaged elsewhere."

" Engaged ! — But what was that, when such friends were to be met?"

" Perhaps, Miss Marianne," cried Lucy, eager to take some revenge on her, " you think young men never stand upon engagements, if they have no mind to keep them, little as well as great."

M 6 Elinor

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Elinor was very angry, but Mari- anne seemed entirely insensible of the sting ; for she calmly replied ,^

" Not so, indeed ; for, seriously speaking, I am very sure that con- science only kept Edward from Har- ley-street. And I really believe, he has the most delicate conscience in the world; the most scrupulous in performing every engagement, how- ever minute, and however it may make against his interest or pleasure. He is the most fearful of giving pain, of wounding expectation, and the most incapable of being selfish, of any body I ever saw. Edward, it is so, and I will say it. What! are you never to hear yourself praised! — Then, you must be no friend of mine; for those who will accept of my love and esteem, must submit to my open commendation."

Tlie natnre of her commendation,

in

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in the present case, however, hap- pened to be particularly ill-suited to the feelings of two thirds of her audi- tors, and was so very unexhilarating to Edward, that he very soon got up to 2:0 awav.

" Going so soon !" said Marianne; " my dear Edward, this must not be."

And drawing him a little aside, she whispered her persuasion that Lucy could not stay much longer. But even thiis encouratgement failed, for he would go; and Lucy, who would have outstaid him had his visit lasted two hours, soon after- wards went away.

" What can bring her here so often!" said Marianne, on her leaving them. " Could she not see that we wanted her gone! — how teazing to Edward!"

" Why so?^ — we were all his

friends.

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friends, and Lucy has been the longest known to him of any. It is but natural that he should like to see her as well as ourselves."

Marianne looked at her steadilv. and said, " You know, Elinor, that this is a kind of talking which I cannot bear. If you only hope to have your assertion contradicted, as I must suppose to be the case, you ought to recollect that I am the last person in the w orld to do it. I can- not descend to be tricked out of as- surances, that are not really want- ed.'

She then left the room; and Elinor dared not follow her to say more, for bound as she was, by her promise of secrecy to Lucy, she could give no information that would convince Marianne; and painlul as the conse- quences of her still continuing in an error might be, she was obliged to

submit

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submit to it. All that she could hope, Avas that Edward would not often expose her or himself to the distress of hearing Marianne's mis- taken warmth, nor to the repetition of any other part of the pain that had attended their recent meeting- — and this^ she had every reason to expect.

CHAP^

( 256 )

CHAPTER XIV.

Within a few days after this meeting, the newspapers announced to the world, that the Lady of Tho- mas Palmer, Esq. was safely deli- vered of a son and heir; a very inte- resting and satisfactory paragraph^ at least to all those intimate connec- tions who knew it before.

This event, highly important to Mrs. Jennings^s happiness^ produced a temporary alteration in the dispo- sal of her time, and iniluenced in a. like degree, the engagements of her young friends; for as she wished to be as much as possible with Char- lotte, she went thither every morning as soon as she was dressed, and did

not

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not return till late in the evening; and the Miss Dashwoods, at the par- ticular request of the Middletons, spent the whole of every day in Conduit-street. For their own com- fort, they would much rather have remained, at least all the morning, in Mrs. Jennings's house; but it was not a thing to be urged against the wishes of everybody. Their hours were therefore made over to Lady Middleton and the two Miss Steeles, by whom their company was in fact as little valued, as it was professedly sought.

They had too much sense to be desirable companions to the former; and by the latter they were consider- ed with a jealous eye, as intruding on their ground, and sharing the kind- ness which they wanted to monopo- lize. Though nothing could be more polite than Lady Middleton's behavi- our

( 258 )

our to Elinor and Marianne, she did not really like them at all. Because they neither flattered herself nor her children, she could not believe them good-natured ; and because they were fond of reading, she fancied them satirical: perhaps without exactly knowing what it was to be satirical ; but that did not signify. It was cen^ sure in common use, and easily given.

