The Complete Works of Jane Austen

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The Complete Works of Jane Austen

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SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 

Chapter i 

THE family of Dash wood had been long settled in Sussex. Their estate 
was large, and their residence was at Norland Park, in the centre of their 
property, where for many generations they had lived in so respectable 
a manner as to engage the general good opinion of their surrounding 
acquaintances. The late owner of this estate was a single man, who lived 
to a very advanced age, and who for many years of his life had a constant 
companion and housekeeper in his sister. But her death, which happened 
ten years before his own, produced a great alteration in his home; for to 
supply her loss, he invited and received into his house the family of his 
nephew, Mr. Henry Dashwood, the legal inheritor of the Norland estate, 
and the person to whom he intended to bequeath it. In the society of his 
nephew and niece, and their children, the old gentleman's days were 
comfortably spent. His attachment to them all increased. The constant 
attention of Mr. and Mrs. Henry Dashwood to his wishes, which pro- 
ceeded not merely from interest, but from goodness of heart, gave him 
every degree of solid comfort which his age could receive; and the cheer- 
fulness of the children added a relish to his existence. 

By a former marriage, Mr. Henry Dashwood had one son; by his 
present lady, three daughters. The son, a steady, respectable young man, 
was amply provided for by the fortune of his mother, which had been 
large, and half of which devolved on him on his coming of age. By his 
own marriage, likewise, which happened soon afterwards, he added to 
his wealth. To him, therefore, the succession to the Norland estate was 
not so really important as to his sisters; for their fortune, independent 
on what might arise to them from their father's inheriting that property, 
could be but small. Their mother had nothing, and their father only seven 
thousand pounds in his own disposal; for the remaining moiety of his 
first wife's fortune was also secured to her child, and he had only a life 
interest in it. 

The old gentleman died ; his will was read, and like almost every other 
will, gave as much disappointment as pleasure. He was neither so unjust, 
nor so ungrateful, as to leave his estate from his nephew; but he left it 
to him on such terms as destroyed half the value of the bequest. Mr. 
Dashwood had wished for it more for the sake of his wife and daughters 
than for himself or his son; but to his son, and his son's son, a child of 
four years old, it was secured, in such a Way, as to leave to himself no 
power of providing for those who were most dear to him, and who most 



a THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

needed a provision, by any charge on the estate, or by any sale of its 
valuable woods. The whole was tied up for the benefit of this child, who, 
in occasional visits with his father and mother at Norland had so far 
gained on the affections of his uncle, by such attractions as are by no 
means unusual in children of two or three years old: an imperfect articu- 
lation, an earnest desire of having his own way, many cunning tricks, and 
a great deal of noise, as to outweigh all the value of all the attention 
which, for years, he had received from his niece and her daughters. He 
meant not to be unkind, however, and as a mark of his affection for the 
three girls, he left them a thousand pounds apiece. 

Mr. Dashwood's disappointment was at first severe; but his temper 
was cheerful and sanguine, and he might reasonably hope to live many 
years, and by living economically, lay by a considerable sum from the 
produce of an estate already large, and capable of almost immediate 
improvement. But the fortune, which had been so tardy in coming, was 
his only one twelvemonth. He survived his uncle no longer; and ten 
thousand pounds, including the late legacies, was all that remained for 
his widow and daughters. 

His son was sent for, as soon as his danger was known, and to him 
Mr. Dashwood recommended, with all the strength and urgency which 
illness could command, the interest of his mother-in-law and sisters. 

Mr. John Dashwood had not the strong feelings of the rest of the 
family; but he was affected by a recommendation of such a nature at 
such a time, and he promised to do everything in his power to make 
them comfortable. His father was rendered easy by such an assurance, 
and Mr. John Dashwood had then leisure to consider how much there 
might prudently be in his power to do for them. 

He was not an ill-disposed young man, unless to be rather cold-hearted, 
and rather selfish, is to be ill-disposed: but he was, in general, well 
respected; for he conducted himself with propriety in the discharge of 
his ordinary duties. Had he married a more amiable woman, he might 
have been made still more respectable than he was ; he might even have 
been made amiable himself; for he was very young when he married, and 
very fond of his wife. But Mrs. John Dashwood was a strong caricature 
of himself; more narrow-minded and selfish. 

When he gave his promise to his father, he meditated within himself 
to increase the fortunes of his sisters by the present of a thousand pounds 
apiece. He then really thought himself equal to it. The prospect of four 
thousand a year, in addition to his present income, besides the remaining 
half of his own mother's fortune, warmed his heart and made him feel 
capable of generosity. "Yes, he would give them three thousand pounds: 
it would be liberal and handsome! It would be enough to make them com- 
pletely easy. Three thousand pounds! He could spare so considerable a 
sum with little inconvenience." He thought of it all day long, and for 
many days successively, and he did not repent. 

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



SENSEANDSENSIBILITY 3 

without sending any notice of her intention to her mother-in-law, arrived 
with her child and their attendants. No one could dispute her right to 
come; the house was her husband's from the moment of his father's 
decease ; but the indelicacy of her conduct was so much the greater, and 
to a woman in Mrs. Dashwood's situation, with only common feelings, 
must have been highly unpleasing; but in her mind there was a sense of 
honour so keen, a generosity so romantic, that any offence of the kind, 
by whomsoever given or received, was to her a source of immovable dis- 
gust. Mrs. John Dashwood had never been a favourite with any of her 
husband's family: but she had had no opportunity till the present, of 
showing them with how little attention to the comfort of other people 
she could act when occasion required it. 

So acutely did Mrs. Dashwood feel this ungracious behaviour, and so 
earnestly did she despise her daughter-in-law for it, that, on the arrival 
of the latter, she would have quitted the house for ever, had not the 
entreaty of her eldest girl induced her first to reflect on the propriety of 
going, and her own tender love for all her three children determined 
her afterwards to stay, and for their sakes avoid a breach with their 
brother. 

Elinor, this eldest daughter whose advice was so effectual, possessed a 
strength of understanding, and coolness of judgment, which qualified her, 
though only nineteen, to be the counsellor of her mother, and enabled her 
frequently to counteract, to the advantage of them all, that eagerness 
of mind in Mrs. Dashwood which must generally have led to imprudence. 
She had an excellent heart; her disposition was affectionate, and her 
feelings were strong: but she knew how to govern them: it was a knowl- 
edge which her mother had yet to learn, and which one of her sisters had 
resolved never to be taught. 

Marianne's abilities were, in many respects, quite equal to Elinor's. 
She was sensible and clever, but eager in everything; her sorrows, her 
joys, could have no moderation. She was generous, amiable, interesting: 
she was everything but prudent. The resemblance between her and her 
mother was strikingly great. 

Elinor saw, with concern, the excess of her sister's sensibility; but by 
Mrs. Dashwood it was valued and cherished. They encouraged each other 
now in the violence of their affliction. The agony of grief which over- 
powered them at first, was voluntarily renewed, was sought for, was 
created again and again. They gave themselves up wholly to their sorrow, 
seeking increase of wretchedness in every reflection that could afford it, 
and resolved against ever admitting consolation in future. Elinor, too, 
was deeply afflicted; but still she could struggle, she could exert herself. 
She could consult with her brother, could receive her sister-in-law on her 
arrival, and treat her with proper attention: and could strive to rouse her 
mother to similar exertion, and encourage her to similar forbearance. 

Margaret, the other sister, was a good-humoured, well-disposed girl; 



4 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

but as she had already imbibed a good deal of Marianne's romance, with- 
out having much of her sense, she did not, at thirteen, bid fair to equal 
her sisters at a more advanced period of life. 



Chapter 2 

MRS. JOHN DASHWOOD now installed herself mistress of Norland; 
and her mother and sister-in-law were degraded to the condition of 
visitors. As such, however, they were treated by her with quiet civility; 
and by her husband with as much kindness as he could feel towards 
anybody beyond himself, his wife, and their child. He really pressed 
them, with some earnestness, to consider Norland as their home; and, 
as no plan appeared so eligible to Mrs. Dashwood as remaining there till 
she could accommodate herself with a house in the neighbourhood, his 
invitation was accepted. 

A continuance in a place where everything reminded her of former 
delight, was exactly what suited her mind. In seasons of cheerfulness, no 
temper could be more cheerful than hers, or possess, in a greater degree, 
that sanguine expectation of happiness which is happiness itself. But in 
sorrow she must be equally carried away by her fancy, and as far beyond 
consolation as in pleasure she was beyond alloy. 

Mrs. John Dashwood did not at all approve of what her husband 
intended to do for his sisters. To take three thousand pounds from the 
fortune of their dear little boy, would be impoverishing him to the most 
dreadful degree. She begged him to think again on the subject. How could 
he answer it to himself to rob his child, and his only child too, of so large 
a sum? And what possible claim could the Miss Dashwoods, who were 
related to him only by half blood, which she considered as no relationship 
at all, have on his generosity to so large an amount? It was very well 
known that no affection was ever supposed to exist between the children 
of any man by different marriages; and why was he to ruin himself, and 
their poor little Harry, by giving away all his money to his half- 
sisters? 

"It was my father's last request to me," replied her husband, "that I 
should assist his widow and daughters." 

"He did not know what he was talking of, I dare say ; ten to one but 
he was lightheaded at the time. Had he been in his right senses, he could 
not have thought of such a thing as begging you to give away half your 
fortune from your own child." 

"He did not stipulate for any particular sum, my dear Fanny ; he only 
requested me, in general terms, to assist them, and make their situation 
more comfortable than it was in his power to do. Perhaps it would have 
been as well if he had left it wholly to myself. He could hardly suppose I 
should neglect them. But as he required the promise, I could not do less 
than give it: at least I thought so at the time The promise, therefore, was 



SENSEANDSENSIBILITY s 

given, and must be performed. Something must be done for them when- 
ever they leave Norland and settle in a new home." 

"Well, then, let something be done for them; but that something need 
not be three thousand pounds. Consider," she added, "that when the 
money is once parted with, it never can return. Your sisters will marry, 
and it will be gone for ever. If, indeed, it could ever be restored to our 
poor little boy . . ." 

"Why, to be sure," said her husband, very gravely, "that would make 
a great difference. The time may come when Harry will regret that so 
large a sum was parted with. If he should have a numerous family, for 
instance, it would be a very convenient addition." 

"To be sure it would." 

"Perhaps, then, it would be better for all parties if the sum were 
diminished one half. Five hundred pounds would be a prodigious increase 
to their fortunes." 

"Oh, beyond anything great! What brother on earth would do half as 
much for his sisters, even if really his sisters! And as it is only half 
blood! But you have such a generous spirit!" 

"I would not wish to do anything mean," he replied. "One had rather, 
on such occasions, do too much than too little. No one, at least, can think 
I have not done enough for them: even themselves, they can hardly expect 
more." 

"There is no knowing what they may expect," said the lady, "but we 
are not to think of their expectations: the question is, what you can 
afford to do." 

"Certainly, and I think I may afford to give them five hundred pounds 
apiece. As it is, without any addition of mine, they will each have above 
three thousand pounds on their mother's death: a very comfortable 
fortune for any young woman." 

"To be sure it is: and, indeed, it strikes me that they can want no 
addition at all. They will have ten thousand pounds divided amongst 
them. If they marry, they will be sure of doing well ; and if they do not, 
they may all live very comfortably together on the interest of ten thou- 
sand pounds." 

"That is very true, and, therefore, I do not know whether, upon the 
whole, it would not be more advisable to do something for their mother 
while she lives rather than for them; something of the annuity kind, I 
mean. My sisters would feel the good effects of it as well as herself. A 
hundred a year would make them all perfectly comfortable." 

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

"To be sure," said she, "it is* better than parting with fifteen hundred 
pounds at once. But then, if Mrs. Dashwood should live fifteen years, we 
shall be completely taken in." 

"Fifteen years! My dear Fanny; her life cannot be worth half that 
purchase." 

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



6 THEWORKSOFJANEAUSTEN 

there is any annuity to be paid them; and she is very stout and healthy, 
and hardly forty. An annuity is a very serious business ; it comes over and 
over every year, and there is no getting rid of it. You are not aware of 
what you are doing. I have known a great deal of the trouble of annuities; 
for my mother was clogged with the payment of three to old super- 
annuated servants by my father's will, and it is amazing how disagreeable 
she found it. Twice every year, these annuities were to be paid ; and then 
there was the trouble of getting it to them ; and then one of them was said 
to have died, and afterwards it turned out to be no such thing. My mother 
was quite sick of it. Her income was not her own, she said, with such 
perpetual claims on it ; and it was the more unkind in my father, because, 
otherwise, the money would have been entirely at my mother's disposal, 
without any restriction whatever. It has given me such an abhorrence of 
annuities, that I am sure I would not pin myself down to the payment 
of one for all the world." 

"It is certainly an unpleasant thing," replied Mr. Dashwood, "to have 
those kind of yearly drains on one's income. One's fortune, as your mother 
justly says, is not one's own. To be tied down to the regular payment of 
such a sum, on every rent day, is by no means desirable: it takes away 
one's independence." 

"Undoubtedly; and, after all, you have no thanks for it. They think 
themselves secure, you do no more than what is expected, and it raises no 
gratitude at all. If I were you, whatever I did should be done at my own 
discretion entirely. I would not bind myself to allow them anything 
yearly. It may be very inconvenient some years to spare a hundred, or 
even fifty pounds, from our own expenses." 

"I believe you are right, my love; it will be better that there should be 
no annuity in the case ; whatever I may give them occasionally will be of 
far greater assistance than a yearly allowance, because they would only 
enlarge their style of living if they felt sure of a larger income, and would 
not be sixpence the richer for it at the end of the year. It will certainly 
be much the best way. A present of fifty pounds, now and then, will 
prevent their ever being distressed for money, and will, I think, be amply 
discharging my promise to my father." 

"To be sure it will. Indeed, to say the truth. I am convinced within 
myself, that your father had no idea of your giving them any money at 
all. The assistance he thought of, I dare say, was only such as might be 
reasonably expected of "you; for instance, such as looking out for a com- 
fortable small house for them, helping them to move their things, and 
sending them presents of fish and game, and so forth, whenever they are 
in season. I'll lay my life that he meant nothing further, indeed, it would 
be very strange and unreasonable if he did. Do but consider, my dear 
Mr. Dashwood, how excessively comfortable your mother-in-law and her 
daughters may live on the interest of seven thousand pounds, besides the 
thousand pounds belonging to each of the girls, which brings them in fifty 
pounds a year apiece, and, of course, they will pay their mother for their 



SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 7 

board out of it. Altogether, they will have five hundred a year amongst 
them, and what on earth can four women want for more than that? 
They will live so cheap! Their housekeeping will be nothing at all. They 
will have no carriage, no horses, and hardly any servants; they will keep 
no company, and can have no expenses of any kind ! Only conceive how 
comfortable they will be! Five hundred a year! I am sure I cannot 
imagine how they will spend half of it; and as to your giving them more, 
it is quite absurd to think of it. They will be much more able to give you 
something." 

"Upon my word," said Mr. Dashwood, "I believe you are perfectly 
right. My father certainly could mean nothing more by his request to me 
than what you say. I clearly understand it now, and I will strictly fulfil 
my engagement by such acts of assistance and kindness to them as you 
have described. When my mother removes into another house, my services 
shall be readily given to accommodate her as far as I can. Some little 
present of furniture, too, may be acceptable then." 

"Certainly," returned Mrs. John Dashwood. "But, however, one thing 
must be considered. When your father and mother moved to Norland, 
though the furniture of Stanhill was sold, all the china, plate, and linen 
was saved, and is now left to your mother. Her house will therefore be 
almost completely fitted up as soon as she takes it." 

"That is a material consideration, undoubtedly. A valuable legacy 
indeed! And yet some of the plate would have been a very pleasant 
addition to our own stock here." 

"Yes; and the set of breakfast china is twice as handsome as what 
belongs to this house. A great deal too handsome, in my opinion, for any 
place they can ever afford to live in. But, however, so it is. Your father 
thought only of them. And I must say this: that you owe no particular 
gratitude to him, nor attention to his wishes, for we very well know that 
if he could, he would have left almost everything in the world to them" 

This argument was irresistible. It gave to his intentions whatever of 
decision was wanting before; and he finally resolved, that it would be 
absolutely unnecessary, if not highly indecorous, to do more for the widow 
and children of his father, than such kind of neighbourly acts as his own 
wife pointed out. 



Chapter 3 

MRS. DASHWOOD remained at Norland several months; not from any 
disinclination to move when the sight of every well-known spot ceased to 
raise the violent emotion which it produced for a while; for when her 
spirits began to revive, and her mind became capable of some other 
exertion than that of heightening its affliction by melancholy remem- 
brances, she was impatient to be gone, and indefatigable in her inquiries 
for a suitable dwelling in the neighbourhood of Norland; for to remove 



* THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

far from that beloved spot was impossible. But she could hear of no 
situation that at once answered her notions of comfort and ease, and 
suited the prudence of her eldest daughter, whose steadier judgment 
rejected several houses as too large for their income, which her mother 
would have approved. 

Mrs. Dash wood had been informed by her husband of the solemn 
promise on the part of his son in their favour, which gave comfort to his 
last earthly reflections. She doubted the sincerity of this assurance no 
more than he had doubted it himself, and she thought of it for her 
daughters' sake with satisfaction, though, as for herself, she was per- 
suaded that a much smaller provision than seven thousand pounds would 
support her in affluence. For their brother's sake too, for the sake of his 
own heart, she rejoiced; and she reproached herself for being unjust to 
his merit before, in believing him incapable of generosity. His attentive 
behaviour to herself and his sisters, convinced her that their welfare 
was dear to him, and, for a long time, she firmly relied on the liberality 
of his intentions. 

The contempt which she had, very early in their acquaintance, felt for 
her daughter-in-law was very much increased by the further knowledge 
of her character, which half-a-year's residence in her family afforded; 
and, perhaps, in spite of every consideration of politeness or maternal 
affection on the side of the former, the two ladies might have found it 
impossible to have lived together so long, had not a particular circum- 
stance occurred to give still greater eligibility, according to the opinions 
of Mrs. Dashwood, to her daughters' continuance at Norland. 

This circumstance was a growing attachment between her eldest girl 
and the brother of Mrs. John Dashwood, a gentlemanlike and pleasing 
young man, who was introduced to their acquaintance soon after his 
sister's establishment at Norland, and who had since spent the greatest 
part of his time there. 

Some mothers might have encouraged the intimacy from motives of 
interest, for Edward Ferrars was the eldest son of a man who had died 
very rich; and some might have repressed it from motives of prudence, 
for, except a trifling sum, the whole of his fortune depended on the will 
of his mother. But Mrs. Dashwood was alike uninfluenced by either con- 
sideration. It was enough for her that he appeared to be amiable, that he 
loved her daughter, and that Elinor returned the partiality. It was con- 
trary to every doctrine of hers, that difference of fortune should keep any 
couple asunder who were attracted by resemblance of disposition; and 
that Elinor's merit should not be acknowledged by everyone who knew 
her, was to her comprehension impossible. 

Edward Ferrars was not recommended to their good opinion by any 
peculiar graces of person or address. He was not handsome, and his 
manners required intimacy to make them pleasing. He was too diffident 
to do justice to himself; but when his natural shyness was overcome, his 
beteviour gave every indication of an open, affectionate heart. His under- 



SENSEANDSENSIBILITY 9 

standing was good, and his education had given it solid improvement. 
But he was neither fitted by abilities nor disposition to answer the wishes 
of his mother and sister, who longed to see him distinguished as they 
hardly knew what. They wanted him to make a fine figure in the world 
in some manner or other. His mother wished to interest him in political 
concerns, to get him into parliament, or to see him connected with some 
of the great men of the day. Mrs. John Dashwood wished it likewise ; but 
in the meanwhile, till one of these superior blessings could be attained, it 
would have quieted her ambition to see him driving a barouche. But 
Edward had no turn for great men or barouches. All his wishes centred 
in domestic comfort and the quiet of private life. Fortunately he had a 
younger brother who was more promising. 

Edward had been staying several weeks in the house before he engaged 
much of Mrs. Dashwood's attention; for she was, at that time, in such 
affliction as rendered her careless of surrounding objects. She saw only 
that he was quiet and unobtrusive, and she liked him for it. He did not 
disturb the wretchedness of her mind by ill-timed conversation. She was 
first called to observe and approve him farther, by a reflection which 
Elinor chanced one day to make on the difference between him and his 
sister. It was a contrast which recommended him most forcibly to her 
mother. 

"It is enough," said she; "to say that he is unlike Fanny is enough. It 
implies everything amiable. I love him already." 

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

"Like him!" replied her mother, with a smile. "I can feel no sentiment 
of approbation inferior to love." 

"You may esteem him." 

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

Mrs. Dashwood now took pains to get acquainted with him. Her 
manners were attaching, and soon banished his reserve. She speedily com- 
prehended all his merits; the persuasion of his regard for Elinor perhaps 
assisted her penetration; but she really felt assured of his worth: and 
even that quietness of manner which militated against all her established 
ideas of what a young man's address ought to be, was no longer un- 
interesting when she knew his heart to be warm and his temper affec- 
tionate. 

No sooner did she perceive any symptom of love in his behaviour t 
Elinor, than she considered their serious attachment as certain, and 
looked forward to their marriage as rapidly approaching. 

"In a few months, my dear Marianne," said she, "Elinor will in all 
probability be settled for life. We shall miss her; but she will be happy. 

"O mamma! How shall we do without her?" 

"My love, it will be scarcely a separation. We shall live within a few 
miles of each other, and shall meet every day of our lives. You will gam 
a brother a real, affectionate brother. I have the highest opinion in the 



io THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

world of Edward's heart.. But you look grave, Marianne; do you dis- 
approve your sister's choice?" 

"Perhaps," said Marianne, "I may consider it with some surprise. 
Edward is very amiable, and I love him tenderly. But yet, he is not the 
kind of young man there is a something wanting, his figure is not 
striking it has none of that grace which I should expect in the man who 
could seriously attach my sister. His eyes want all that spirit, that fire, 
which at once announce virtue and intelligence. And besides all this, I am 
afraid, mamma, he has no real taste. Music seems scarcely to attract him, 
and though he admires Elinor's drawings very much, it is not the admira- 
tion of a person who can understand their worth. It is evident, in spite of 
his frequent attention to her while she draws, that in fact he knows 
nothing of the matter. He admires as a lover, not as a connoisseur. To 
satisfy me, those characters must be united. I could not be happy with 
a man whose taste did not in every point coincide with my own. He must 
enter into all my feelings; the same books, the same music must charm 
us both. O mamma! how spiritless, how tame was Edward's manner in 
reading to us last night ! I felt for my sister most severely. Yet she bore 
it with so much composure, she seemed scarcely to notice it. I could hardly 
keep my seat. To hear those beautiful lines which have frequently almost 
driven me wild, pronounced with such impenetrable calmness, such dread- 
ful indifference!" 

"He would certainly have done more justice to simple and elegant 
prose. I thought so at the time; but you would give him Cowper." 

"Nay, mamma, if he is not to be animated by Cowper! but we must 
allow for difference of taste. Elinor has not my feelings, and therefore she 
may overlook it, and be happy with him. But it would have broke my 
heart had I loved him, to h2ar him read with so little sensibility. Mamma, 
the more I know of the world, the more I am convinced that I shall never 
see a man whom I can really love. I require so much! He must have all 
Edward's virtues, and his person and manners must ornament his good- 
ness with every possible charm." 

"Remember, my love, that you are not seventeen. It is yet too early 
in life to despair of such an happiness. Why should you be less fortunate 
than your mother? In one circumstance only, my Marianne, may your 
destiny be different from hers ! " 



Chapter 4 

"WHAT a pity it is, Elinor," said Marianne, "that Edward should have 
no taste for drawing." 

"No taste for drawing," replied Elinor; "why should you think so? He 
does not draw himself, indeed, but he has great pleasure in seeing the 
performances of other people, and I assure you, he is by no means 
deficient in natural taste, though he has not had opportunities of im- 



SENSE AND SENSIBILITY n 

proving it. Had he ever been in the way of learning, I think he would 
have drawn very well. He distrusts his own judgment in such matters so 
much, that he is always unwilling to give his opinion on any picture; but 
he has an innate propriety and simplicity of taste, which in general direct 
him perfectly right." 

Marianne was afraid of offending, and said no more on the subject; but 
the kind of approbation which Elinor described as excited in him by the 
drawings of other people, was very far from that rapturous delight, which, 
in her opinion, could alone be called taste. Yet, though smiling within 
herself at the mistake, she honoured her sister for that blind partiality to 
Edward which produced it. 

"I hope, Marianne," continued Elinor, "you do not consider him as 
deficient in general taste. Indeed, I think I may say that you cannot, for 
your behaviour to him is perfectly cordial, and if that were your opinion, 
I am sure you could never be civil to him." 

Marianne hardly knew what to say. She would not wound the feelings 
of her sister on any account, and yet to say what she did not believe was 
impossible. At length she replied: 

"Do not be offended, Elinor, if my praise of him is not in everything 
equal to your sense of his merits. I have not had so many opportunities 
of estimating the minuter propensities of his mind, his inclinations, and 
tastes, as you have; but I have the highest opinion in the world of his 
goodness and sense. I think him everything that is worthy and amiable." 

"I am sure," replied Elinor, with a smile, "that his dearest friends could 
not be dissatisfied with such commendation as that. I do not perceive how 
you could express yourself more warmly." 

Marianne was rejoiced to find her sister so easily pleased. 

"Of his sense and goodness," continued Elinor, "no one can, I think, 
be in doubt, who has seen him often enough to engage him in unreserved 
conversation. The excellence of his understanding, and his principles can 
be concealed only by that shyness which too often keeps him silent. You 
know enough of him to do justice to his solid worth. But of his minuter 
propensities, as you call them, you have from peculiar circumstances been 
kept more ignorant than myself. He and I have been at times thrown a 
good deal together, while you have been wholly engrossed on the most 
affectionate principle by my mother. I have seen a great deal of him, have 
studied his sentiments, and heard his opinions on subjects of literature 
and taste; and, upon the whole, I venture to pronounce that his mind is 
well informed, his enjoyment of books exceeding great, his imagination 
lively, his observation just and correct, and his taste delicate and pure. 
His abilities in every respect improve as much upon acquaintance as his 
manners and person. At first sight, his address is certainly not striking; 
and his person can hardly be called handsome, till the expression of his 
eyes, which are uncommonly good, and the general sweetness of Jus coun- 
tenance is perceived. At present, I know him so well, that I 
really handsome; or, at least, almost so. What say you, Marianne? 



12 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

"I shall very soon think him handsome, Elinor, if I do not now. When 
you tell me to love him as a brother, I shall no more see imperfection in 
his face, than I now do in his heart." 

Elinor started at this declaration, and was sorry for the warmth she 
had been betrayed into, in speaking of him. She felt that Edward stood 
very high in her opinion. She believed the regard to be mutual; but she 
required greater certainty to it to make Marianne's conviction of their 
attachment agreeable to her. She knew that what Marianne and her 
mother conjectured one moment, they believed the next that with them, 
to wish was to hope, and to hope was to expect. She tried to explain the 
real state of the case to her sister. 

"I do not attempt to deny," said she, "that I think very highly of him 
that I greatly esteem, that I like him." 

Marianne here burst forth with indignation: 

"Esteem him! Like him! Cold-hearted Elinor. Oh! worse than cold- 
hearted! Ashamed of being otherwise. Use those words again, and I will 
leave the room this moment." 

Elinor could not help laughing. "Excuse me," said she, "and be assured 
that I meant no offence to you, by speaking, in so quiet a way, of my own 
feelings. Believe them to be stronger than I have declared; believe them, 
in short, to be such as his merit, and the suspicion the hope of his 
affection for me may warrant, without imprudence or folly. But further 
than this you must not believe. I am by no means assured of his regard 
for me. There are moments when the extent of it seems doubtful ; and till 
his sentiments are fully known, you cannot wonder at my wishing to avoid 
any encouragement of my own partiality, by believing or calling it more 
than it is. In my heart I feel little scarcely any doubt of his preference. 
But there are other points to be considered besides his inclination. He is 
very far from being independent. What his mother really is we cannot 
know; but, from Fanny's occasional mention of her conduct and opinions, 
we have never been disposed to think her amiable ; and I am very much 
mistaken, if Edward is not himself aware that there would be many diffi- 
culties in his way, if he were to wish to marry a woman who had not either 
a great fortune or high rank." 

Marianne was astonished to find how much the imagination of her 
mother and herself had outstripped the truth. 

"And you really are not engaged to him!" said she. "Yet it certainly 
soon will happen. But two advantages will proceed from this delay. / 
shall not lose you so soon, and Edward will have greater opportunity of 
improving that natural taste for your favourite pursuit, which must be 
so indispensably necessary to your future felicity. Oh ! if he should be so 
far stimulated by your genius as to learn to draw himself, how delightful 
it would be!" 

Elinor had given her real opinion to her sister. She could not consider 
her partiality for Edward in so prosperous a state as Marianne had be- 
lieved it. There was, at times, a want of spirits about him, which, if it did 



SENSEANDSENSIBILITY 13 

not denote indifference, spoke a something almost as unpromising. A 
doubt of her regard, supposing him to feel it, need not give him more 
than inquietude. It would not be likely to produce that dejection of mind 
which frequently attended him. A more reasonable cause might be found 
in the dependent situation which forbade the indulgence of his affection. 
She knew that his mother neither behaved to him so as to make his home 
comfortable at present, nor to give him any assurance that he might form 
a home for himself, without strictly attending to her views for his aggran- 
disement. With such a knowledge as this, it was impossible for Elinor to 
feel easy on the subject. She was far from depending on that result of 
his preference of her, which her mother and sister still considered as cer- 
tain. Nay, the longer they were together, the more doubtful seemed the 
nature of his regard; and sometimes, for a few painful minutes, she 
believed it to be no more than friendship. 

But, whatever might really be its limits, it was enough, when perceived 
by his sister, to make her uneasy; and at the same time (which was still 
more common), to make her uncivil. She took the first opportunity of 
affronting her mother-in-law on the occasion, talking to her so expres- 
sively of her brother's great expectations, of Mrs. Ferrars's resolution 
that both her sons should marry well, and of the danger attending any 
young woman who attempted to draw him in, that Mrs. Dash wood could 
neither pretend to be unconscious, nor endeavour to be calm. She gave 
her an answer which marked her contempt, and instantly left the room, 
resolving that, whatever might be the inconvenience or expense of sc 
sudden a removal, her beloved Elinor should not be exposed another week 
to such insinuations. 

In this state of her spirits, a letter was delivered to her from the post, 
which contained a proposal particularly well-timed. It was the offer of a 
small house, on very easy terms, belonging to a relation of her own, a 
gentleman of consequence and property in Devonshire. The letter was 
from this gentleman himself, and written in the true spirit of friendly 
accommodation. He understood that she was in need of a dwelling, and 
though the house he now offered her was merely a cottage, he assured 
her that everything should be done to it which she might think necessary, 
if the situation pleased her. He earnestly pressed her, after giving the 
particulars of the house and garden, to come with her daughters to Barton 
Park, the place of his own residence, from whence she might judge herself 
whether Barton Cottage, for the houses were in the same parish, could by 
any alteration be made comfortable to her. He seemed really anxious to 
accommodate them, and the whole of his letter was written in so friendly 
a style as could not fail of giving pleasure to his cousin ; more especially 
at a moment when she was suffering under the cold and unfeeling be- 
haviour of her nearer connections. She needed no time for deliberation or 
inquiry. Her resolution was formed as she read. The situation of Barton, 
in a county so far distant from Sussex as Devonshire, which but a few 
hours before would have been a sufficient objection to outweigh every 



i 4 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

possible advantage belonging to the place, was now its first recommenda- 
tion. To quit the neighbourhood of Norland was no longer an evil; 
it was an object of desire ; it was a blessing in comparison of the misery 
of continuing her daughter-in-law's guest; and to remove for ever from 
that beloved place would be less painful than to inhabit or visit it while 
such a woman was its mistress. She instantly wrote Sir John Middleton 
her acknowledgment of his kindness, and her acceptance of his proposal ; 
and then hastened to show both letters to her daughters, that she might 
be secure of their approbation before her answer were sent. 

Elinor had always thought it would be more prudent for them to settle 
at some distance from Norland than immediately amongst their present 
acquaintances. On that head, therefore, it was not for her to oppose her 
mother's intention of removing into Devonshire. The house, too, as de- 
scribed by Sir John, was on so simple a scale, and the rent so uncom- 
monly moderate, as to leave her no right of objection on either point; 
and, therefore, though it was not a plan which brought any charm to her 
fancy, though it was a removal from the vicinity of Norland beyond 
her wishes, she made no attempt to dissuade her mother from sending her 
letter of acquiescence. 



Chapter 5 

No sooner was her answer dispatched, than Mrs. Dashwood indulged 
herself in the pleasure of announcing to her son-in-law and his wife that 
she was provided with a house, and should incommode them no longer 
than till everything was ready for her inhabiting it. They heard her with 
surprise. Mrs. John Dashwood said nothing; but her husband civilly 
hoped that she would not be settled far from Norland. She had great 
satisfaction in replying that she was going into Devonshire. Edward 
turned hastily towards her on hearing this, and in a voice of surprise and 
concern, which required no explanation to her, repeated, "Devonshire! 
Are you indeed going there? So far from hence! And to what part of it?" 
She explained the situation. It was within four miles northward of Exeter. 

"It is but a cottage," she continued, "but I hope to see many of my 
friends in it. A room or two can easily be added; and if my friends find 
no difficulty in travelling so far to see me, I am sure I will find none in 
accommodating them." 

She concluded with a very kind invitation to Mr. and Mrs. John Dash- 
wood to visit her at Barton; and to Edward she gave one with still 
greater affection. Though her late conversation with her daughter-in-law 
had made her resolve on remaining at Norland no longer than was un- 
avoidable, it had not produced the smallest effect on her in that point to 
which it principally tended. To separate Edward and Elinor was as far 
from being her object as ever; and she wished to show Mrs. John Dash- 



SENSEANDSENSIBILITY 15 

wood by this pointed invitation to her brother, how totally she dis- 
regarded her disapprobation of the match. 

Mr. John Dashwood told his mother again and again how exceedingly 
sorry he was that she had taken a house at such a distance from Norland 
as to prevent his being of any service to her in removing her furniture. 
He really felt conscientiously vexed on the occasion ; for the very exertion 
to which he had limited the performance of his promise to his father was 
by this arrangement rendered impracticable. The furniture was all sent 
round by water. It chiefly consisted of household linen, plate, china, and 
books, with an handsome pianoforte of Marianne's. Mrs. John Dashwood 
saw the packages depart with a sigh ; she could not help feeling it hard 
that as Mrs. Dashwood's income would be so trifling in comparison with 
their own, she should have any handsome article of furniture. 

Mrs. Dashwood took the house for a twelvemonth; it was ready fur- 
nished, and she might have immediate possession. No difficulty arose on 
either side in the agreement ; and she waited only for the disposal of her 
effects at Norland, and to determine her future household, before she set 
off for the west ; and this, as she was exceedingly rapid in the performance 
of everything that interested her, was soon done. The horses which were 
left her by her husband had been sold soon after his death, and an oppor- 
tunity now offering of disposing of her carriage, she agreed to sell that 
likewise at the earnest advice of hsr eldest daughter. For the comfort of 
her children, had she consulted only her own wishes, she would have kept 
it; but the discretion of Elinor prevailed. Her wisdom, too, limited the 
number of their servants to three two maids and a man, with whom they 
were speedily provided from amongst those who had formed their estab- 
lishment at Norland. 

The man and one of the maids were sent off immediately into Devon- 
shire, to prepare the house for their mistress's arrival; for, as Lady 
Middleton was entirely unknown to Mrs. Dashwood, she preferred going 
directly to the cottage to being a visitor at Barton Park ; and she relied so 
undoubtingly on Sir John's description of the house, as to feel no curiosity 
to examine it herself till she entered it as her own. Her eagerness to be 
gone from Norland was preserved from diminution by the evident satis- 
faction of her daughter-in-law in the prospect of her removal ; a satisfac- 
tion which was but feebly attempted to be concealed under a cold in- 
vitation to her to defer her departure. Now was the time when her 
son-in-law's promise to his father might with particular propriety be 
fulfilled. Since he had neglected to do it on first coming to the estate, 
their quitting his house might be looked on as the most suitable period 
for its accomplishment. But Mrs. Dashwood began shortly to give over 
every hope of the kind, and to be convinced, from the general drift of his 
discourse, that his assistance extended no further than their maintenance 
for six months at Norland. He so frequently talked of the increasing 
expense of housekeeping, and of the perpetual demands upon his purse 
which a man of any consequence in the world was beyond calculation 



16 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

exposed to, that he seemed rather to stand in need of more money himself 
than to have any design of giving money away. 

In a very few weeks from the day which brought Sir John Middle ton's 
first letter to Norland, everything was so far settled in their future abode, 
as to enable Mrs. Dash wood and her daughters to begin their journey. 

Many were the tears shed by them in their last adieux to a place so 
much beloved. "Dear, dear Norland!" said Marianne, as she wandered 
alone before the house, on the last evening of their being there; "when 
shall I cease to regret you? when learn to feel at home elsewhere? O happy 
house! could you know what I suffer in now viewing you from this 
spot, from whence perhaps I may view you no more! and you, ye well- 
known trees ! but you will continue the same. No leaf will decay because 
we are removed, nor any branch become motionless although we can 
observe you no longer! No; you will continue the same; unconscious of 
the pleasure or the regret you occasion, and insensible of any change 
in those who walk under your shade! But who will remain to enjoy you?" 



Chapter 6 

THE first part of their journey was performed in too melancholy a 
disposition to be otherwise than tedious and unpleasant. But as they 
drew towards the end of it, their interest in the appearance of a country 
which they were to inhabit overcame their dejection, and a view of 
Barton Valley as they entered it gave them cheerfulness. It was a pleas- 
ant, fertile spot, well wooded, and rich in pasture. After winding along it 
for more than a mile, they reached their own house. A small green court 
was the whole of its demesne in front; and at neat wicket gate admitted 
them into it. 

As a house, Barton Cottage, though small, was comfortable and com- 
pact ; but as a cottage it was defective, for the building was regular, the 
roof was tiled, the window-shutters were not painted green, nor were the 
walls covered with honeysuckles. A narrow passage led directly through 
the house into the garden behind. On each side of the entrance was a 
sitting-room, about sixteen feet square ; and beyond them were the offices 
and the stairs. Four bedrooms and two garrets formed the rest of the 
house. It had not been built many years, and was in good repair. In 
comparison of Norland, it was poor and small indeed ! but the tears which 
recollection called forth as they entered the house were soon dried away. 
They were cheered by the joy of the servants on their arrival, and each for 
the sake of the others resolved to appear happy. It was very early in 
September; the season was fine, and from first seeing the place under 
the advantage of good weather, they received an impression in its favour 
which was of material service in recommending it to their lasting appro- 
bation. 

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



SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 



17 



behind, and at no great distance on each side ; some of which were open 
downs, the others cultivated and woody. The village of Barton was chiefly 
on one of these hills, and formed a pleasant view from the cottage win- 
dows. The prospect in front was more extensive; it commanded the whole 
of the valley, and reached into the country beyond. The hills which sur- 
rounded the cottage terminated the valley in that direction; under 
another name, and in another course, it branched out again between two 
of the steepest of them. 