Their presence was a restraint both on her and on Lucy. It checked the idleness of one, and the business of the other. Lady Middleton was ashamed of doing nothing before them, and the flattery which Lucy was proud to think of and adminis- ter ^at other times, she feared they w ould despise her for offering. Miss Steele was the least discomposed of the three, by their presence; and it was in their power to reconcile her

to

( 259 )

to it entirely. Would either of them, only have given her a full and mi- nute account of the whole affair be- tween Marianne and Mr. Willough- by, she would have thought herself amply rewarded for the sacrifice of the best place by the fire after din- ner, which their arrival occasioned. But this conciliation was not grant- ed; for though she often threw out expressions of pity for her sister to Elinor^ and more than once dropt a reflection on the inconstancy of beaux before Marianne, no effect was produced, but a look of indifference from the former, or of disgust in the latter. An effort even yet lighter might have made her their friend. Would they only have laughed at her about the Doctor! But so little were they, any more than the others, inclined to oblige her, that if Sir John dined from home, she might

spend

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spend a whole day without hearing any other raillery on the subject, than what she was kind enough to bestow on herself.

All these jealousies and discon- tents however, were so totally unsus- pected by Mrs. Jennings, that she thought it a delightful thing for the girls to be together; and generally congratulated her young friends every night, on having escaped the company of a stupid old woman so long. She joined them sometimes at Sir John's, and sometimes at her own house; but wherever it was, she al- ways came in excellent spirits, full of delight and importance, attributing Charlotte's well doing to her own care, and ready to give so exact, so minute a detail of her situation, as only Miss Steele had curiosity enough to desire. One thing did disturb her; and of that she made

her

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her daily complaint. Mr. Palmer maintained the common, but unfa- therly opinion among his sex, of all infants being alike; and though she could plainly perceive at different times, the most striking resemblance between this baby and every one of his relations on both sides, there was no convincing his father of it ; no persuading him to believe that it was not exactly like every other baby of the same age; nor could he even be brought to acknowledge the simple proposition of its being the fmest child in the world.

I come now to the relation of a misfortune, which about this time befell Mrs. John Dashwood. It so happened that while her two sisters with Mrs. Jennings were first calling on her in Harley-street, another of her acquaintance had dropt in — a circumstance in itself not apparently

likely

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likely to produce evil to her. But while the imaginations of other people will carry them away to form wrong judgments of our conduct, and to decide on it by slight appearances, one's happiness must in some mea- sure be always at the mercy of chance. In the present instance, this last-arrived lady allowed her fancy so far to outrun truth and pro- bability, that on merely hearing the name of the Miss Dashwoods, and understanding them to be Mr. Dash- wood's sisters, she immediately con- cluded them to be staying in Harley- street; and this misconstruction pro- duced within a day or two after- wards, cards of invitation for them as well as for their brother and sister, to a small musical party at her house. The consequence of which was, that Mrs. John Dashwood was obliged to submit not only to the exceedingly

great

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great inconvenience of sending her carriage for the Miss Dashwoods ; but, what was still worse, must be subject to all the unpleasantness of appearing to treat them with atten- tion: and who could tell that they might not expect to go out with her a second time? The power of disap- pointing them, it was true, must al- ways be her's. But that was not enough; for when people are deter- mined on a mode of conduct which they know to be wrong, they feel in- jured by the expectation of any thing better from them.

Marianne had now been brought by degrees, so much into the habit of going out every day, that it was be- come a matter of indifference to her, whether she went or not: and she prepared quietly and mechanically for every evening's engagement, though without expecting the small- est

( 264 )

est amusement from any, and very often without knowing* till the last moment, where it was to take her.

To her dress and appearance she was grown so perfectly indifferent, as not to bestow half the consideration on it, during the whole of her toilette, which it received from Miss Steele in the first fiv^ minutes of their being together, when it was finished. No- thing escaped her minute observation and general curiosity; she saw every thing, and asked every thing; was never easy till she knew the price of every part of Marianne's dress; could have guessed the number of her gowns altogether with better judg- ment than Marianne herself, and was not without hopes of finding out be- fore they parted, how much her washing cost per week, and how much she had every year to spend upon herself The impertinence of

these

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these kind of scrutinies, moreover, was generally concluded with a com- pliment, which though meant as its douceur, was considered by Mari- anne as the greatest impertinence of all ; for after undergomg an examina- tion into the value and make of her gown, the colour of her shoes, and the arrangement of her hair, she was almost sure of being told that upon " her word she looked vastly smart, and she dared to say would make a great many conquests."