With the size and furniture of the house Mrs. Dashwood was upon the 
whole well satisfied; for though her former style of life rendered many 
additions to the latter indispensable, yet to add and improve was a 
delight to her; and she had at this time ready money enough to supply 
all that was wanted of greater elegance to the apartments. "As for the 
house itself, to be sure," said she, "it is too small for our family; but we 
will make ourselves tolerably comfortable for the present, as it is too 
late in the year for improvements. Perhaps in the spring if I have plenty 
of money, as I dare say I shall, we may think about building. These par- 
lours are both too small for such parties of our friends as I hope to see 
often collected here; and I have some thoughts of throwing the passage 
into one of them, with perhaps a part of the other, and so leave the 
remainder of that other for an entrance; this, with a new drawing-room, 
which may be easily added, and a bed-chamber and garret above, will 
make it a very snug little cottage. I could wish the stairs were handsome. 
But one must not expect everything; though I suppose it would be no 
difficult matter to widen them. I shall see how much I am beforehand 
with the world in the spring, and we will plan our improvements accord- 
ingly." 

In the meanwhile, till all these alterations could be made from the say- 
ings of an income of five hundred a year by a woman who never saved in 
her life, they were wise enough to be contented with the house as it was; 
and each of them was busy in arranging their particular concerns, and 
endeavouring, by placing around them their books and other possessions, 
to form themselves a home. Marianne's pianoforte was unpacked and 
properly disposed of; and Elinor's drawings were affixed to the walls of 
their sitting-room. 

In such employments as these they were interrupted soon after break- 
fast the next day by the entrance of their landlord, who called to welcome 
them to Barton, and to offer them every accommodation from his own 
house and garden in which theirs might at present be deficient. Sir John 
Middleton was a good-looking man about forty. He had formerly visited 
at Stanhill, but it was too long ago for his young cousins to remembe 
him. His countenance was thoroughly good-humoured; and his manners 
were as friendly as the style of his letter. Their arrival seemed to afford 
him real satisfaction, and their comfort to be an object of real solicitude 
to him. He said much of his earnest desire of their living on the most 
sociable terms with his family, and pressed them so cordially to dine at 



i8 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

Barton Park every day till they were better settled at home, that, though 
his entreaties were carried to a point of perseverance beyond civility, they 
could not give offence. His kindness was not confined to words; for 
within an hour after he left them, a large basket full of garden stuff and 
fruit arrived from the Park, which was followed before the end of the 
day by a present of game. He insisted, moreover, on conveying all their 
letters to and from the post for them, and would not be denied the satis- 
faction of sending them his newspaper every day. 

Lady Middleton had sent a very civil message by him, denoting her 
intention of waiting on Mrs. Dashwood as soon as she could be assured 
that her visit would be no inconvenience; and as this message was 
answered by an invitation equally polite, her ladyship was introduced to 
them the next day. 

They were of course very anxious to see a person on whom so much of 
their comfort at Barton must depend; and the elegance of her appearance 
was favourable to their wishes. Lady Middleton was not more than six or 
seven and twenty ; her face was handsome, her figure tall and striking, and 
her address graceful. Her manners had all the elegance which her hus- 
band's wanted. But they would have been improved by some share of his 
frankness and warmth; and her visit was long enough to detract some- 
thing from their first admiration, by showing that, though perfectly well- 
bred, she was reserved, cold, and had nothing to say for herself beyond 
the most common-place inquiry or remark. 

Conversation, however, was not wanted, for Sir John was very chatty, 
and Lady Middleton had taken the wise precaution of bringing with her 
their eldest child, a fine little boy about six years old, by which means 
there was one subject always to be recurred to by the ladies in case of 
extremity; for they had to inquire his name and age, admire his beauty, 
and ask him questions, which his mother answered for him, while he hung 
about her and held down his head, to the great surprise of her ladyship, 
who wondered at his being so shy before company, as he could make noise 
enough at home. On every formal visit a child ought to be of the party, by 
way of provision for discourse. In the present case it took up ten minutes 
to determine whether the boy were most like his father or mother, and in 
what particular he resembled either; for of course everybody differed, 
and everybody was astonished at the opinion of the others. 

An opportunity was soon to be given to the Dashwoods of debating 
on the rest of the children, as Sir John would not leave the house without 
securing their promise of dining at the Park the next day. 



Chapter 7 

BARTON PARK was about half a mile from the cottage. The ladies had 
passed near it on their way along the valley, but it was screened from 
their view at home by the projection of an hill. The house was large and 



SENSEANDSENSIBILITY 19 

handsome; and the Middletons lived in a style of equal hospitality and 
elegance. The former was for Sir John's gratification, the latter for that 
of his lady. They were scarcely ever without some friends staying with 
them in the house, and they kept more company of every kind than 
any other family in the neighbourhood. It was necessary to the happiness 
of both; for, however dissimilar in temper and outward behaviour, they 
strongly resembled each other in that total want of talent and taste which 
confined their employments, unconnected with such as society produced, 
within a very narrow compass. Sir John was a sportsman, Lady Middleton 
a mother. He hunted and shot, and she humoured her children; and these 
were their only resources. Lady Middleton had the advantage of being 
able to spoil her children all the year round, while Sir John's independent 
employments were in existence only half the time. Continual engage- 
ments at home and abroad, however, supplied all the deficiencies of 
nature and education; supported the good spirits of Sir John, and gave 
exercise to the good breeding of his wife. 

Lady Middleton piqued herself upon the elegance of her table, and of 
all her domestic arrangements; and from this kind of vanity was her 
greatest enjoyment in any of their parties. But Sir John's satisfaction in 
society was much more real; he delighted in collecting about him more 
young people than his house would hold, and the noisier they were the 
better was he pleased. He was a blessing to all the juvenile part of the 
neighbourhood, for in summer he was for ever forming parties to eat 
cold ham and chicken out of doors, and in winter his private balls were 
numerous enough for any young lady who was not suffering under the 
insatiable appetite of fifteen. 

The arrival of a new family in the country was always a matter of joy 
to him, and in every point of view he was charmed with the inhabitants he 
had now procured for his cottage at Barton. The Miss Dashwoods were 
young, pretty, and unaffected. It was enough to secure his good opinion, 
for to be unaffected was all that a pretty girl could want to make her 
mind as captivating as her person. The friendliness of his disposition made 
him happy in accommodating those whose situation might be considered, 
in comparison with the past, as unfortunate. In showing kindness to his 
cousins, therefore, he had the real satisfaction of a good heart; and in 
settling a family of females only in his cottage, he had all the satisfaction 
of a sportsman; for a sportsman, though he esteems only those of his sex 
who are sportsman likewise, is not often desirous of encouraging their 
taste by admitting them to a residence within his own manor. 

Mrs. Dashwood and her daughters were met at the door of the house 
by Sir John, who welcomed them to Barton Park with unaffected sin- 
cerity; and as he attended them to the drawing-room, repeated to the 
young ladies the concern which the same subject had drawn from him 
the day before, at being unable to get any smart young men to meet 
them. They would see, he said, only one gentleman there besides him- 
self; a particular friend who was staying at the Park, but who was neither 



20 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

very young nor very gay. He hoped they would all excuse the smallness 
of the party, and could assure them it should never happen so again. He 
had been to several families that morning, in hopes of procuring some 
addition to their number; but it was moonlight, and everybody was full 
of engagements. Luckily, Lady Middleton's mother had arrived at Barton 
within the last hour, and as she was a very cheerful, agreeable woman, 
he hoped the young ladies would not find it so very dull as they might 
imagine. The young ladies, as well as their mother, were perfectly satisfied 
with having two entire strangers of the party, and wished no more. 

Mrs. Jennings, Lady Middleton's mother, was a good-humoured, merry, 
fat, elderly woman, who talked a great deal, seemed very happy, and 
rather vulgar. She was full of jokes and laughter, and before dinner was 
over had said many witty things on the subject of lovers and husbands; 
hoped they had not left their hearts behind them in Sussex, and pretended 
to see them blush whether they did or not. Marianne was vexed at it for 
her sister's sake, and turned her eyes towards Elinor, to see how she bore 
these attacks, with an earnestness which gave Elinor far more pain than 
could arise from such commonplace raillery as Mrs. Jennings's. 

Colonel Brandon, the friend of Sir John, seemed no more adapted by 
resemblance of manner to be his friend than Lady Middleton was to be 
his wife, or Mrs. Jennings to be Lady Middleton's mother. He was silent 
and grave. His appearance, however, was not unpleasing, in spite of his 
being, in the opinion of Marianne and Margaret, an absolute old bachelor, 
for he was on the wrong side of five-and-thirty ; but though his face was 
not handsome, his countenance was sensible, and his address was par- 
ticularly gentlemanlike. 

There was nothing in any of the party which could recommend them 
as companions to the Dashwoods ; but the cold insipidity of Lady Middle- 
ton was so particularly repulsive that in comparison of it the .gravity of 
Colonel Brandon, and even the boisterous mirth of Sir John and his 
mother-in-law, was interesting. Lady Middleton seemed to be roused to 
enjoyment only by the entrance of her four noisy children after dinner, 
who pulled her about, tore her clothes, and put an end to every kind of 
discourse except what related to themselves. 

In the evening, as Marianne was discovered to be musical, she was 
invited to play. The instrument was unlocked, everybody prepared to be 
charmed, and Marianne, who sang very well, at their request went 
through the chief of the songs which Lady Middleton had brought into 
the family on her marriage, and which perhaps had lain ever since in the 
same position on the pianoforte; for her ladyship had celebrated that 
event by giving up music, although by her mother's account she had 
played extremely well, and by her own was very fond of it. 

Marianne's performance was highly applauded. Sir John was loud in 
his admiration at the end of every song, and as loud in his conversation 
with the others while every song lasted. Lady Middleton frequently called 
him to order, wondered how any one's attention could be diverted from 



SENSEANDSENSIBILITY 21 

music for a moment, and asked Marianne to sing a particular song which 
Marianne had just finished. Colonel Brandon alone, of all the party, 
heard her without being in raptures. He paid her only the compliment 
of attention; and she felt a respect for him on the occasion which the 
others had reasonably forfeited by their shameless want of taste. His 
pleasure in music, though it amounted not to that ecstatic delight which 
alone could sympathise with her own, was estimable when contrasted 
against the horrible insensibility of the others; and she was reasonable 
enough to allow that a man of five-and-thirty might well have outlived 
all acuteness of feeling and every exquisite power of enjoyment. She was 
perfectly disposed to make every allowance for the colonel's advanced 
state of life which humanity required. 



Chapter 8 

MRS. JENNINGS was a widow, with an ample jointure. She had only 
two daughters, both of whom she had lived to see respectably married, 
and she had now therefore nothing to do but to marry all the rest of 
the world. In the promotion of this object, she was zealously active, as 
far as her ability reached, and missed no opportunity of projecting 
weddings among all the young people of her acquaintance. She was 
remarkably quick in the discovery of attachments, and had enjoyed the 
advantage of raising the blushes and the vanity of many a young lady 
by insinuations of her power over such a young man; and this kind of 
discernment enabled her soon after her arrival at Barton, decisively to 
pronounce that Colonel Brandon was very much in love with Marianne 
Dashwood. She rather suspected it to be so, on the very first evening of 
their being together, from his listening so attentively while she sang to 
them ; and when the visit was returned by the Middletons dining at the 
cottage, the fact was ascertained by his listening to her again. It must be 
so. She was perfectly convinced of it. It would be an excellent match, 
for he was rich and she was handsome. Mrs. Jennings had been anxious 
to see Colonel Brandon well married ever since her connection with Sir 
John first brought him to her knowledge ; and she was always anxious to 
get a good husband for every pretty girl. 

The immediate advantage to herself was by no means inconsiderable, 
for it supplied her with endless jokes against them both. At the Park she 
laughed at the colonel, and in the cottage at Marianne. To the former her 
raillery was probably, as far as it regarded only himself, perfectly in- 
different ; but to the latter it was at first incomprehensible ; and when its 
object was understood, she hardly knew whether most to laugh at its 
absurdity, or censure its impertinence, for she considered it as an un- 
feeling reflection on the colonel's advanced years, and on his forlorn 
condition as an old bachelor. 

Mrs. Dashwood. who could not think a man five years younger than 



22 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

herself so exceedingly ancient as he appeared to the youthful fancy of her 
daughter, ventured to clear Mrs. Jennings from the probability of wish- 
ing to throw ridicule on his age. 

"But at least, mamma, you cannot deny the absurdity of the accusation, 
though you may not think it intentionally ill-natured. Colonel Brandon is 
certainly younger than Mrs. Jennings, but he is old enough to be my 
father; and if he were ever animated enough to be in love, must have 
long outlived every sensation of the kind. It is too ridiculous! When is 
a man to be safe from such wit, if age and infirmity will not protect him?" 

"Infirmity!" said Elinor; "do you call Colonel Brandon infirm? I can 
easily suppose that his age may appear much greater to you than to my 
mother; but you can hardly deceive yourself as to his having the use 
of his limbs?" 

"Did not you hear him complain of the rheumatism? and is not that 
the commonest infirmity of declining life?" 

"My dearest child," said her mother, laughing, "at this rate, you must 
be in continual terror of my decay; and it must seem to you a miracle that 
my life has been extended to the advanced age of forty." 

"Mamma, you are not doing me justice. I know very well that Colonel 
Brandon is not old enough to make his friends yet apprehensive of losing 
him in the course of Nature. He may live twenty years longer. But thirty- 
five has nothing to do with matrimony." 

"Perhaps," said Elinor, "thirty-five and seventeen had better not have 
anything to do with matrimony together. But if there should by any 
chance happen to be a woman who is single at seven-and-twenty, I should 
not think Colonel Brandon's being thirty-five any objection to his marry- 
ing her." 

"A woman of seven-and-twenty," said Marianne, after pausing a mo- 
ment, "can never hope to feel or inspire affection again; and if her home 
be uncomfortable, or her fortune small, I can suppose that she might bring 
herself to submit to the offices of a nurse, for the sake of the provision 
and security of a wife. In his marrying such a woman, therefore, there 
would be nothing unsuitable. It would be a compact of convenience, and 
the world would be satisfied. In my eyes it would be no marriage at all, 
but that would be nothing. To me it would seem only a commercial 
exchange, in which each wished to be benefited at the expense of the 
other." 

"It would be impossible, I know," replied Elinor, "to convince you 
that a woman of seven-and-twenty could feel for a man of thirty-five 
anything near enough to love to make him a desirable companion to her. 
But I must object to your dooming Colonel Brandon and his wife to the 
constant confinement of a sick chamber, merely because he chanced to 
complain yesterday (a very cold, damp day) of a slight rheumatic feel 
in one of his shoulders." 

"But he talked of flannel waistcoats," said Marianne; "and with me 
a flannel waistcoat is invariably connected with aches, cramps, rheuma- 



SENSEANDSENSIBILITY 23 

tisms, and every species of ailment that can afflict the old and the feeble." 

"Had he been only in a violent fever, you would not have despised him 
half so much. Confess, Marianne, is not there something interesting to 
you in the flushed cheek, hollow eye, and quick pulse of a fever?" 

Soon after this, upon Elinor's leaving the room, 

"Mamma," said Marianne, "I have an alarm on the subject of illness, 
which I cannot conceal from you. I am sure Edward Ferrars is not well. 
We have now been here almost a fortnight, and yet he does not come. 
Nothing but real indisposition could occasion this extraordinary delay. 
What else can detain him at Norland?" 

"Had you any idea of his coming so soon?" said Mrs. Dashwood. "/ 
had none. On the contrary, if I have felt any anxiety at all on the subject, 
it has been in recollecting that he sometimes showed a want of pleasure 
and readiness in accepting my invitation, when I talked of his coming 
to Barton. Does Elinor expect him already?" 

"I have never mentioned it to her; but of course she must." 

"I rather think you are mistaken, for, when I was talking to her yester- 
day of getting a new grate for the spare bed-chamber, she observed that 
there was no immediate hurry for it, as it was not likely that the room 
would be wanted for some time." 

"How strange this is! What can be the meaning of it? But the whole 
of their behaviour to each other has been unaccountable! How cold, how 
composed were their last adieux! How languid their conversation the last 
evening of their being together! In Edward's farewell there was no dis- 
tinction between Elinor and me: it was the good wishes of an affectionate 
brother to both. Twice did I leave th^m purposely together in the course 
of the last morning, and each time diJ he most unaccountably follow me 
out of the room. And Elinor, in quitting Norland and Edward, cried not 
as I did. Even now her self-command is invariable. When is she dejected 
or melancholy? When does she try to avoid society, or appear restless 
and dissatisfied in it?" 



Chapter 9 

THE Dashwoods were now settled at Barton with tolerable comfort 
to themselves. The house and the garden, with all the objects surround- 
ing them, were now become familiar; and the ordinary pursuits which 
had given to Norland half its charms, were engaged in again with far 
greater enjoyment than Norland had been able to afford since the loss 
of their father. Sir John Middleton, who called on them every day for the 
first fortnight, and who was not in the habit of seeing much occupation 
at home, could not conceal his amazement on finding them always em- 
ployed. 

Their visitors, except those from Barton Park, were not many; for, in 
spite of Sir John's urgent entreaties that they would rn'x more in the 



24 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

neighbourhood, and repeated assurances of his carriage being always at 
their service, the independence of Mrs. Dashwood's spirit overcame the 
wish of society for her children ; and she was resolute in declining to visit 
any family beyond the distance of a walk. There were but few who 
could be so classed ; and it was not all of them that were attainable. About 
a mile and a half from the cottage, along the narrow winding valley of 
Allenham, which issued from that of Barton, as formerly described, the 
girls had, in one of their earliest walks, discovered an ancient respectable- 
looking mansion, which, by reminding them a little of Norland, interested 
their imagination, and made them wish to be better acquainted with it. 
But they learnt, on inquiry, that its possessor, an elderly lady of very 
good character, was unfortunately too infirm to mix with the world, and 
never stirred from home. 

The whole country about them abounded in beautiful walks. The high 
downs, which invited them from almost every window of the cottage to 
seek the exquisite enjoyment of air on their summits, were a happy 
alternative when the dirt of the valleys beneath shut up their superior 
beauties ; and towards one of these hills did Marianne and Margaret one 
memorable morning direct their steps, attracted by the partial sunshine of 
a showery sky, and unable longer to bear the confinement which the 
settled rain of the two preceding days had occasioned. The weather was 
not tempting enough to draw the two others from their pencil and their 
book, in spite of Marianne's declaration that the day would be lastingly 
fair, and that every threatening cloud would be drawn off from their 
hills ; and the two girls set off together. 

They gaily ascended the downs, rejoicing in their own penetration at 
every glimpse of blue sky: and when they caught in their faces the ani- 
mating gales of an high south-westerly wind, they pitied the fears which 
had prevented their mother and Elinor from sharing such delightful 
sensations. 

"Is there a felicity in the world," said Marianne, "superior to this? 
Margaret, we will walk here at least two hours." 

Margaret agreed, and they pursued their way against the wind, resist- 
ing it with laughing delight for about twenty minutes longer, when 
suddenly the clouds united over their heads, and a driving rain set full 
in their faces. Chagrined and surprised, they were obliged, though un- 
willingly, to turn back, for no shelter was nearer than their own house. 
One consolation, however, remained for them, to which the exigence of 
the moment gave more than usual propriety; it was that of running with 
all possible speed down the steep side of the hill which led immediately 
to their garden gate. 

They set off. Marianne had at first the advantage, but a false step 
brought her suddenly to the ground, and Margaret, unable to stop her- 
self to assist her, was involuntarily hurried along, and reached the bottom 
in safety. 

A gentleman carrying a gun, with two pointers playing round him, wa> 



SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 25 

passing up the hill and within a few yards of Marianne, when her accident 
happened. He put down his gun and ran to her assistance. She had raised 
herself from the ground, but her foot had been twisted in the fall, and 
she was scarcely able to stand. The gentleman offered his services, and 
perceiving that her modesty declined what her situation rendered neces- 
sary, took her up in his arms without further delay, and carried her down 
the hill. Then passing through the garden, the gate of which had been 
left open by Margaret, he bore her directly into the house, whither 
Margaret was just arrived, and quitted not his hold till he had seated 
her in a chair in the parlour. 

Elinor and her mother rose up in amazement at their entrance, and 
while the eyes of both were fixed on him with an evident wonder and a 
secret admiration which equally sprung from his appearance, he apolo- 
gised for his intrusion by relating its cause, in a manner so frank and 
so graceful, that his person, which was uncommonly handsome, received 
additional charms from his voice and expression. Had he been even old, 
ugly, and vulgar, the gratitude and kindness of Mrs. Dashwood would 
have been secured by any act of attention to her child ; but the influence 
of youth, beauty, and elegance, gave an interest to the action which came 
home to her feelings. 

She thanked him again and again, and with a sweetness of address 
which always attended her, invited him to be seated. But this he de- 
clined, as he was dirty and wet. Mrs. Dashwood then begged to know 
to whom she was obliged. His name, he replied, was Willoughby, and his 
present home was at Allenham, from whence he hoped she would allow 
him the honour of calling to-morrow to inquire after Miss Dashwood. 
The honour was readily granted, and he then departed, to make himself 
still more interesting, in the midst of an heavy rain. 

His manly beauty and more than common gracefulness were instantly 
the theme of general admiration and the laugh which his gallantry raised 
against Marianne received particular spirit from his exterior attractions. 
Marianne herself had seen less of his person than the rest, for the con- 
fusion which crimsoned over her face, on his lifting her up, had robbed 
her of the power of regarding him after their entering the house. But 
she had seen enough of him to join in all the admiration of the others, and 
with an energy which always adorned her praise. His person and air were 
equal to what her fancy had ever drawn for the hero of a favourite story; 
and in his carrying her into the house with so little previous formality, 
there was a rapidity of thought which particularly recommended the 
action to her. Every circumstance belonging to him was interesting. His 
name was good, his residence was in their favourite village, and she soon 
found out that of all manly dresses a shooting-jacket was the most be- 
coming. Her imagination was busy, her reflections were pleasant, and 
the pain of a sprained ankle was disregarded. 

Sir John called on them as soon as the next interval of fair weather that 
morning allowed him to get out of doors; and Marianne's accident being 



.t> THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

related to him, he was eagerly asked whether he knew, any gentleman of 
the name of Willoughby at Allenham. 

"Willoughby!" cried Sir John; "what, is he in the country? That * c . 
good news, however; I will ride over to-morrow, and ask him to dinner 
on Thursday." 

"You know him then?" said Mrs. Dashwood. 

"Know him! to be sure I do. Why, he is down here every year." 

"And what sort of a young man is he?" 

"As good a kind of fellow as ever lived, I assure you. A very decent 
shot, and there is not a bolder rider in England." 

"And is that all you can say for him!" cried Marianne indignantly. 
'But what are his manners on more intimate acquaintance? what his 
pursuits, his talents, and genius?" 

Sir John was rather puzzled. 

"Upon my soul/' said he, "I do not know much about him as to all 
that. But he is a pleasant, good-humoured fellow, and has got the nicest 
little black bitch of a pointer I ever saw. Was she out with him to-day?" 

But Marianne could no more satisfy him as to the colour of Mr. Wil- 
loughby's pointer than he could describe to her the shades of his mind. 

"But who is he?" said Elinor. "Where does he come from? Has he a 
house at Allenham?" 

On this point Sir John could give more certain intelligence ; and he told 
them that Mr. Willoughby had no property of his own in the country; 
that he resided there only while he was visiting the old lady at Allenham 
Court, to whom he was related, and whose possessions he was to inherit ; 
adding, "Yes, yes, he is very well worth catching, I can tell you, Miss 
Dashwood; he has a pretty little estate of his own in Somersetshire 
besides; and, if I were you, I would not give him up to my younger sister 
in spite of all this tumbling down hills. Miss Marianne must not expect to 
have all the men to herself. Brandon will be jealous, if she does not take 
care." 

"I do not believe," said Mrs. Dashwood, with a good-humoured smile, 
"that Mr. Willoughby will be incommoded by the attempts of either of 
my daughters towards what you call catching him. It is not an employ- 
ment to which they have been brought up. Men are very safe with us, 
let them be ever so rich. I am glad to find, however, from what you say, 
that he is a respectable young man, and one whose acquaintance will not 
be ineligible." 

"He is as good a sort of fellow, I believe, as ever lived," repeated Sir 
John. "I remember last Christmas, at a little hop at the Park, he danced 
from eight o'clock till four, without once sitting down." 

"Did he, indeed?" cried Marianne, with sparkling eyes, "and with 
elegance, with spirit?" 

"Yes; and he was up again at eight to ride to covert." 

"That is what I like; that is what a young man ought to be. Whatever 



SENSEANDSENSIBILITY 27 

be his pursuits, his eagerness in them should know no moderation, and 
leave him no sense of fatigue." 

'Aye, aye, I see how it will be," said Sir John, "I see how it will be 
You will be setting your cap at him now, and never think of pooi 
Brandon." 

"That is an expression, Sir John," said Marianne warmly, "which I 
particularly dislike. I abhor every commonplace phrase by which wit 
is intended; and 'setting one's cap at a man,' or 'making a conquest,' are 
the most odious of all. Their tendency is gross and illiberal ; and if their 
construction could ever be deemed clever, time has long ago destroyed 
all its ingenuity." 

Sir John did not much understand this reproof; but he laughed as 
heartily as if he did, and then replied, 

"Aye, you will make conquests enough, I dare say, one way or other. 
Poor Brandon! he is quite smitten already, and he is very well worth 
setting your cap at, I can tell you, in spite of all this tumbling about and 
spraining of ankles." 



Chapter 10 

MARIANNE'S preserver, as Margaret, with more elegance than pre- 
cision, styled Willoughby, called at the cottage early the next morning 
to make his personal inquiries. He was received by Mrs. Dashwood with 
more than politeness with a kindness which Sir John's account of him 
and her own gratitude prompted ; and everything that passed during the 
visit tended to assure him of the sense, elegance, mutual affection, and 
domestic comfort of the family to whom accident had now introduced 
him. Of their personal charms he had not required a second interview 
to be convinced. 

Miss Dashwood had a delicate complexion, regular features, and a 
remarkably pretty figure. Marianne was still handsomer. Her form, 
though not so correct as her sister's, in having the advantage of height, 
was more striking; and her face was so lovely, that when, in the common 
cant of praise, she was called a beautiful girl, truth was less violently 
outraged than usually happens. Her skin was very brown, but, from its 
transparency, her complexion was uncommonly brilliant; her features 
were all good; her smile was sweet and attractive; and in her eyes, which 
were very dark, there was a life, a spirit, an eagerness, which could hardly 
be seen without delight. From Willoughby their expression was at first 
held back, by the embarrassment which the remembrance of his assistance 
created. But when this passed away, when her spirits became collected 
when she saw that to the perfect good-breeding of the gentleman, he 
united frankness and vivacity, and, above all, when she heard him declare 
that of music and dancing he was passionately fond, she gave him such a 



28 THEWORKSOFJANEAUSTEN 

look of approbation as secured the largest share of his discourse to herself 
for the rest of his stay. 

It was only necessary to mention any favourite amusement to engage 
her to talk. She could not be silent when such points were introduced, and 
she had neither shyness nor reserve in their discussion. They speedily 
discovered that their enjoyment of dancing and music was mutual, and 
that it arose from a general conformity of judgment in all that related 
to either. Encouraged by this to a further examination of his opinions, 
she proceeded to question him on the subject of books; her favourite 
authors were brought forward and dwelt upon with so rapturous a de- 
light, that any young man of five-and-twenty must have been insensible 
indeed, not to become an immediate convert to the excellence of such 
works, however disregarded before. Their taste was strikingly alike. The 
same books, the same passages were idolised by each or, if any difference 
appeared, any objection arose, it lasted no longer than till the force of 
her arguments and the brightness of her eyes could be displayed. He 
acquiesced in all her decisions, caught all her enthusiasm, and long before 
his visit concluded, they conversed with the familiarity of a long- 
established acquaintance. 

"Well, Marianne," said Elinor, as soon as he had left them, "for one 
morning I think you have done pretty well. You have already ascertained 
Mr. Willoughby's opinion in almost every matter of importance. You 
know what he thinks of Cowper and Scott; you are certain of his esti- 
mating their beauties as he ought, and you have received every assurance 
of his admiring Pope no more than is proper. But how is your acquaint- 
ance to be long supported, under such extraordinary dispatch of every 
subject for discourse! You will soon have exhausted each favourite topic. 
Another meeting will suffice to explain his sentiments on picturesque 
beauty and second marriages, and then you can have nothing farther to 
ask- 

"Elinor," cried Marianne, "is this fair? is this just? are my ideas so 
scanty? But I see what you mean. I have been too much at my ease, too 
happy, too frank. I have erred against every commonplace notion of de- 
corum ! I have been open and sincere when I ought to have been reserved, 
spiritless, dull, and deceitful. Had I talked only of the weather and the 
roads, and had I spoken only once in ten minutes this reproach would 
have been spared." 

"My love," said her mother, "you must not be offended with Elinor 
she was only in jest. I should scold her myself, if she were capable of 
wishing to check the delight of your conversation with our new friend." 
Marianne was softened in a moment. 

Willoughby. on his side, gave every proof of his pleasure in their 
acquaintance which an evident wish of improving it could offer. He came 
to them every day. To inquire after Marianne was at first his excuse ; but 
the encouragement of his reception, to which every day gave greater 
kindness, made such an excuse unnecessary before it had ceased to be 



SENSEANDSENSIBILITY 29 

possible by Marianne's perfect recovery. She was confined for some days 
to the house: but never had any confinement been less irksome. Wil- 
loughby was a young man of good abilities, quick imagination, lively 
spirits, and open, affectionate manners. He was exactly formed to engage 
Marianne's heart; for, with all this, he joined not only a captivating 
person, but a natural ardour of mind, which was now roused and in- 
creased by the example of her own, and which recommended him to her 
affection beyond everything else. 

His society became gradually her most exquisite enjoyment. They read, 
they talked, they sang together; his musical talents were considerable; 
and he read with all the sensibility and spirit which Edward had unfor- 
tunately wanted. 

In Mrs. Dashwood's estimation, he was as faultless as in Marianne's; 
and Elinor saw nothing to censure in him but a propensity in which he 
strongly resembled and peculiarly delighted her sister, of saying too much 
what he thought on every occasion, without attention to persons or cir- 
cumstances. In hastily forming and giving his opinion of other people, 
in sacrificing general politeness to the enjoyment of undivided attention 
where his heart was engaged, and in slighting too easily the forms of 
worldly propriety, he displayed a want of caution which Elinor could not 
approve, in spite of all that he and Marianne could say in its support. 

Marianne began now to perceive that the desperation which had seized 
her at sixteen and a half, of ever seeing a man who could satisfy her ideas 
of perfection, had been rash and unjustifiable. Willoughby was all that 
her fancy had delineated in that unhappy hour, and in every brighter 
period, as capable of attaching her; and his behaviour declared his wishes 
to be in that respect as earnest as his abilities were strong. 

Her mother, too, in whose mind not one speculative thought of their 
marriage had been raised by his prospect of riches, was led before the 
end of a week to hope and expect it, and secretly to congratulate herself 
on having gained two such sons-in-law as Edward and Willoughby. 

Colonel Brandon's partiality for Marianne, which had so early been 
discovered by his friends, now first became perceptible to Elinor, when it 
ceased to be noticed by them. Their attention and wit were drawn off to 
his more fortunate rival; and the raillery which the other had incurred' 
before any partiality arose, was removed when his feelings began really 
to call for the ridicule so justly annexed to sensibility. Elinor was obliged, 
though unwillingly, to believe that the sentiments which Mrs. Jennings 
had assigned him for her own satisfaction, were now actually excited by 
her sister; and that however a general resemblance of disposition between 
the parties might forward the affection of Mr. Willoughby, an equally 
striking opposition of character was no hindrance to the regard of Colonel 
Brandon. She saw it with concern ; for what could a silent man of five-and- 
thirty hope, when opposed by a very lively one of five-and-twenty? and as 
she could not even wish him successful, she heartily wished him indifferent. 
She liked him in spite of his gravity and reserve, she beheld in him an 



3 o THEWORKSOFJANEAUSTEN 

object of interest. His manners, though serious, were mild; and his reserve 
appeared rather the result of some oppression of spirits, than of any 
natural gloominess of temper. Sir John had dropped hints of past injuries 
and disappointments, which justified her belief of his being an unfortu- 
nate man, and she regarded him with respect and compassion. 

Perhaps she pitied and esteemed him the more because he was slighted 
by Willoughby and Marianne, who, prejudiced against him for being 
neither lively nor young, seemed resolved to undervalue his merits. 

"Brandon is just the kind of man," said Willoughby one day, when 
they were talking of him together, "whom everybody speaks well of, 
and nobody cares about; whom all are delighted to see, and nobo'dy 
remembers to talk to." 

"That is exactly what I think of him," cried Marianne. 

"Do not boast of it, however," said Elinor, "for it is injustice in both 
of you. He is highly esteemed by all the family at the Park, and I never 
see him myself without taking pains to converse with him." 

"That he is patronised by you" replied Willoughby, "is certainly in his 
favour; but as for the esteem of the others, it is a reproach in itself. Who 
would submit to the indignity of being approved by such women as Lady 
Middleton and Mrs. Jennings, that could command the indifference of 
anybody else?" 

"But perhaps the abuse of such people as yourself and Marianne will 
make amends for the regard of Lady Middleton and her mother. If their 
praise is censure, your censure may be praise; for they are not more 
undiscerning than you are prejudiced and unjust." 

"In defence of your protege, you can even be saucy." 

"My protege, as you call him, is a sensible man ; and sense will always 
have attractions for me. Yes, Marianne, even in a man between thirty 
and forty. He has ssen a great deal of the world ; has been abroad ; has 
read, and has a thinking mind, I have found him capable of giving me 
much information on various subjects, and he has always answered my 
inquiries with the readiness of good-breeding and good-nature." 

"That is to say," cried Marianne contemptuously, "he has told you 
that in the East Indies the climate is hot, and the mosquitoes are trouble- 
some." 

"He would have told me so, I doubt not, had I made any such in- 
quiries ; but they happened to be points on which I had been previously 
informed." 

"Perhaps," said Willoughby, "his observations may have extended to 
the existence of nabobs, gold mohrs, and palanquins." 

"I may venture to say that his observations have stretched much 
farther than your candour. But why should you dislike him?" 

"I do not dislike him. I consider him, on the contrary, as a very re- 
spectable man, who has everybody's good word and nobody's notice; 
who has more money than he can spend, more time than he knows how 
to employ, and two new coats every year." 



SENSEANDSENSIBILITY 31 

"Add to which," cried Marianne, "that he has neither genius, taste, 
nor spirit. That his understanding has no brilliancy, his feelings no 
ardour, and his voice no expression." 

"You decide on his imperfections so much in the mass," replied Elinor, 
"and so much on the strength of your own imagination, that the com- 
mendation 7 am able to give of him is comparatively cold and insipid. I 
can only pronounce him to be a sensible man, well-bred, well-informed, 
of gentle address, and, I believe, possessing an amiable heart." 

"Miss Dashwood," cried Willoughby, "you are now using me unkindly. 
You are endeavouring to disarm me by reason, and to convince me 
against my will. But it will not do. You shall find me as stubborn as you 
can be artful. I have three unanswerable reasons for disliking Colonel 
Brandon: he has threatened me with rain when I wanted it to be fine; 
he has found fault with the hanging of my curricle, and I cannot per- 
suade him to buy my brown mare. If it will be any satisfaction to you, 
however, to be told that I believe his character to be in other respects 
irreproachable, I am ready to confess it. And in return for an acknowl- 
edgment which must give me some pain, you cannot deny me the privi- 
lege of disliking him as much as ever." 



Chapter n 

LITTLE had Mrs. Dashwood or her daughters imagined, when they 
came first into Devonshire, that so many engagements would arise to 
occupy their time as shortly presented themselves, or that they should 
have such frequent invitations and such constant visitors as to leave 
them little leisure for serious employment. Yet such was the case. When 
Marianne was recovered, the schemes of amusements at home and abroad 
which Sir John had been previously forming were put in execution. The 
private balls at the Park then began; and parties on the water were 
made and accomplished as often as a showery October would allow. In 
every meeting of the kind, Willoughby was included; and the ease and 
familiarity which naturally attended these parties were exactly calcu- 
lated to give increasing intimacy to his acquaintance with the Dashwoods, 
to afford him opportunity of witnessing the excellences of Marianne, 
of marking his animated admiration of her, and of receiving, in her 
behaviour to himself, the most pointed assurance of her affection. 

Elinor could not be surprised at their attachment. She only wished 
that it were less openly shown, and once or twice did venture to suggest 
the propriety of some self-command to Marianne. But Marianne abhorred 
all concealment where no real disgrace could attend unreserve; and to 
aim at the restraint of sentiments which were not in themselves illaud- 
able. appeared to her not merely an unnecessary effort, but a disgrace! 
subjection of reason to commonplace and mistaken notions. \\ illoughby 



3 2 THE WORKS OF JANE ACJSTEN 

thought the same ; and their behaviour, at all times, was an illustration 
of their opinions. 

When he was present, she had no eyes for any one else. Everything he 
did was right. Everything he said was clever. If their evenings at the Park 
were concluded with cards, he cheated himself and all the rest of the 
party to get her a good hand. If dancing formed the amusement of the 
night, they were partners for half the time ; and when obliged to separate 
for a couple of dances, were careful to stand together, and scarcely spoke 
a word to anybody else. Such conduct made them of course most exceed- 
ingly laughed at; but ridicule could not shame, and seemed hardly to 
provoke them. 

Mrs. Dashwood entered into all their feelings with a warmth which 
left her no inclination for checking this excessive display of them. To 
her it was but the natural consequence of a strong affection in a young 
and ardent mind. 

This was the season of happiness to Marianne. Her heart was devoted 
to Willoughby, and the fond attachment to Norland which she brought 
with her from Sussex, was more likely to be softened than she had thought 
it possible before, by the charms which his society bestowed on her 
present home. 

Elinor's happiness was not so great. Her heart was not so much at ease, 
nor her satisfaction in their amusements so pure. They afforded her no 
companion that could make amends for what she had left behind, nor that 
could teach her to think of Norland with less regret than ever. Neither 
Lady Middleton nor Mrs. Jennings could supply to her the conversation 
she missed; although the latter was an everlasting talker, and from the 
first had regarded her with a kindness which ensured her a large share of 
her discourse. She had already repeated her own history to Elinor three or 
four times; and had Elinor's memory been equal to her means of im- 
provement, she might have known very early in her acquaintance all the 
particulars of Mr. Jennings's last illness, and what he said to his wife a 
few minutes before he died. Lady Middleton was more agreeable than 
her mother only in being more silent. Elinor needed little observation to 
perceive that her reserve was a mere calmness of manner with which sense 
had nothing to do. Towards her husband and mother she was the same 
as to them ; an intimacy was therefore neither to be looked for nor desired. 
She had nothing to say one day that she had not said the day before. Her 
insipidity was invariable, for even her spirits were always the same ; and 
though she did not oppose the parties arranged by her husband, provided 
everything were conducted in style and her two eldest children attended 
her, she never appeared to receive more enjoyment from them, than she 
might have experienced in sitting at home ; and so little did her presence 
add to the pleasure of the others, by any share in their conversation, that 
they were sometimes only reminded of her being amongst them by her 
solicitude about her troublesome boys. 

In Colonel Brandon alone, of all her new acquaintance, did Elinor find 



SENSEANDSENSIBILITY 33 

a person who could in any degree claim the respect of abilities, excite the 
interest of friendship, or give pleasure as a companion. Willoughby was 
out of the question. Her admiration and regard, even her sisterly regard, 
was all his own : but he was a lover ; his attentions were wholly Marianne's, 
and a far less agreeable man might have been more generally pleasing. 
Colonel Brandon, unfortunately for himself, had no such encouragement 
to think only of Marianne, and in conversing with Elinor, he found the 
greatest consolation for the total indifference of her sister. 

Elinor's compassion for him increased, as she had reason to suspect 
that the misery of disappointed love had already been known by him. This 
suspicion was given by some words which accidentally dropped from him 
one evening at the Park, when they were sitting down together by mutual 
consent, while the others were dancing. His eyes were fixed on Marianne, 
and, after a silence of some minutes, he said with a faint smile, "Your 
sister, I understand, does not approve of second attachments." 