With such encouragement as this^ was she dismissed on the present oc- casion to her brother's carriage; which they were ready to enter five minutes after it stopped at the door, a punctuality not very agree- able to their sister-in-law, who had preceded them to the house of her acquaintance, and was there hoping for some delay on their part that

VOL. II. N might

( ^66 )

might inconvenience either herself of her coachman.

The events of the evening were not very remarkable. The party, like other musical parties, comprehended a great many people w^ho had real taste for the performance, and a great many more who had none at all ; and the performers themselves were, as usual, in their own estimation, and that of their immediate friends, the first private performers in England.

As Elinor was neither musical, nor affecting to be so, she made no scruple of turning away her eyes from the grand pianoforte, whenever it suited her, and unrestrained even by the presence of a harp, and a violon- cello, would fix them at pleasure on any other object in the room. In one of these excursive glances she perceived among a group of young men, the very he, who had given

them

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them a lecture on toothpick-cases at Gray's. She perceived him soon af- terwards looking at herself, and speaking familiarly to her brother; and had just determined to find out his name from the latter, when they both came towards her, and Mn Dashwood introduced him to her as Mr. Robert Ferrars.

He addressed her with easy civi- lity, and twisted his head into a bow which assured her as plainly as words could have done, that he was exactly the coxcomb she had heard him de- scribed to be by Lucy. Happy had it been for her, if her regard for Ed- ward had depended less on his own merit, than on the merit of his nearest relations ! For then his brother's bow must have given the finishing stroke to what the ill-humour of his mother and sister would have begun. But while she wondered at the dif- N 2 ference

< 268 )

ference of the two young men, she did not find that the empthiess and conceit of the one, put her at all out of charity with the modesty and worth of the other. Why they tvere different, Robert explained to her himself in the course of a quarter of an hour's conversation ; for, talking of his brother, and lamenting the ex- treme gaucherie which he really be- lieved kept him from mixing in pro- per society, he candidly and gene- rously attributed it much less to any natural deficiency, than to the mis- fortune of a private education ; while he himself, though probably without any particular, any material superiority by nature, merely from the advantage of a public school, was as well fitted to mix in the w^orld as any other man.

" Upon my soul," he added, " I believe it is nothing more; and so I

often

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often tell my mother, when she is grieving about it. * My dear Ma- dam/ 1 always say to her, * you must make yourself easy. The evil is now irremediable, and it has been entirely your own doing. Why would you be persuaded by my uncle. Sir Robert, against your own judgment, to place Edward under private tui- tion, at the most critical time of his life ? If you had only sent him to Westminster as well as myself, in- stead of sending him to Mr. Pratt's, all this would have been prevented.' This is the way in which I always consider the matter, and my mother is perfectly convinced of her error."

Elinor would not oppose his opi* nion, because whatever might be her general estimation of the advantage of a public school, she could not think of Edward s abode in Mr. Pratt's family, with any satisfaction. N 3 " You

( 270 )

** You reside in Devonshire, 1 think"' — was his next observation; " in a cottage near Dawlish."

Elmor set him right as to its si- tuation, and it seemed rather sur- prising to him that anybody could live in Devonshire, without living near Dawlish. He bestowed his hearty approbation however on their species of house.

" For my own part," said he, " I am excessively fond of a cottage; there is always so much comfort, so much elegance about them. And I protest, if I had any money to spare, I should buy a little land and build one myself, within a short distance of London, where I might drive my- self down at any time, and collect a few friends about me, and be happy. I advise every body who is going to build, to build a cottage. My friend Lord Courtland came to me the

other

( 271 )

other day on purpose to ask my ad- vice, and laid before me three dif- ferent plans of Bonomi's. I was to decide on the best of them. * My dear Courtland,' said I, immediately throwing them all into the fire, * do not adopt either of them, but by all means build a cottage.' And that, I fancy, will be the end of it.

" Some people imagine that there can be no accommodations, no space in a cottage; but this is all a mis- take. I was last month at my friend Elliott's near Dartford. Lady Elli- ott wished to give a dance. ' But how can it be done?' said she; ' my dear Ferrars, do tell me how it is to be managed. There is not a room in this cottage that wilJ hold ten couple, and where can the supper be?' I immediately saw that there could be no difficulty in it, «o I said, * My dear Lady Elliott, do not be uneasy. N 4 The

( 272 )

The dining parlour will admit eighteen couple with ease; card-tables maybe placed in the drawing-room; the library may be open for tea and othef refreshments; and let the supper be set out in the saloon.' Lady Elliott was delighted w ith the thought. We measured the dining-room, and found it would hold exactly eighteen couple, and the affair was arrang-ed precisely after my plan. So that, in fact, you see, if people do but know how to set about it, every comfort may be as well enjoyed in a cottage as in the most spacious dwelling."