"No," replied Elinor; "her opinions are all romantic." 

"Or rather, as I believe, she considers them impossible to exist." 

"I believe she does. But how she contrives it without reflecting on the 
character of her own father, who had himself two wives, I know not. A 
few years, however, will settle her opinions on the reasonable basis of 
common sense and observation; and then they may be more easy to 
define and to justify than they now are, by anybody but herself." 

"This will probably be the case," he replied; "and yet there is some- 
thing so amiable in the prejudices of a young mind, that one is sorry to 
see them give way to the reception of more general opinions." 

"I cannot agree with you there," said Elinor. "There are inconveniences 
attending such feelings as Marianne's, which all the charms of enthusiasm 
and ignorance of the world cannot atone for. Her systems have all the 
unfortunate tendency of setting propriety at nought; and a better 
acquaintance with the world is what I look forward to as her greatest 
possible advantage." 

After a short pause, he resumed the conversation, by saying 

"Does your sister make no distinction in her objections against a 
second attachment? or is it equally criminal in everybody? Are those who 
have been disappointed in their first choice, whether from the inconstancy 
of its object, or the perverseness of circumstances, to be equally indif- 
ferent during the rest of their lives?" 

"Upon my word, I am not acquainted with the minutiae of her prin- 
ciples. I only know that I never yet heard her admit any instance of a 
second attachment's being pardonable." 

"This," said he, "cannot hold; but a change, a total change of senti- 
mentsNo, no, do not desire it, for when the romantic refinements of t 
young mind are obliged to give way, how frequently are they succeeded 
by such opinions as are but too common, and too dangerous! I speak fion 
experience. I once knew a lady who in temper and mind greatly resemble* 
your sister, who thought and judged like her, but who from an enforced 



34 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

change from a series of unfortunate circumstances " Here he stopped 

suddenly; appeared to think that he had said too much, and by his 
countenance gave rise to conjectures which might not otherwise have 
entered Elinor's head. The lady would probably have passed without 
suspicion, had he not convinced Miss Dashwood that what concerned her 
ought not to escape his lips. As it was, it required but a slight effort of 
fancy to connect his emotion with the tender recollection of past regard. 
Elinor attempted no more. But Marianne, in her place, would not have 
done so little. The whole story would have been speedily formed under 
her active imagination, and everything established in the most melancholy 
order of disastrous love. 



Chapter 12 

As Elinor and Marianne were walking together the next morning, 
the latter communicated a piece of news to her sister, which, in spite of 
all that she knew before of Marianne's imprudence and want of thought, 
surprised her by its extravagant testimony of both. Marianne told her, 
with the greatest delight, that Willoughby had given her a horse, one that 
he had bred himself on his estate in Somersetshire, and which was exactly 
calculated to carry a woman. Without considering that it was not in her 
mother's plan to keep any horse that if she were to alter her resolution 
in favour of this gift, she must buy another for the servant, and keep a 
servant to ride it, and after all, build a stable to receive them she had 
accepted the present without hesitation, and told her sister of it in 
raptures. 

"He intends to send his groom into Somersetshire immediately for it," 
she added, "and when it arrives, we will ride every day. You shall share 
its use with me. Imagine to yourself, my dear Elinor, the delight of a 
gallop on some of these downs." 

Most unwilling was she to awaken from such a dream of felicity, to 
comprehend all the unhappy truths which attended the affair, and for 
some time she refused to submit to them. As to an additional servant, the 
expense would be a trifle; mamma, she was sure, would never object to it; 
and any horse would do for him; he might always get one at the Park; 
as to a stable, the merest shed would be sufficient. Elinor then ventured 
to doubt the propriety of her receiving such a present from a man so 
little, or at least so lately known to her. This was too much. 

"You are mistaken, Elinor," said she warmly, "in supposing I know 
very little of Willoughby. I have not known him long indeed, but I am 
much better acquainted with him than I am with any other creature in the 
world, except yourself and mamma. It is not time or opportunity that is 
to determine intimacy: it is disposition alone. Seven years would be in- 
sufficient to make some people acquainted with each other, and seven 
days are more than enough for others. I should hold myself guilty of 



SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 35 

greater impropriety in accepting a horse from my brother than from 
Willoughby. Of John I know very little, though we have lived together 
for years; but of Willoughby, my judgment has long been formed." 

Elinor thought it wisest to touch that point no more. She knew her 
sister's temper. Opposition on so tender a subject would only attach 
her the more to her own opinion. But by an appeal to her affection for her 
mother, by representing the inconveniences which that indulgent mother 
must draw on herself, if (as would probably be the case) she consented to 
this increase of establishment, Marianne was shortly subdued; and she 
promised not to tempt her mother to such imprudent kindness by men- 
tioning the offer, and to tell Willoughby when she saw him next, that it 
must be declined. 

She was faithful to her word; and when Willoughby called at the 
cottage, the same day, Elinor heard her express her disappointment to 
him in a low voice, on being obliged to forego the acceptance of his present. 
The reasons for this alteration were at the same time related, and they 
were such as to make further entreaty on his side impossible. His concern, 
however, was very apparent ; and after expressing it with earnestness, he 
added in the same low voice "But, Marianne, the horse is still yours 
though you cannot use it now. I shall keep it only till you can claim it. 
When you leave Barton to form your own establishment in a more lasting 
home, Queen Mab shall receive you." 

This was all overheard by Miss Dashwood; and in the whole of the 
sentence, in his manner of pronouncing it, and in his addressing her sister 
by her Christian name alone, she instantly saw an intimacy so decided, a 
meaning so direct, as marked a perfect agreement between them. From 
that moment she doubted not of their being engaged to each other; and 
the belief of it created no other surprise, than that she, or any of their 
friends, should be left by tempers so frank to discover it by accident. 

Margaret related something to her the next day, which placed this 
matter in a still clearer light. Willoughby had spent the preceding evening 
with them, and Margaret, by being left some time in the parlour with 
only him and Marianne, had had opportunity for observations, which, 
with a most important face, she communicated to her eldest sister, when 
they were next by themselves. 

"Oh! Elinor," she cried, "I have such a secret to tell you about 
Marianne. I am sure she will be married to Mr. Willoughby very soon." 

"You have said so," replied Elinor, "almost every day since they first 
met on High-church Down; and they had not known each other a week, 
I believe, before you were certain that' Marianne wore his picture round 
her neck; but it turned out to be only the miniature of our great-uncle." 

"But indeed this is quite another thing. I am sure they will be married 
very soon, for he has got a lock of her hair." 

"Take care, Margaret. It may be only the hair of some great-uncle of 

"But indeed, Elinor, it is Marianne's. I am almost sure it is, for I saw 



36 THEWORKSOFJANEAUSTEN 

him cut it off. Last night after tea, when you and mamma went out of the 
room, they were whispering and talking together as fast as could be, and 
he seemed to be begging something of her, and presently he took up her 
scissors and cut off a long lock of her hair, for it was all tumbled down her 
back ; and he kissed it, and folded it up in a piece of white paper, and put 
it into his pocket-book." 

From such particulars, stated on such authority, Elinor could not 
withhold her credit: nor was she disposed to it, for the circumstance was 
in perfect unison with what she had heard and seen herself. 

Margaret's sagacity was not always displayed in a way so satisfactory 
to her sister. When Mrs. Jennings attacked her one evening at the Park, 
to give the name of the young man who was Elinor's particular favourite, 
which had been long a matter of great curiosity to her, Margaret answered 
by looking at her sister, and saying, "I must not tell, may I, Elinor?" 

This, of course, made everybody laugh; and Elinor tried to laugh too. 
But the effort was painful. She was convinced that Margaret had fixed 
on a person whose name she could not bear with composure to become a 
standing joke with Mrs. Jennings. 

Marianne felt for her most sincerely ; but she did more harm than good 
to the cause, by turning very red, and saying in an angry manner to 
Margaret, 

" Remember, that whatever your conjectures may be, you have no 
right to repeat them." 

"I never had any conjectures about it," replied Margaret; "it was you 
who told me of it yourself." 

This increased the mirth of the company, and Margaret was eagerly 
pressed to say something more. 

"Oh! pray, Miss Margaret, let us know all about it," said Mrs. Jen- 
nings. "What is the gentleman's name?" 

"I must not tell, ma'am. But I know very well what it is; and I know 
where he is too." 

"Yes, yes, we can guess where he is; at his own house at Norland, to be 
sure. He is the curate of the parish, I dare say." 

"No, that he is not. He is of no profession at all." 

"Margaret," said Marianne, with great warmth, "you know that all 
this is an invention of your own, and that there is no such person in 
existence." 

"Well, then, he is lately dead, Marianne, for I am sure there was such 
a man once, and his name begins with an F." 

Most grateful did Elinor feel to Lady Middleton for observing at this 
moment, "that it rained very hard," though she believed the interruption 
to proceed less from any attention to her, than from her ladyship's great 
dislike of all such inelegant subjects of raillery as delighted her husband 
and mother. The idea, however, started by her, was immediately pursued 
by Colonel Brandon, who was on every occasion mindful of the feelings 
of others; and much was said on the subject of rain by both of them. 



SENSEANDSENSIBILITY 37 

Willoughby opened the pianoforte, and asked Marianne to sit down to it ; 
and thus, amidst the various endeavours of different people to quit the 
topic, it fell to the ground. But not so easily did Elinor recover from the 
alarm into which it had thrown her. 

A party was formed this evening for going on the following day to see a 
very fine place about twelve miles from Barton, belonging to a brother-in- 
law of Colonel Brandon, without whose interest it could not be seen, as 
the proprietor, who was then abroad, had left strict orders on that head. 
The grounds were declared to be highly beautiful, and Sir John, who was 
particularly warm in their praise, might be allowed to be r tolerable judge, 
for he had formed parties to visit them, at least, twice every summer for 
the last ten years. They contained a noble piece of water; a sail on which 
was to form a great part of the morning's amusement; cold provisions 
were to be taken, open carriages only to be employed, and everything 
conducted in the usual style of a complete party of pleasure. 

To some few of the company it appeared rather a bold undertaking, 
considering the time of year, and that it had rained every day for the last 
fortnight; and Mrs. Dashwood, who had already a cold, was persuaded 
by Elinor to stay at home. 



Chapter 13 

THEIR intended excursion to Whitwell turned out very differently from 
what Elinor had expected. She was prepared to be wet through, fatigued, 
and frightened; but the event was still more unfortunate, for they did 
not go at all. 

By ten o'clock the whole party were assembled at the Park, where they 
were to breakfast. The morning was rather favourable, though it had 
rained all night, as the clouds were then dispersing across the sky, and the 
sun frequently appeared. They were all in high spirits and good humour, 
eager to be happy, and determined to submit to the greatest incon- 
veniences and hardships rather than be otherwise. 

While they were at breakfast, the letters were brought in. Among the 
rest there was one for Colonel Brandon ; he took it, looked at the direc- 
tion, changed colour, and immediately left the room. 

"What is the matter with Brandon?" said Sir John. 

Nobody could tell. 

"I hope he has had no bad news," said Lady Middleton. "It must be 
something extraordinary that could make Colonel Brandon leave my 
breakfast-table so suddenly." 

In about five minutes He returned. 

"No bad news, Colonel, I hope?" said Mrs. Jennings, as soon as he 
entered the room. 

"None at all, ma'am, I thank you." 

"Was it from Avignon? I hope it is not to say that your sister is worse?' 



38 THE WORKS OF- JANEAUSTEX 

"No, ma'am. It came from town, and is merely a letter of business." 

"But how came the hand to discompose you so much, if it was only a 
letter of business? Come, come, this won't do, Colonel; so let us hear 
the truth of it." 

"My dear madam," said Lady Middleton, "recollect what you are 
saying." 

"Perhaps it is to tell you that your cousin Fanny is married?" said 
Mrs. Jennings, without attending to her daughter's reproof. 

"No, indeed, it is not." 

"Well, then, I know who it is from, Colonel. And I hope she is well." 

"Whom do you mean, ma'am?" said he, colouring a little. 

"Oh! you know who I mean." 

"I am particularly sorry, ma'am," said he, addressing Lady Middleton, 
"that I should receive this letter to-day, for it is on business which 
requires my immediate attendance in town." 

"In town!" cried Mrs. Jennings. "What can you have to do in town 
at this time of year?" 

"My own loss is great," he continued, "in being obliged to leave so 
agreeable a party ; but I am the more concerned, as I fear my presence 
is necessary to gain your admittance at Whitwell." 

What a blow upon them all was this ! 

"But if you write a note to the housekeeper, Mr. Brandon/' said 
Marianne, eagerly, "will it not be sufficient?" 

He shook his head. 

"We must go," said Sir John. "It shall not be put off when we are so 
near it. You cannot go to town till to-morrow, Brandon, that is all." 

"I wish it could be so easily settled. But it is not in my power to delay 
my journey for one day!" 

"If you would but let us know what your business is," said Mrs. Jen- 
nings, "we might see whether it could be put off or not." 

"You would not be six hours later," said Willoughby, "if you were to 
defer your journey till our return." 

"I cannot afford to lose one hour." 

Elinor then heard Willoughby say in a low voice to Marianne, "There 
are some people who cannot bear a party of pleasure. Brandon is one of 
them. Hp was afraid of catching cold, I dare say, and invented this trick 
for getting out of it. I would lay fifty guineas the letter was of his own 
writing." 

"I have no doubt of it," replied Marianne. 

"There is no persuading you to change your mind, Brandon, I know of 
old," said Sir John, "when once you are determined on anything. But, 
however, I hope you will think better of it. Consider, here are the two 
Miss Careys come over from Newton, the three Miss Dashwoods walked 
up from the cottage, and Mr. Willoughby got up two hours before his 
usual time, on purpose to go to Whitwell." 

Colonel Brandon again repeated his sorrow at being the cause of dis- 



SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 39 

appointing the party, but at the same time declared it to be unavoidable. 

"Well then, when will you come back again?" 

"I hope we shall see you at Barton," added her ladyship, "as soon as 
you can conveniently leave town; and we must put off the party to 
Whitwell till you return." 

"You are very obliging. But it is so uncertain when I may have it in 
my power to return, that I dare not engage for it at all." 

"Oh! he must and shall come back," cried Sir John. "If he is not hert 
by the end of the week, I shall go after him." 

"Aye, so do, Sir John," cried Mrs. Jennings, "and then perhaps you 
may find out what his business is." 

"I do not want to pry into other men's concerns; I suppose it is some- 
thing he is ashamed of." 

Colonel Brandon's horses were announced. 

"You do not go to town on horseback, do you?" added Sir John. 

"No only to Honiton. I shall then go post." 

"Well, as you are resolved to go, I wish you a good journey. But you 
had better change your mind." 

"I assure you it is not in my power." 

He then took leave of the whole party. 

"Is there no chance of my seeing you and your sisters in town this 
winter, Miss Dashwood?" 

"I am afraid none at all." 

"Then I must bid you farewell for a longer time than I should wish 
to do." 

To Marianne he merely bowed and said nothing. 

"Come, Colonel," said Mrs. Jennings, "before you go, do let us know 
what you are going about." 

He wished her a good morning, and, attended by Sir John, left the 
room. 

The complaints and lamentations which politeness had hitherto re- 
strained, now burst forth universally; and they all agreed again and again 
how provoking it was to be so disappointed. 

"I can guess what his business is, however," said Mrs. Jennings, 
exultingly. 

"Can you, ma'am?" said almost everybody. 

"Yes; it is about Miss Williams, I am sure." 

"And who is Miss Williams?" asked Marianne. 

"What! do not you know who Miss Williams is? I am sure you must 
have heard of her before. She is a relation of the Colonel's, my dear a 
very near relation. We will not say how near, for fear of shocking the 
young ladies." Then lowering her voice a little, she said to Elinor, "She i 
his natural daughter." 

"Indeed!" 

"Oh! yes; and as like him as she can stare. I dare say the ( 
leave her all his fortune." 



40 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

When Sir John returned, he joined most heartily in the general regret 
on so unfortunate an event; concluding, however, by observing, that as 
they were all got together, they must do something by way of being 
happy ; and after some consultation it was agreed, that although happi- 
ness could only be enjoyed at Whitwell, they might procure a tolerable 
composure of mind by driving about the country. The carriages were 
then ordered; Willoughby's was first, and Marianne never looked hap- 
pier than when she got into it. He drove through the Park very fast, and 
they were soon out of sight ; and nothing more of them was seen till their 
return, which did not happen till after the return of all the rest. They 
both seemed delighted with their drive, but said only in general terms 
that they had kept in the lanes, while the others went on the downs. 

It was settled that there should be a dance in the evening, and that 
everybody should be extremely merry all day long. Some more of the 
Careys came to dinner, and they had the pleasure of sitting down nearly 
twenty to table, which Sir John observed with great contentment. Wil- 
loughby took his usual place between the two elder Miss Dashwoods. 
Mrs. Jennings sat on Elinor's right hand; and they had not been long 
seated, before she leant behind her and Willoughby, and said to Mari- 
anne, loud enough for them both to hear: "I have found you out, in spite 
of all your tricks. I know where you spent the morning." 

Marianne coloured, and replied very hastily, "Where, pray?" 

"Did not you know," said Willoughby, "that we had been out in my 
curricle?" 

"Yes, yes, Mr. Impudence, I know that very well, and I was deter- 
mined to find out where you had been to. I hope you like your house, Miss 
Marianne. It is a very large one, I know, and when I come to see you, 
I hope you will have new-furnished it, for it wanted it very much when I 
was there six years ago." 

Marianne turned away in great confusion. Mrs. Jennings laughed 
heartily ; and Elinor found that in her resolution to know where they had 
been, she had actually made her own woman inquire of Mr. Willoughby's 
groom, and that she had by that method been informed that they had 
gone to Allenham, and spent a considerable time there in walking about 
the garden, and going all over the house. 

Elinor could hardly believe this to be true, as it seemed very unlikely 
that Willoughby should propose, or Marianne consent, to enter the house 
while Mrs. Smith was in it, with whom Marianne had not the smallest 
acquaintance. 

As soon as they left the dining-room, Elinor inquired of her about it ; 
and great was her surprise when she found that every circumstance related 
by Mrs. Jennings was perfectly true. Marianne was quite angry with her 
for doubting it. 

"Why should you imagine, Elinor, that we did not go there, or that 
we did not see the house? Is not it what you have often wished to do 
yourself?" 



SENSEANDSENSIBILITY 41 

"Yes, Marianne, but I would not go while Mrs. Smith was there, and 
with no other companion than Mr. Willoughby." 

"Mr. Willoughby, however, is the only person who can have a right 
to show that house; and as he went in an open carriage, it was impossible 
to have any other companion. I never spent a pleasanter morning in my 

"I am afraid," replied Elinor, "that the pleasantness of an employ- 
ment does not always evince its propriety." 

"On the contrary, nothing can be a stronger proof of it, Elinor; for if 
there had been any real impropriety in what I did, I should have been 
sensible of it at the time, for we always know when we are acting wrong, 
and with such a conviction I could have had no pleasure." 

"But, my dear Marianne, as it has already exposed you to some very 
impertinent remarks, do you not now begin to doubt the discretion of 
your own conduct?" 

"If the impertinent remarks of Mrs. Jennings are to be the proof of 
impropriety in conduct, we are all offending every moment of all our 
lives. I value not her censure any more than I should do her commenda- 
tion. I am not sensible of having done anything wrong in walking over 
Mrs. Smith's grounds, or in seeing her house. They will one day be Mr. 
Willoughby's, and " 

"If they were one day to be your OMTI, Marianne, you would not be 
justified in what you have done." 

She blushed at this hint ; but it was even visibly gratifying to her ; and 
after a ten minutes' interval of earnest thought, she came to her sister 
again, and said with great good humour, "Perhaps, Elinor, it was rather 
ill-judged in me to go to Allenham; but Mr. Willoughby wanted particu- 
larly to show me the place; and it is a charming house, I assure you. 
There is one remarkably pretty sitting-room upstairs, of a nice com- 
fortable size for constant use, and with modem furniture it would be 
delightful. It is a corner room, and has windows on two sides. On one 
side you look across the bowling-green, behind the house, to a beautiful 
hanging wood; and on the other you have a view of the church and 
village, and, beyond them, of those fine bold hills that we have so often 
admired. I did not see it to advantage, for nothing could be more forlorn 
than the furniture but if it were newly fitted up a couple of hundred 
pounds, Willoughby says, would make it one of the pleasantest summer- 
rooms in England." 

Could Elinor have listened to her without interruption from the others, 
she would have described every room in the house with equal delight. 



Chapter 14 

THE sudden termination of Colonel Brandon's visit at the Park, with 
his steadiness in concealing its cause, filled the mind and raised the 



42 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

wonder of Mrs. Jennings for two or three days: she was a great won- 
derer, as everyone must be who takes a very lively interest in all the 
comings and goings of all their acquaintance. She wondered with little 
intermission what could be the reason of it ; was sure there must be some 
bad news, and thought over every kind of distress that could have 
befallen him, with a fixed determination that he should not escape 
them all. 

"Something very melancholy must be the matter, I am sure," said she. 
"I could see it in his face. Poor man ! I am afraid his circumstances may 
be bad. The estate at Delaford was never reckoned more than two thou- 
sand a year, and his brother left everything sadly involved. I do think he 
must have been sent for about money matters, for what else can it be? 
I wonder whether it is so. I would give anything to know the truth of it. 
Perhaps it is about Miss Williams and, by the bye, I dare say it is. 
because he looked so conscious when I mentioned her. Maybe she is ill in 
town ; nothing in the world more likely, for I have a notion she is always 
rather sickly. I would lay any wager it is about Miss Williams. It is not 
so very likely he should be distressed in his circumstances now, for he is 
a very prudent man, and to be sure must have cleared the estate by this 
time. I wonder what it can be! Maybe his sister is worse at Avignon, and 
has sent for him over. His setting off in such a hurry seems very like it. 
Well, I wish him out of all his trouble with all my heart, and a good wife 
into the bargain." 

So wondered, so talked Mrs. Jennings ; her opinion varying with every 
fresh conjecture, and all seeming equally probable as they arose. Elinor, 
though she felt really interested in the welfare of Colonel Brandon, could 
not bestow all the wonder on his going so suddenly away which Mrs. 
Jennings was desirous of her feeling ; for besides that the circumstances 
did not in her opinion justify such lasting amazement or variety of specu- 
ulation, her wonder was otherwise disposed of. It was engrossed by the 
extraordinary silence of her sister and Willoughby on the subject, which 
they must know to be peculiarly interesting to them all. As this silence 
continued, every day made it appear more strange and more incompatible 
with the disposition of both. Why they should not openly acknowledge 
to her mother and herself, what their constant behaviour to each other 
declared to have taken place, Elinor could not imagine. 

She could easily conceive that marriage might not be immediately in 
their power ; for though Willoughby was independent, there was no reason 
to believe him rich. His estate had been rated by Sir John at about six 
or seven hundred a year; but he lived at an expense to which that income 
could hardly be equal, and he had himself often complained of his poverty. 
But for this strange kind of secrecy maintained by them relative to their 
engagement, which in fact concealed nothing at all, she could not account; 
and it was so wholly contradictory to their general opinions and practice, 
that a doubt sometimes entered her mind of their being really engaged, 



SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 43 

and this doubt was enough to prevent her making any inquiry of Mari- 
anne. 

Nothing could be more expressive of attachment to them all than 
Willoughby's behaviour. To Marianne it had all the distinguishing ten- 
derness which a lover's heart could give, and to the rest of the family it 
was the affectionate attention of a son and a brother. The cottage seemed 
to be considered and loved by him as his home; many more of his hours 
were spent there than at Allenham; and if no general engagement col- 
lected them at the Park, the exercise which called him out in the morning 
was almost certain of ending there, where the rest of the day was spent 
by himself at the side of Marianne, and by his favourite pointer at her 
feet. 

One evening in particular, about a week after Colonel Brandon had left 
the country, his heart seemed more than usually open to every feeling of 
attachment to the objects around him; and on Mrs. Dashwood's hap- 
pening to mention her design of improving the cottage in the spring, he 
warmly opposed every alteration of a place which affection had estab- 
lished as perfect with him. 

"What!" he exclaimed; "improve this dear cottage. No that I will 
never consent to. Not a stone must be added to its walls, not an inch to 
its size, if my feelings are regarded." 

"Do not be alarmed," said Miss Dashwood; "nothing of the kind will 
be done; for my mother will never have money enough to attempt it." 

"I am heartily glad of it," he cried. "May she always be poor if she 
can employ her riches no better." 

"Thank you, Willoughby. But you may be assured that I would not 
sacrifice one sentiment of local attachment of yours, or of anyone whom 
I loved, for all the improvements in the world. Depend upon it, that what- 
ever unemployed sum may remain when I make up my accounts in the 
spring, I would even rather lay it uselessly by than dispose of it in a 
manner so painful to you. But are you really so attached to this place as 
to see no defect in it?" 

"I am," said he. "To me it is faultless. Nay, more, I consider it as the 
only form of building in which happiness is attainable; and were I rich 
enough, I would instantly pull Combe down, and build it up again in 
the exact plan of this cottage." 

"With dark narrow stairs, and a kitchen that smokes, I suppose," said 
Elinor. 

"Yes," cried he in the same eager tone, "with all and everything be- 
longing to it ; in no one convenience or wconvenience about it, should the 
least variation be perceptbile. Then, and then only, under such a roof, I 
might perhaps be as happy at Combe as I have been at Barton." 

"I flatter myself,''' replied Elinor, "that even under the disadvantage 
of better rooms and a broader staircase, you will hereafter find your own 
house as faultless as you now do this." 

"There certainly are circumstances/' said Willoughby, ' which might 



44 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

greatly endear it to me ; but this place will always have one claim on my 
affection which no other can possibly share." 

Mrs. Dashwood looked with pleasure at Marianne, whose fine eyes 
were fixed so expressively on Willoughby, as plainly denoted how well 
she understood him. 

"How often did I wish," added he, "when I was at Allenham this time 
twelvemonth, that Barton Cottage were inhabited! I never passed within 
view of it without admiring its situation, and grieving that no one should 
live in it. How little did I then think that the very first news I should hear 
from Mrs. Smith, when I next came into the country, would be that 
Barton Cottage was taken! And I felt an immediate satisfaction and 
interest in the event, which nothing but a kind of prescience of what 
happiness I should experience from it can account for. Must it not have 
been so, Marianne?" speaking to her in a lowered voice. Then continuing 
his former tone, he said: "And yet this house you would spoil, Mrs. 
Dashwood ! You would rob it of its simplicity by imaginary improvement ! 
And this dear parlour, in which our acquaintance first began, and in which 
so many happy hours have been since spent by us together, you would 
degrade to a condition of common entrance, and everybody would be 
eager to pass through the room which has hitherto contained within itself 
more real accommodation and comfort than any other apartment of the 
handsomest dimensions in the world could possibly afford." 

Mrs. Dashwood again assured him that no alteration of the kind 
should be attempted. 

"You are a good woman," he warmly replied. "Your promise makes 
me easy. Extend it a little farther, and it will make me happy. Tell me 
that not only your house will remain the same, but that I shall ever find 
you and yours as unchanged as your dwelling ; and that you will always 
consider me with the kindness which has made everything belonging to 
you so dear to me." 

The promise was readily given, and Willoughby's behaviour during 
the whole of the evening declared at once his affection and happiness. 

"Shall we see you to-morrow to dinner?" said Mrs. Dashwood, when 
he was leaving them. "I do not ask you to come in the morning, for we 
must walk to the Park, to call on Lady Middleton." 

He engaged to be with them by four o'clock. 



Chapter 15 

MRS. DASHWOOD'S visit to Lady Middleton took place the next day, 
and two of her daughters went with her ; but Marianne excused herself 
from being of the party, under some trifling pretext of employment ; and 
her mother, who concluded that a promise had been made by Willoughby 
the night before, of calling on her while they were absent, was perfectly 
satisfied with her remaining at home. 



SENSEANDSENSIBILITY 45 

On their return from the Park they found Willoughby's curricle and 
servant in waiting at the cottage, and Mrs. Dashwood was convinced that 
her conjecture had been just. So far it was all as she had foreseen ; but on 
entering the house, she beheld what no foresight had taught her to expect. 
They were no sooner in the passage than Marianne came hastily out of 
the parlour, apparently in violent affliction, with her handkerchief at her 
eyes, and without noticing them ran upstairs. Surprised and alarmed, 
they proceeded directly into the room she had just quitted, where they 
found only Willoughby, who was leaning against the mantelpiece with his 
back towards them. 'He turned round on their coming in, and his coun- 
tenance showed that he strongly partook of the emotion which over- 
powered Marianne. 

"Is anything the matter with her?" cried Mrs. Dashwood as she 
entered. "Is she ill?" 

"I hope not," he replied, trying to look cheerful; and with a forced 
smile, presently added: "It is I who may rather expect to be ill for I am 
now suffering under a very heavy disappointment!" 

"Disappointment?" 

"Yes, for I am unable to keep my engagement with you. Mrs. Smith 
has this morning exercised the privilege of riches upon a poor dependent 
cousin, by sending me on business to London. I have just received my 
dispatches, and taken my farewell of Allenham ; and by way of exhilara- 
tion, I am now come to take my farewell of you." 

"To London and are you going this morning?" 

"Almost this moment." 

"This is very unfortunate. But Mrs. Smith must be obliged; and her 
business will not detain you from us long, I hope." 

He coloured as he replied: "You are very kind, but I have no idea of 
returning into Devonshire immediately. My visits to Mrs. Smith are 
never repeated within the twelvemonth." 

"And is Mrs. Smith your only friend? Is Allenham the only house in 
the neighbourhood to which you will be welcomed? For shame, Wil- 
loughby. Can you wait for an invitation here?" 

His colour increased ; and with his eyes fixed on the ground, he only 
replied, "You are too good." 

Mrs. Dashwood looked at Elinor with surprise. Elinor felt equal 
amazement. For a few moments everyone was silent. Mrs. Dashwood 
first spoke. 

"I have only to add, my dear Willoughby, that at Barton Cottage you 
will always be welcome; for I will not press you to return here imme- 
diately, because you only can judge how far that, might be pleasing to 
Mrs. Smith and on this head I shall be no more disposed to question your 
judgment than to doubt your inclination." 

"My engagements at present," replied Willoughby, confusedly, "are of 
such a nature that I dare not flatter myself 

He stopped. Mrs. Dashwood was too much astonished to speak, and 



46 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

another pause succeeded. This was broken by Willoughby, who said with 
a faint smile, "It is folly to linger in this manner. I will not torment 
myself any longer by remaining among friends whose society it is im- 
possible for me now to enjoy." 

He then hastily took leave of them all and left the room. They saw 
him step into his carriage, and in a minute it was out of sight. 

Mrs. Dashwood felt too much for speech, and instantly quitted the 
parlour, to give way in solitude to the concern and alarm which this 
sudden departure occasioned. 

Elinor's uneasiness was at least equal to her mother's. She thought of 
what had just passed with anxiety and distrust. Willoughby's behaviour 
in taking leave of them, his embarrassment, and affectation of cheerful- 
ness, and, above all, his unwillingness to accept her mother's invitation, a 
backwardness so unlike a lover so unlike himself, greatly disturbed her. 
One moment she feared that no serious design had ever been formed on 
his side; and the next, that some unfortunate quarrel had taken place 
between him and her sister ; the distress in which Marianne had quitted 
the room was such as a serious quarrel could most reasonably account 
for; though when she considered what Marianne's love for him was, a 
quarrel seemed almost impossible. 

But whatever might be the particulars of their separation, her sister's 
affliction was indubitable; and she thought with the tenderest compas- 
sion of that violent sorrow which Marianne was in all probability not 
merely giving way to as a relief, but feeding and encouraging as a duty. 

In about half an hour her mother returned, and though her eyes were 
red, her countenance was not uncheerful. 

"Our dear Willoughby is now some miles from Barton, Elinor," said 
she, as she sat down to work, "and with how heavy a heart does he 
travel!" 

"It is all very strange. So suddenly to be gone! It seems but the work 
of a moment. And last night he was with us so happy, so cheerful, so 
affectionate! And now after only ten minutes' notice gone too without 
intending to return? Something more than what he owned to us must 
have happened. He did not speak, he did not behave like himself. You 
must have seen the difference as well as I. What can it be? Can they have 
quarrelled? Why else should he have shown such unwillingness to accept 
your invitation here?" 

"It was not inclination that he wanted, Elinor! I could plainly see that. 
He had not the power of accepting it. I have thought it all over, I assure 
you, and I can perfectly account for everything that at first seemed 
strange to me as well as to you." 

"Can you indeed?" 

"Yes. I have explained it to myself in the most satisfactory way ; but 
you, Elinor, who love to doubt where you can it will not satisfy you, I 
know; but you shall not talk me out of my trust in it. I am persuaded 
that Mrs. Smith suspects his regard for Marianne, disapproves of it 



SENSEANDSENSIBILITY 47 

(perhaps because she has other views for him), and on that account is 
eager to get him away; and that the business which she sends him off to 
transact is invented as an excuse to dismiss him. This is what I believe to 
have happened. He is, moreover, aware that she does disapprove the 
connection, he dares not therefore at present confess to her his engage- 
ment with Marianne, and he feels himself obliged, from his dependent 
situation, to give in to her schemes, and absent himself from Devon- 
shire for a while. You will tell me, I know, that this may or may not 
have happened ; but I will listen to no cavil unless you can point out any 
other method of understanding the affair as satisfactory as this. And now, 
Elinor, what have you to say?" 

"Nothing." 

"Then you would have told me, that it might or might not have hap- 
pened. Oh! Elinor, how incomprehensible are your feelings! You had 
rather take evil upon credit than good. You had rather look out for 
misery for Marianne and guilt for poor Willoughby, than an apology for 
the latter. You are resolved to think him blameable, because he took leave 
of us with less affection than his usual behaviour has shown. And is no 
allowance to be made for inadvertence, or for spirits depressed by recent 
disappointment? Are no probabilities to be accepted, merely because they 
are not certainties? Is nothing due to the man whom we have all so much 
reason to love, and no reason in the world to think ill of? to the possi- 
bility of motives unanswerable in themselves, though unavoidably secret 
for a while? And, after all, what is it you suspect him of?" 

"I can hardly tell you myself. But suspicion of something unpleasant 
is the inevitable consequence of such an alteration as we have just wit- 
nessed in him. There is great truth, however, in what you have now 
urged of the allowances which ought to be made for him, and it is my 
wish to be candid in my judgment of everybody. Willoughby may un- 
doubtedly have very sufficient reasons for his conduct, and I will hope 
that he has. But it would have been more like Willoughby to acknowledge 
them at once. Secrecy may be advisable; but still I cannot help wonder- 
ing at its being practised by him." 

"Do not blame him, however, for departing from his character, where 
the deviation is necessary. But you really do admit the justice of what I 
have said in his defence? I am happy and he is acquitted." 

"Not entirely. It may be proper to conceal their engagement (if they 
are engaged) from Mrs. Smith and if that is the case, it must be highly 
expedient for Willoughby to be but little in Devonshire at present. But 
this is no excuse for their concealing it from us." 

"Concealing it from us! My dear child, do you accuse Willoughby and 
Marianne of concealment? This is strange indeed, when your eyes have 
been reproaching them every day for incautiousness." 

"I want no proof of their affection," said Elinor; "but of their engage- 
ment I do." 

"I am perfectly satisfied of both." 



48 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

"Yet not a syllable has been said to you on the subject, by either of 
them." 

"I have not wanted syllables where actions have spoken so plainly. 
Has not his behaviour to Marianne and to all of us, for at least the last 
fortnight, declared that he loved and considered her as his future wife, 
and that he felt for us the attachment of the nearest relation? Have we 
not perfectly understood each other? Has not my consent been daily 
asked by his looks, his manner, his attentive and affectionate respect? 
My Elinor, is it possible to doubt their engagement? How could such a 
thought occur to you? How is it to be supposed that Willoughby, per- 
suaded as he must be of your sister's love, should leave her, and leave 
her perhaps for months, without telling her of his affection that they 
should part without a mutual exchange of confidence." 

"I confess," replied Elinor, "that every circumstance except one is in 
favour of their engagement, but that one is the total silence of both on the 
subject, and with me it almost outweighs every other." 

"How strange this is! You must think wretchedly indeed of Wil- 
loughby, if, after all that has openly passed between them, you can doubt 
the nature of the terms on which they are together. Has he been acting a 
part in his behaviour to your sister all this time? Do you suppose him 
really indifferent to her?" 

"No, I cannot think that. He must and does love her, I am sure." 

"But with a strange kind of tenderness, if he can leave her with such 
indifference, such carelessness of the future, as you attribute to him." 

"You must remember, my dear mother, that I have never considered 
this matter as certain. I have had my doubts, I confess; but they are 
fainter than they were, and they may soon be entirely done away. If we 
find they correspond, every fear of mine will be removed." 

"A mighty concession indeed! If you were to see them at the altar, 
you would suppose they were going to be married. Ungracious girl! But 
/ require no such proof. Nothing, in my opinion, has ever passed to 
justify doubt; no secrecy has been attempted; all has been uniformly 
open and unreserved. You cannot doubt your sister's wishes. It must be 
Willoughby, therefore, whom you suspect. But why? Is he not a man 
of honour and feeling? Has there been an inconsistency on his side to 
;reate alarm? Can he be deceitful?" 

"I hope not, I believe not," cried Elinor. "I love Willoughby, sincerely 
love him; and suspicion of his integrity cannot be more painful to your- 
O elf than to me. It has been involuntary, and I will not encourage it. I 
was startled, I confess, by the alteration in his manners this morning; 
he did not speak like himself, and did not return your kindness with any 
cordiality. But all this may be explained by such a situation of his affairs 
as you have supposed. He had just parted from my sister, had seen her 
leave him in the greatest affliction ; and if he felt obliged, from a fear of 
offending Mrs. Smith, to resist the temptation of returning here soon, 
and yet aware that by declining your invitation, by saying that he was 



SENSEANDSENSIBILITY 49 

going away for some time, he should seem to act an ungenerous, a sus- 
picious, part by our family, he might well be embarrassed and disturbed. 
In such a case, a plain and open avowal of his difficulties would have 
been more to his honour, I think, as well as more consistent with his 
general character but I will not raise objections against anyone's con- 
duct on so illiberal a foundation, as a difference in judgment from my- 
self, or a deviation from what I may think right and consistent." 

"You speak very properly. Willoughby certainly does not deserve to be 
suspected. Though we have not known him long, he is no stranger in this 
part of the world; and who has ever spoken to his disadvantage? Had he 
been in a situation to act independently and marry immediately, it might 
have been odd that he should leave us without acknowledging everything 
to me at once: but this is not the case. It is an engagement in some 
respects not prosperously begun, for their marriage must be at a very 
uncertain distance ; and even secrecy, as far as it can be observed, may 
now be very advisable." 

They were interrupted by the entrance of Margaret ; and Elinor was 
then at liberty to think over the representations of her mother, to 
acknowledge the probability of many, and hope for the justice of all. 

They saw nothing of Marianne till dinner time, when she entered the 
room and took her place at the table without saying a word. Her eyes 
were red and swollen; and it seemed as if her tears were even then re- 
strained with difficulty. She avoided the looks of them all, could neither 
eat nor speak, and after some time, on her mother's silently pressing her 
hand with tender compassion, her small degree of fortitude was quite 
overcome she burst into tears and left the room. 

This violent oppression of spirits continued the whole evening. She 
was without any power, because she was without any desire of command 
over herself. The slightest mention of anything relative to Willoughby 
overpowered her in an instant; and though her family were most 
anxiously attentive to her comfort, it was impossible for them, if they 
spoke at all, to keep clear of every subject which her feelings connected 
with him. 