Elinor agreed to it all, for she did not think he deserved the com- pliment of rational opposition.

As John Dashwood had no more pleasure in music than his eldest sis- ter, his mind was equally at liberty to fix on any thing else; and a thought struck him during the evening, which

he

( 273 )

he communicated to his wife, for her approbation, when they got home. The consideration of Mrs. Denison's mistake, in supposing his sisters their guests, had suggested the propriety of their being really invited to become such, while Mrs. Jennings's engage* ments kept her from home. The ex* pence would be nothing, the incon- venience not more ; and it was alto- gether an attention, which the deli- cacy of his conscience pointed out to be requisite to its .complete enfran- chisement from his promise to his father. Fanny was startled at the proposal.

" I do not see how it can be done,'' said she, " without, affronting Lady Middleton, for they spend every day with her; otherwise 1 should be ex- ceedingly glad to do it. You know I am always ready to pay them any attention in my power, as my taking

them

( 274 )

them out this evening shews. But they are Lady Middleton's visitors. How can I ask them away from her?"

Her husband, but with great hu- mility, did not see the force of her objection. " They had ah'eady spent a week in this manner in Conduit- street, and Lady Middleton could not be displeased at their giving the same number of days to such near relations."

Fanny paused a moment, and then, with fresh vigour, said,

'* My love, I would ask them with all my heart, if it was in my power. But I had just settled within myself to ask the Miss Steeles to spend a few days with us. They are very well behaved, good kind of girls ; and I think the attention is due to them, as their uncle did so very well by Ed- ward. We can ask your sisters some other year, you know ; but the Miss

Steeles

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Steeles may not be in town any more. I am sure you will like them; indeed, you do like them, you know, very much already, and so does my mo- ther; and they are such favourites with Harry !"

Mr. Dashwood w as convinced. He saw the necessity of inviting the Miss Steeles immediately, and his con- science was pacified by the resolution of inviting his sisters another year; at the same time, however, slyly sus- pecting that another year would make the invitation needless, by bringing Elinor to town as Colonel Brandon's wife, and Marianne as their visitor.

Fanny, rejoicing in her escape, and proud of the ready wit that had pro- cured it, wrote the next morning to Lucy, to request her company and her sister's, for some days, in Harley- street, as soon as Lady Middleton could spare them. Tliis was enough

to

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to make Lucy really and reasonably happy. Mrs. Dashwood seemed ac- tually working for her, herself; che- rishing all her hopes, and promoting all her views ! Such an opportunity of being with Edward and his family was, above all things, the most mate- rial to her interest, and such an invi- tation the most gratifying to her feel- ings ! It was an advantage that could not be too gratefully acknowledged, nor too speedily made use of; and the visit to Lady Middleton, which had not before had any precise limits, was instantly discovered to have been always meant to end in two days time.

When the note was shewn to Eli- nor, as it was within ten minutes after its arrival, it gave her, for the first time, some share in the expecta- tions of Lacy; for such a mark of uncommon kindness, vouchsafed on

, so

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so short an acquaintance, seemed to declare that the good will towards her arose from somethmg more than merely malice agamst herself; and might be brought, by time and address, to do every thing that Lucy wished. Her flattery had already subdued the pride of Lady Middleton, and made an entry into the close heart of Mrs. John Dashwood; and these were effects that laid open the probability of greater.

The Miss Steeles removed to Har- ley-street, and all that reached Eli- nor of their influence there, strength- ened her expectation of the event. Sir John, who called on them more than once, brought home such ac- counts of the favour they were in, as must be universally striking. Mrs. Dashwood had never been so much pleased with any young women in her life, as she was with them ; had given

eac&

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each of them a needle-book, made by some emigrant; called Lucy by her christen name ; and did not know whether she should ever be able to part with them.

END OF VOL. II.

London : Printed by C. Roworth, Bell-yard, Temple-bar.

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