Chapter 16 

MARIANNE would have thought herself very inexcusable had she been 
able to sleep at all the first night after parting from Willoughby. She 
would have been ashamed to look her family in the face the next morn- 
ing, had she not risen from her bed in more need of repose than when 
she lay down in it. But the feelings which made such composure a dis- 
grace, left her in no danger of incurring it. She was awake the whole 
night, and she wept the greatest part of it. She got up with an headache, 
was unable to talk, and unwilling to take any nourishment; giving pain 
every moment to her mother and sisters, and forbidding all attempt at 
consolation from either. Her sensibility was potent enough! 



5 o THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

When breakfast was over, she walked out by herself, and wandered 
about the village of Allenham, indulging the recollection of past enjoy- 
ment and crying over the present reverse for the chief of the morning. 

The evening passed off in the equal indulgence of feeling. She played 
over every favourite song that she had been used to play to Willoughby, 
every air in which their voices had been oftenest joined, and sat at the 
instrument gazing on every line of music that he had written out for her, 
till her heart was so heavy that no further sadness could be gained ; and 
this nourishment of grief was every day applied. She spent whole hours 
at the pianoforte alternately singing and crying, her voice often totally 
suspended by her tears. In books, too, as well as in music, she courted 
the misery which a contrast between the past and present was certain of 
giving. She read nothing but what they had been used to read together. 

Such violence of affliction indeed could not be supported for ever; it 
sunk within a few days into a calmer melancholy; but these employ- 
ments, to which she daily recurred, her solitary walks and silent medita- 
tions, still produced occasional effusions of sorrow as lively as ever. 

No letter from Willoughby came, and none seemed expected by 
Marianne. Her mother was surprised, and Elinor again became uneasy. 
But Mrs. Dashwood could find explanations whenever she wanted them, 
which at least satisfied herself. 

a Remember, Elinor," said she, "how very often Sir John fetches our 
letters himself from the post, and carries them to it. We have already 
agreed that secrecy may be necessary, and we must acknowledge that it 
could not be maintained if their correspondence were to pass through 
Sir John's hand." 

Elinor could not deny the truth of this, and she tried to find in it a 
motive sufficient for their silence. But there was one method so direct, 
so simple, and in her opinion so eligible of knowing the real state of the 
affair, and of instantly removing all mystery, that she could not help 
suggesting it to her mother. 

"Why do you not ask Marianne at once," said she, "whether she is or 
not engaged to Willoughby? From you, her mother, and so kind, so 
indulgent a mother, the question could not give offence. It would be the 
natural result of your affection for her. She used to be all unreserve, and 
to you more especially." 

"I would not ask such a question for the world. Supposing it possible 
that they are not engaged, what distress would not such an inquiry inflict! 
At any rate, it would be most ungenerous. I should never deserve her 
confidence again, after forcing from her a confession of what is meant at 
present to be unacknowledged to anyone. I know Marianne's heart: I 
know that she dearly loves me, and that I shall not be the last to whom 
the affair is made known, when circumstances make the revealment of it 
eligible. I would not attempt to force the confidence of anyone, of a child 
much less, because a sense of duty would prevent the denial which her 
wishes might direct." 



SENSEANDSENSIBILITY 51 

Elinor thought this generosity overstrained, considering her sister's 
youth, and urged the matter farther, but in vain; common sense, common 
care, common prudence, were all sunk in Mrs. Dashwood's romantic 
delicacy. 

It was several days before Willoughby's name was mentioned before 
Marianne by any of her family; Sir John and Mrs. Jennings, indeed, 
were not so nice; their witticisms added pain to many a painful hour; but 
one evening, Mrs. Dashwood, accidentally taking up a volume of Shake- 
speare, exclaimed: 

"We have never finished Hamlet, Marianne; our dear Willoughby 
went away before we could get through it. We will put it by, that when 
he comes again . . . But it may be months, perhaps, before that hap- 
pens." 

"Months!" cried Marianne, with strong surprise. "No nor many 
weeks." 

Mrs. Dashwood was very sorry for what she had said, but it gave 
Elinor pleasure, as it produced a reply from Marianne so expressive of 
confidence in Willoughby and knowledge of his intentions. 

One morning, about a week after his leaving the country, Marianne 
was prevailed on to join her sisters in their usual walk, instead of 
wandering away by herself. Hitherto she had carefully avoided every 
companion in her rambles. If her sisters intended to walk on the downs, 
she directly stole away towards the lanes; if they talked of the valley, 
she was as speedy in climbing the hills, and could never be found when 
the others set off. But at length she was secured by the exertions of 
Elinor, who greatly disapproved such continual seclusion. They walked 
along the road through the valley, and chiefly in silence, for Marianne's 
mind could not be controlled, and Elinor, satisfied with gaining one point, 
would not then attempt more. Beyond the entrance of the valley, where 
the country, though still rich, was less wild and more open, a long stretch 
of the road which they had travelled on first coming to Barton lay before 
them; and on reaching that point, they stopped to look around them, 
and examine a prospect which formed the distance of their view from the 
cottage, from a spot which they had never happened to reach in any of 
their walks before. 

Amongst the objects in the scene, they soon discovered an animated 
one; it was a man on horseback, riding towards them. In a few minutes 
they could distinguish him to be a gentleman ;, and in a moment after- 
wards Marianne rapturously exclaimed: 

"It is he; indeed it is; I know it is!" and was hastening to meet him. 
when Elinor cried out: 

"Indeed, Marianne, I think you are mistaken. It is not Willoughby 
The person is not tall enough for him, and has not his air." 

"He has, he has," cried Marianne, "I am sure he has! His air, his 
coat, his horse. I knew how soon he would come." 

She walked eagerly on as she spoke; and Elinor, to screen Marianne 



52 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

from particularity, as she felt almost certain of its not being Wil- 
loughby, quickened her pace and kept up with her. They were soon 
within thirty yards of the gentleman. Marianne looked again; her heart 
sunk within her: and abruptly turning round, she was hurrying back, 
when as the voices of both her sisters were raised to detain her, a third, 
almost as well known as Willoughby's, joined them in begging her to 
stop, and she turned round with surprise to see and welcome Edward 
Ferrars. 

He was the only person in the world who could at that moment be 
forgiven for not being Willoughby; the only one who could have gained 
a smile from her ; but she dispersed her tears to smile on him, and in her 
sister's happiness forgot for a time her own disappointment. 

He dismounted, and giving his horse to his servant walked back with 
them to Barton, whither he was purposely coming to visit them. 

He was welcomed by them all with great cordiality, but especially by 
Marianne, who showed more warmth of regard in her reception of him 
than even Elinor herself. To Marianne, indeed, the meeting between 
Edward and her sister was but a continuation of that unaccountable cold- 
ness which she had often observed at Norland in their mutual behaviour. 
On Edward's side, more particularly, there was a deficiency of all that a 
lover ought to look and say on such an occasion. He was confused, seemed 
scarcely sensible of pleasure in seeing them, looked neither rapturous nor 
gay, said little but what was forced from him by questions, and dis- 
tinguished Elinor by no mark of affection. Marianne saw and listened 
with increasing surprise. She began almost to feel a dislike of Edward; 
and it ended, as every feeling must end with her, by carrying back her 
thoughts to Willoughby, whose manners formed a contrast sufficiently 
striking to those of his brother elect. 

After a short silence which succeeded the first surprise and inquiries of 
meeting, Marianne asked Edward if he came directly from London. No, 
he had been in Devonshire a fortnight. 

"A fortnight!" she repeated, surprised at his being so long in the same 
county with Elinor without seeing her before. 

He looked rather distressed as he added, that he had been staying with 
some friends near Plymouth. 

"Have you been lately in Sussex?" said Elinor. 

"I was at Norland about a month ago." 

"And how does dear, dear Norland look?" cried Marianne. 

"Dear, dear Norland," said Elinor, "probably looks much as it always 
does at this time of year the woods and walks thickly covered with dead 
leaves." 

"Oh!" cried Marianne, "with what transporting sensations have I 
formerly seen them fall! How have I delighted, as I walked, to see them 
driven in showers about me by the wind! What feelings have they, the 
reason, the air altogether inspired! Now there is no one to regard them. 



SENSEANDSENSIBILITY 53 

They are seen only as a nuisance, swept hastily off, and driven as much 
as possible from the sight." 

"It is not everyone," said Elinor, "who has your passion for dead 
leaves." 

"No; my feelings are not often shared, not often understood. But 
sometimes they are." As she said this, she sank into a reverie for a few 
moments; but rousing herself again, "Now, Edward," said she, calling 
his attention to the prospect, "here is Barton valley. Look up it, and be 
tranquil if you can. Look at those hills! Did you ever see their equals? 
To the left is Barton Park, amongst those woods and plantations. You 
may see one end of the house. And there, beneath that farthest hill which 
rises with such grandeur, is cur cottage." 

"It is a beautiful country," he replied; "but these bottoms must be 
dirty in winter." 

"How can you think of dirt, with such objects before you?" 

"Because," replied he, smiling, "amongst the rest of the objects before 
me, I see a very dirty lane." 

"How strange! " said Marianne to herself as she walked on. 

"Have you an agreeable neighbourhood here? Are the Middletons 
pleasant people?" 

"No, not at all," answered Marianne; "we could not be more unfor- 
tunately situated." 

"Marianne," cried her sister, "how can you say so? How can you be 
so unjust? They are a very respectable family, Mr. Ferrars, and towards 
us have behaved in the friendliest manner. Have you forgot, Marianne, 
how many pleasant days we have owed to them?" 

"No," said Marianne, in a low voice, "nor how many painful mo- 
ments." 

Elinor took no notice of this, and directing her attention to their 
visitor, endeavoured to support something like discourse with him by 
talking of their present residence, its conveniences, etc., extorting from 
him occasional questions and remarks. His coldness and reserve mortified 
her severely: she was vexed and half angry; but resolving to regulate 
her behaviour to him by the past rather than the present, she avoided 
every appearance of resentment or displeasure, and treated him as she 
thought he ought to be treated from the family connection. 



Chapter 17 

MRS. DASHWOOD was surprised only for a moment at seeing him; 
for his coming to Barton was, in her opinion, of all things the most 
natural. Her joy and expressions of regard long outlived her wonder. He 
received the kindest welcome from her; and shyness, coldness, reserve, 
could not stand against such a reception. They had begun to fail him 
before he entered the house, and they were quite overcome by the capti- 



54 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

vating manners of Mrs. Dashwood. Indeed, a man could not very well 
be in love with either of her daughters, without extending the passion to 
her ; and Elinor had the satisfaction of seeing him soon become more like 
himself. His affections seemed to reanimate towards them all, and his 
interest in their welfare again became perceptible. He was not in spirits, 
however; he praised their house, admired its prospect, was attentive and 
kind; but still he was not in spirits. The whole family perceived it, and 
Mrs. Dashwood, attributing it to some want of liberality in his mother, 
sat down to table indignant against all selfish parents. 

"What are Mrs. Ferrars's views for you at present, Edward?" said she, 
when dinner was over, and they had drawn round the fire; a are you still 
to be a great orator in spite of yourself?" 

"No. I hope my mother is now convinced that I have no more talents 
than inclination for a public life." 

"But how is your fame to be established? For famous you must be to 
satisfy all your family; and with no inclination for expense, no affection 
for strangers, no profession, and no assurance, you may find it a difficult 
matter." 

"I shall not attempt it. I have no wish to be distinguished ; and I have 
every reason to hope I never shall. Thank Heaven! I cannot be forced 
into genius xand eloquence." 

"You have no ambition, I well know. Your wishes are all moderate." 

"As moderate as those of the rest of the world, I believe. I wish, as 
well as everybody else, to be perfectly happy; but, like everybody else, 
it must be in my own way. Greatness will not make me so." 

"Strange if it would!" cried Marianne. "What have wealth or grandeur 
to do with happiness?" 

"Grandeur has but little," said Elinor, "but wealth has much to do 
with it." 

"Elinor, for shame!" said Marianne; "money can only give happiness 
where there is nothing else to give it. Beyond a competence, it can afford 
no real satisfaction, as far as mere self is concerned." 

"Perhaps," said Elinor, smiling, "we may come to the same point. 
Your competence and my wealth are very much alike, I dare say; and 
without them, as the world goes now, we shall both agree that every kind 
of external comfort must be wanting. Your ideas are only more noble 
than mine. Come, what is your competence?" 

"About eighteen hundred or two thousand a year; not more than 
that." 

Elinor laughed. "Two thousand a year! One is my wealth! I guessed 
how it would end." 

"And yet two thousand a year is a very moderate income," said 
Marianne. "A family cannot well be maintained on a smaller. I am sure 
I am not extravagant in my demands. A proper establishment of servants, 
a carriage, perhaps two, and hunters, cannot be supported on less." 



SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 55 

Elinor smiled again, to hear her sister describing so accurately their 
future expenses at Combe Magna. 

"Hunters!" repeated Edward. "But why must you have hunters? 
Everybody does not hunt." 

Marianne coloured as she replied, "But most people do." 

"I wish," said Margaret, striking out a novel thought, "that somebody 
would give us all a large fortune apiece!" 

"O that they would!" cried Marianne, her eyes sparkling with anima- 
tion, and her cheeks glowing with the delight of such imaginary happiness. 

"We are all unanimous in that wish, I suppose," said Elinor, "in spite 
of the insufficiency of wealth." 

"Oh dear," cried Margaret, "how happy I should be. I wonder what 
I should do with it!" 

Marianne looked as if she had no doubt on that point. 

"I should be puzzled to spend a large fortune myself," said Mrs. Dash- 
wood, "if my children were all to be rich without my help." 

"You must begin your improvements on this house," observed Elinor, 
"and your difficulties will soon vanish." 

"What magnificent orders would travel from this family to London," 
said Edward, "in such an event! What a happy day for booksellers, 
music-sellers, and print-shops! You, Miss Dashwood, would give a gen- 
eral commission for every new print of merit to be sent you ; and as for 
Marianne, I know her greatness of soul there would not be music 
enough in London to content her. And books ! Thomson, Cowper, Scott 
she would buy them all over and over again; she would buy up every 
copy, I believe, to prevent their falling into unworthy hands; and she 
would have every book that tells her how to admire an old twisted tree. 
Should not you, Marianne? Forgive me, if I am very saucy. But I was 
willing to show you that I had not forgot our old disputes." 

"I love to be reminded of the past, Edward whether it be melancholy 
or gay, I love to recall it and you will never offend me by talking of 
former times. You are very right in supposing how my money would be 
spent some of it, at least my loose cash, would certainly be employed 
in improving my collection of music and books." 

"And the bulk of your fortune would be laid out in annuities on the 
authors or their heirs." 

"No, Edward, I should have something else to do with it." 

"Perhaps, then, you would bestow it as a reward on that person who 
wrote the ablest defence of your favourite maxim, that no one can ever 
be in love more than once in their life for your opinion on that point is 
unchanged, I presume?" 

"Undoubtedly. At my time of life, opinions are tolerably fixed. It is 
not likely that I should now see or hear anything to change them." 

"Marianne is as steadfast as ever, you see," said Elinor, "she is not at 
all altered." 

"She has only grown a little more grave than she was." 



S 6 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

"Nay, Edward," said Marianne, "you need not reproach me. You are 
not very gay yourself." 

"Why should you think so?" replied he, with a sigh. "But gaiety never 
was a part of my character." 

"Nor do I think it a part of Marianne's," said Elinor. "I should hardly 
call her a lively girl; she is very earnest, very eager in all she does 
sometimes talks a great deal, and always with animation but she is not 
often really merry." 

"I believe you are right," he replied, "and yet I have always set her 
down as a lively girl." 

"I have frequently detected myself in such kind of mistakes," said 
Elinor, "in a total misapprehension of character in some points or other : 
fancying people so much more gay or grave, or ingenious or stupid than 
they really are, and I can hardly tell why, or in what the deception 
originated. Sometimes one is guided by what they say of themselves, 
and very frequently by what other people say of them, without giving 
oneself time to deliberate and judge." 

"But I thought it was right, Elinor," said Marianne, "to be guided 
wholly by the opinion of other people. I thought our judgments were 
given us merely to be subservient to those of our neighbours. This has 
always been your doctrine, I am sure." 

"No, Marianne, never. My doctrine has never aimed at the subjection 
of the understanding. All I have ever attempted to influence has been the 
behaviour. You must not confound my meaning. I am guilty, I confess, 
of having often wished you to treat our acquaintance in general with 
greater attention ; but when have I advised you to adopt their sentiments 
or conform to their judgment in serious matters?" 

"You have not been able then to bring your sister over to your plan 
of general civility," said Edward to Elinor. "Do you gain no ground?" 

"Quite the contrary," replied Elinor, looking expressively at Marianne. 

"My judgment," he returned, "is all on your side of the question; but 
I am afraid my practice is much more on your sister's. I never wish to 
offend, but I am so foolishly shy, that I often seem negligent, when I am 
only kept back by my natural awkwardness. I have frequently thought 
that I must have been intended by nature to be fond of low company, I 
am so little at my ease among strangers of gentility!" 

"Marianne has not shyness to excuse any inattention of hers," said 
Elinor. 

"She knows her own worth too well for false shame," replied Edward. 
"Shyness is only the effect of a sense of inferiority in some way or other. 
If I could persuade myself that my manners were perfectly easy and 
graceful, I should not be shy." 

"But you would still be reserved," said Marianne, "and that is worse." 

Edward stared. "Reserved? Am I reserved, Marianne?" 

"Yes r very." 



SENSEANDSENSIBILITY 57 

"I do not understand you," replied he, colouring. "Reserved! How, in 
what manner? What am I to tell you? What can you suppose?" 

Elinor looked surprised at his emotion, but trying to laugh off the 
subject, she said to him, "Do not you know my sister well enough to 
understand what she means? Do not you know she calls everyone re- 
served, who does not talk as fast, and admire what she admires as rap- 
turously as herself?" 

Edward made no answer. His gravity and thoughtfulness returned on 
him in their fullest extent, and he sat for some time silent and dull. 



Chapter 18 

ELINOR saw with great uneasiness the low spirits of her friend. His 
visit afforded her but a very partial satisfaction, while his own enjoyment 
in it appeared so imperfect. It was evident that he was unhappy; she 
wished it were equally evident that he still distinguished her by the same 
affection which once she had felt no doubt of inspiring; but hitherto the 
continuance of his preference seemed very uncertain, and the reserved- 
ness of his manner towards her contradicted one moment what a more 
animated look had intimated the preceding one. 

He joined her and Marianne in the breakfast-room the next morning 
before the others were down; and Marianne, who was always eager to 
promote their happiness as far as she could, soon left them to themselves. 
But, before she was halfway upstairs, she heard the parlour door open, 
and, turning round, was astonished to see Edward himself come out. 

"I am going into the village to see my horses," said he, "as you are 
not yet ready for breakfast ; I shall be back again presently." 

Edward returned to them with fresh admiration of the surrounding 
country ; in his walk to the village, he had seen many parts of the valley 
to advantage ; and the village itself, in a much higher situation than the 
cottage, afforded a general view of the whole, which had exceedingly 
pleased him. This was a subject which ensured Marianne's attention, and 
she was beginning to describe her own admiration of these scenes, and to 
question him more minutely on the objects that had particularly struck 
him, when Edward interrupted her by saying, "You must not inquire too 
far, Marianne remember, I have no knowledge in the picturesque, and 
I shall offend you by my ignorance and want of taste, if we come to par- 
ticulars. I shall call hills steep, which ought to be bold; surfaces strange 
and uncouth, which ought to be irregular and rugged; and distant objects 
out of sight, which ought only to be indistinct through the soft medium 
of a hazy atmosphere. You must be satisfied with such admiration as I 
can honestly give. I call it a very fine country the hills are steep, the 
woods seem full of fine timber, and the valley looks comfortable and snug 
with rich meadows and several neat farm-houses scattered here and 



58 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

there. It exactly answers my idea of a fine country, because it unites 
beauty with utility and I dare say it is a picturesque one too, because 
you admire it; I can easily believe it to be full of rocks and promontories, 
grey moss and brushwood, but these are all lost on me. I know nothing 
of the picturesque." 

"I am afraid it is but too true," said Marianne; "but why should you 
boast of it?" 

"I suspect," said Elinor, "that to avoid one kind of affectation, Edward 
here falls into another. Because he believes many people pretend to more 
admiration of the beauties of nature than they really feel, and is disgusted 
with such pretensions, he affects greater indifference and less discrimina- 
tion in viewing them himself than he possesses. He is fastidious and will 
have an affectation of his own." 

"It is very true," said Marianne, "that admiration of landscape scenery 
is become a mere jargon. Everybody pretends to feel and tries to describe 
with the taste and elegance of him who first defined what picturesque 
beauty was. I detest jargon of every kind, and sometimes I have kept my 
feelings to myself, because I could find no language to describe them in 
but what was worn and hackneyed out of all sense and meaning." 

"I am convinced," said Edward, "that you really feel all the delight 
in a fine prospect which you profess to feel. But, in return, your sister 
must allow me to feel no more than I profess. I like a fine prospect, but 
not dn picturesque principles. I do not like crooked, twisted, blasted trees. 
I admire them much more if they are tall, straight, and flourishing. I do 
not like ruined, tattered cottages. I am not fond of nettles, or thistles, 
or heath blossoms. I have more pleasure in a snug farmhouse than a watch- 
tower and a troop of tidy, happy villagers please me better than the 
finest banditti in the world." 

Marianne looked with amazement at Edward, with compassion at her 
sister. Elinor only laughed. 

The subject was continued no further ; and Marianne remained thought- 
fully silent, till a new object suddenly engaged her attention. She wa 
sitting by Edward, and in taking his tea from Mrs. Dashwood, his hand 
passed so directly before her as to make a ring, with a plait of hair in 
the centre, very conspicuous on one of his fingers. 

"I never saw you wear a ring before, Edward," she cried. "Is that 
Fanny's hair? I remember her promising to give you some. But I should 
have thought her hair had been darker." 

Marianne spoke inconsiderately what she really felt but when she 
saw how much she had pained Edward, her own vexation at her want of 
thought could not be surpassed by his. He coloured very deeply, and 
giving a momentary glance at Elinor, replied: "Yes, it is my sister's hair. 
The setting always casts a different shade on it, you know." 

Elinor had met his eye, and looked conscious likewise. That the hair 
was her own, she instantaneously felt as well satisfied as Marianne; the 
only difference in their conclusions was, that what Marianne considered 



SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 59 

as a free gift from her sister, Elinor was conscious must have been pro- 
cured by some theft or contrivance unknown to herself. She was not in 
a humour, however, to regard it as an affront, and affecting to take no 
notice of what had passed, by instantly talking of something else, she 
internally resolved henceforward to catch every opportunity of eyeing 
the hair, and satisfying herself, beyond all doubt, that it was exactly 
the shade of her own. 

Edward's embarrassment lasted some time, and it ended in an absence 
of mind still more settled. He was particularly grave the whole morning. 
Marianne severely censured herself for what she had said ; but her own 
forgiveness might have been more speedy, had she known how little 
offence it had given her sister. 

Before the middle of the day, they were visited by Sir John and 
Mrs. Jennings, who, having heard of the arrival of a gentleman at the 
cottage, came to take a survey of the guest. With the assistance of his 
mother-in-law, Sir John was not long in discovering that the name of 
Ferrars began with an F, and this prepared a future mine of raillery 
against the devoted Elinor, which nothing but the newness of their 
acquaintance with Edward could have prevented from being immediately 
sprung. But, as it was, she only learned from some very significant 
looks, how far their penetration, founded on Margaret 's instructions, 
extended. 

Sir John never came to the Dashwoods without either inviting them 
to dine at the Park the next day, or to drink tea with them that evening. 
On the present occasion, for the better entertainment of their visitor, 
towards whose amusement he felt himself bound to contribute, he wished 
to engage them for both. 

"You must drink tea with us to-night,'' said he, "for we shall be quite 
alone and to-morrow you must absolutely dine with us, for we shall 
be a large party." 

Mrs. Jennings enforced the necessity. "And who knows but you may 
raise a dance?" said she. "And that will tempt you, Miss Marianne." 

"A dance!" cried Marianne. "Impossible! Who is to dance?" 

"Who? Why, yourselves, and the Careys, and Whitakers, to be sure. 
What! You thought nobody could dance because a certain person that 
shall be nameless is gone!" 

"I wish with all my soul," cried Sir John, "that Willoughby were among 
us again." 

This, and Marianne's blushing, gave new suspicions to Edward. "And 
who is Willoughby?" said he, in a low voice to Miss Dashwood, by whom 
he was sitting. 

She gave him a brief reply. Marianne's countenance was more com- 
municative. Edward saw enough to comprehend not only the meaning of 
others, but such of Marianne's expressions as had puzzled him before; 
and when their visitors left them, he went immediately round to her, and 
said, in a whisper, "I have been guessing. Shall I tell you my guess?" 



60 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

''What do you mean?" 

"Shall I tell you?" 

"Certainly." 

"Well, then, I guess that Mr. Willoughby hunts." 

Marianne was surprised and confused, yet she could not help smiling 
at the quiet archness of his manner, and, after a moment's silence, said: 

"Oh! Edward! How can you? But the time will come, I hope. ... I 
am sure you will like him." 

"I do not doubt it," replied he, rather astonished at her earnestness 
and warmth ; for had he not imagined it to be a joke for the good of her 
acquaintance in general, founded only on a something or a nothing 
between Mr. Willoughby and herself, he would not have ventured to 
mention it. 

Chapter 19 

EDWARD remained a week at the cottage; he was earnestly pressed 
by Mrs. Dashwood to stay longer; but as if he were bent only on self- 
mortincatioh, he seemed resolved to be gone when his enjoyment among 
his friends was at the height. His spirits, during the last two or three 
days, though still very unequal, were greatly improved he grew more 
and more partial to the house and environs never spoke of going away 
without a sigh declared his time to be wholly disengaged even doubted 
to what place he should go when he left them but still go he must. 
Never had any week passed so quickly he could hardly believe it to be 
gone. He said so repeatedly ; other things he said too, which marked the 
turn of his feelings and gave the lie to his actions. He had no pleasure 
at Norland ; he detested being in town ; but either to Norland or London 
he must go. He valued their kindness beyond anything, and his greatest 
happiness was in being with them. Yet he must leave them at the end 
of a week, in spite of their wishes and his own, and without any restraint 
on his time. 

Elinor placed all that was astonishing in this way of acting to his 
mother's account ; and it was happy for her that he had a mother whose 
character was so imperfectly known to her, as to be the general excuse 
for everything strange on the part of her son. Disappointed, however, and 
vexed as she was, and sometimes displeased with his uncertain behaviour 
to herself, she was very well disposed on the whole to regard his actions 
with all the candid allowances and generous qualifications, which had been 
rather more painfully extorted from her, for Willoughby's service, by her 
mother. His want of spirits, of openness, and of consistency, were most 
usually attributed to his want of independence, and his better knowledge 
of Mrs. Ferrars's dispositions and designs. The shortness of his visit, the 
steadiness of his purpose in leaving them, originated in the same fettered 
inclination, the same inevitable necessity of temporising with his mother. 
The old well-established grievance of duty against will, parent against 



SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 61 

child, was the cause of all. She would have been glad to know when these 
difficulties were to cease, this opposition was to yield when Mrs. Ferrars 
would be reformed, and her son be at liberty to be happy. But from such 
vain wishes she was forced to turn for comfort to the renewal of her con- 
fidence in Edward's affection, to the remembrance of every mark of 
regard in look or word which fell from him while at Barton, and above 
all to that flattering proof of it which he constantly wore round his 
finger. 

"I think, Edward," said Mrs. Dashwood, as they were at breakfast the 
last morning, "you would be a happier man if you had any profession to 
engage your time and give an interest to your plans and actions. Some 
inconvenience to your friends, indeed, might result from it you would 
not be able to give them so much of your time. But" (with a smile) "you 
would be materially benefited in one particular at least you would 
know where to go when you left them." 

"I do assure you," he replied, "that I have long thought on this point 
as you think now. It has been, and is, and probably will always be a heavy 
misfortune to me, that I have had no necessary business to engage me, 
no profession to give me employment or afford me anything like inde- 
pendence. But unfortunately my own nicety and the nicety of my friends, 
have made me what I am, an idle, helpless being. We never could agree in 
our choice of a profession. I always preferred the church,' as I still do. 
But that was not smart enough for my family. They recommended the 
army. That was a great deal too smart for me. The law was allowed to be 
genteel enough; many young men, who had chambers in the Temple, 
made a very good appearance in the first circles, and drove about town 
in very knowing gigs. But I had no inclination for the law, even in this 
less abstruse study of it, which my family approved. As for the navy, it 
had fashion on its side, but I was too old when the subject was first started 
to enter it, and, at length, as there was no necessity for my having any 
profession at all, as I might be as dashing and expensive without a red 
coat on my back as with one, idleness was pronounced on the whole to 
be the most advantageous and honourable, and a young man of eighteen 
is not in general so earnestly bent on being busy as to resist the solicita- 
tions of his friends to do nothing. I was therefore entered at Oxford, and 
have been properly idle ever since/' 

"The consequence of which, I suppose, will be," said Mrs. Dashwood, 
"since leisure has not promoted your own happiness, that your sons will 
be brought up to as many pursuits, employments, professions, and trades 
as Columella's." 

"They will be brought up," said he, in a serious accent, "to be as 
unlike myself as is possible in feeling, in action, in condition, in every- 
thing." 

"Come, come; this is all an effusion of immediate want of spirits, 
Edward. You are in a melancholy humour, and fancy that anyone unlike 
yourself must be happy. But remember that the pain of parting from 



62 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

friends will be felt by everybody at times, whatever be their education 
Or state. Know your own happiness. You want nothing but patience or 
give it a more fascinating name, call it hope. Your mother will secure to 
you, in time, that independence you are so anxious for; it is her duty, 
and it will, it must ere long become her happiness to prevent your whole 
youth from being wasted in discontent. How much may not a few months 
do!" 

"I think," replied Edward, "that I may defy many months to produce 
any good to me." 

This desponding turn of mind, though it could not be communicated 
to Mrs. Dashwood, gave additional pain to them all in the parting, which 
shortly took place, and left an uncomfortable impression on Elinor's 
feelings especially, which required some trouble and time to subdue. But 
as it was her determination to subdue it, and to prevent herself from 
appearing to suffer more than what all her family suffered on his going 
away, she did not adopt the method so judiciously employed by Mari- 
anne, on a similar occasion, to augment and fix her sorrow, by seeking 
silence, solitude, and idleness. Their means were as different as their 
objects, and equally suited to the advancement of each. 

Elinor sat down to her drawing-table as soon as he was out of the 
house, busily employed herself the whole day, neither sought nor avoided 
the mention of his name, appeared to interest herself almost as much as 
ever in the general concerns of the family, and if, by this conduct, she 
did not lessen her own grief, it was at least prevented from unnecessary 
increase, and her mother and sisters were spared much solicitude on her 
account. 

Such behaviour as this, so exactly the reverse of her own, appeared no 
more meritorious to Marianne than her own had seemed faulty to her. 
The business of self-command she settled very easily ; with strong affec- 
tions it was impossible, with calm ones it could have no merit. That her 
sister's affections were calm, she dared net deny, though she blushed to 
acknowledge it ; and of the strength of her own, she gave a very striking 
proof, by still loving and respecting that sister in spite of this mortifying 
conviction. 

Without shutting herself up from her family, or leaving the house in 
determined solitude to avoid them, or lying awake the whole night to 
indulge meditation, Elinor found every day afforded her leisure enough 
to think of Edward, and of Edward's behaviour, in every possible variety 
which the different state of her spirits at different times could produce; 
with tenderness, pity, approbation, censure, and doubt. There were mo- 
ments in abundance, when, if not by the absence of her mother and 
sisters, at least by the nature of their employments, conversation was 
forbidden among them, and every effect of solitude was produced. Her 
mind was inevitably at liberty; her thoughts could not be chained else- 
where ; and the past and the future, on a subject so interesting, must be 



SENSEANDSENSIBILITY 63 

before her, must force her attention, and engross her memory, her 
reflection, and her fancy. 

From a reverie of this kind, as she sat at her drawing-table, she was 
roused one morning, soon after Edward's leaving them, by the arrival 
of company. She happened to be quite alone. The closing of the little gate, 
at the entrance of the green court in front of the house, drew her eyes to 
the window, and she saw a large party walking up to the door. Amongst 
them were Sir John and Lady Middleton, and Mrs. Jennings; but there 
were two others, a gentleman and lady, who were quite unknown to her. 
She was sitting near the window, and as soon as Sir John perceived her, 
he left the rest of the party to the ceremony of knocking at the door, and 
stepping across the turf, obliged her to open the casement to speak to 
him, though the space was so short between the door and the window 
as to make it hardly possible to speak at one without being heard at the 
other. 

"Well," said he, "we have brought you some strangers. How do you 
like them?" 

"Hush! They will hear you." 

"Never mind if they do. It is only the Palmers. Charlotte is very pretty, 
I can tell you. You may see her if you look this way." 

As Elinor was certain of seeing her in a couple of minutes, without 
taking that liberty, she begged to be excused. 

"Where is Marianne? Has she run away because we are come? I see 
her instrument is open." 

"She is walking, I believe." 

They were now joined by Mrs. Jennings, who had not patience enough 
to wait till the door was open before she told her story. She came hallooing 
to the window, "How do you do, my dear? How does Mrs. Dashwood do? 
And where are your sisters? What! All alone! You will be glad of a little 
company to sit with you. I have brought my other son and daughter to 
see you. Only think of their coming so suddenly! I thought I heard a 
carriage last night, while we were drinking our tea, but it never entered 
my head that it could be them. I thought of nothing but whether it might 
not be Colonel Brandon come back again; so I said to Sir John, 'I do 
think I hear a carriage; perhaps it is Colonel Brandon come back 



again ' " 

Elinor was obliged to turn from her, in the middle of her story, to 
receive the rest of the party; Lady Middleton introduced the two 
strangers; Mrs. Dashwood and Margaret came downstairs at the same 
time, and they all sat down to look at one another, while Mrs. Jennings 
continued her story as she walked through the passage into the parlour, 
attended by Sir John. 

Mrs. Palmer was several years younger than Lady Middleton, and 
totally unlike her in every respect. She was short and plump, had a very 
pretty face, and the finest expression of good-humour in it that ^ could 
possibly be. Her manners were by no means so elegant as her sister's, but 



64 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

they were much more prepossessing. She came in with a smile smiled all 
the time of her visit, except when she laughed, and smiled when she went 
away. Her husband was a grave-looking young man of five or six and 
twenty, with an air of more fashion and sense than his wife, but of less 
willingness to please or be pleased. He entered the room with a look of 
self-consequence, slightly bowed to the ladies without speaking a word, 
and, after briefly surveying them and their apartments, took up a news- 
paper from the table and continued to read it as long as he stayed. 

Mrs. Palmer, on the contrary, who was strongly endowed by nature 
with a turn for being uniformly civil and happy, was hardly seated before 
her admiration of the parlour and everything in it burst forth. 

"Well! what a delightful room this is! I never saw anything so charm- 
ing! Only think, mamma, how it is improved since I was here last! I 
always thought it such a sweet place, ma'am" (turning to Mrs. Dash- 
wood), "but you have made it so charming! Only look, sister, how de- 
lightful everything is! How I should like such a house for myself. Should 
not you, Mr. Palmer?" 

M'r. Palmer made her no answer, did not even raise his eyes from the 
newspaper. 

"Mr. Palmer does not hear me," said she, laughing. "He never does, 
sometimes. It is so ridiculous!" 

This was quite a new idea to Mrs. Dashwood; she had never been used 
to find wit in the inattention of any one, and could not help looking with 
surprise at them both. 

Mrs. Jennings, in the meantime, talked on as loud as she could, and 
continued her account of their surprise the evening before, on seeing their 
friends, without ceasing till everything was told. Mrs. Palmer laughed 
heartily at the recollection of their astonishment, and everybody agreed 
two or three times over, that it had been quite an agreeable surprise. 

"You may believe how glad we all were to see them," added Mrs. 
Jennings, leaning forward towards Elinor, and speaking in a low voice 
as if she meant to be heard by no one else, though they were seated on 
different sides of the room; "but, however, I can't help wishing they had 
not travelled quite so fast, nor made such a long journey of it, for they 
came all round by London upon account of some business, for you know" 
(nodding significantly and pointing to her daughter) "it v/as wrong in 
her situation. I wanted her to stay at home and rest this morning, but 
she would come with us; she longed so much to see you all!" 

Mrs. Palmer laughed, and said it would not do her any harm. 

"She expects to be confined in February," continued Mrs. Jennings. 

Lady Middleton could no longer endure such a conversation, and there- 
fore exerted herself to ask Mr. Palmer if there was any news in the paper. 

"No, none at all," he replied, and read on. 

"Here comes Marianne," cried Sir John. "Now, Palmer, you shall see 
a monstrous pretty girl." 

He immediately went into the passage, opened the front door, and 



SENSEANDSENSIBILITY 65 

ushered her in himself. Mrs. Jennings asked her, as soon as she appeared, 
if she had not been to Allenham ; and Mrs. Palmer laughed so heartily at 
the question as to show she understood it. Mr. Palmer looked up on her 
entering the room, stared at her some minutes, and then returned to his 
newspaper. Mrs. Palmer's eye was now caught by the drawings which 
hung round the room. She got up to examine them. 

"Oh! dear, how beautiful these are! Well, how delightful! Do but look, 
mamma, how sweet! I declare they are quite charming; I could look at 
them for ever." And then sitting down again, she very soon forgot that 
there were any such things in the room. 

When Lady Middleton rose to go away, Mr. Palmer rose also, laid down 
the newspaper, stretched himself, and looked at them all round. 

"My love, have you been asleep?" said his wife, laughing. 

He made her no answer, and only observed, after again examining the 
room, that it was very low-pitched, and that the ceiling was crooked. 
He then made his bow and departed with the rest. 

Sir John had been very urgent with them all to spend the next day at 
the Park. Mrs. Dashwood, who did not choose to dine with them oftener 
than they dined at the cottage, absolutely refused on her own account; 
her daughters might do as they pleased. But they had no curiosity to see 
how Mr. and Mrs. Palmer ate their dinner, and no expectation of pleasure 
from them in any other way. They attempted, therefore, likewise to ex- 
cuse themselves; the weather was uncertain and not likely to be good. 
But Sir John would not be satisfied the carriage should be sent for 
them, and they must come. Lady Middleton too, though she did not 
press their mother, pressed them. Mrs. Jennings and Mrs. Palmer joined 
their entreaties, all seemed equally anxious to avoid a family party, and 
the young ladies were obliged to yield. 

"Why should they ask us?" said Marianne, as soon as they were gone. 
"The rent of this cottage is said to be low; but we have it on very hard 
terms, if we are to dine at the Park whenever any one is staying either 
with them or with us." 

"They mean no less to be civil and kind to us now," said Elinor, "by 
these frequent invitations than by those which we received from them a 
few weeks ago. The alteration is not in them, if their parties are grown 
tedious and dull. We must look for the change elsewhere." 



Chapter 20 

As the Miss Dashwods entered the drawing-room of the Park the next 
day, at one door, Mrs. Palmer came running in at the other, looking 
as good-humoured and merry as before. She took them all most affection- 
ately by the hand, and expressed great delight at seeing them again. 

"I am so glad to see you!" said she, seating herself between Elinor 
and Marianne, "for it is so bad a day I was afraid you might not come. 



66 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

which would be a shocking thing, as we go away again to-morrow. We 
must go, for the Westons come to us next week, you know. It was quite 
a sudden thing our coming at all, and I knew nothing of it till the car- 
riage was coming to the door, and then Mr. Palmer asked me if I would 
go with him to Barton. He is so droll! He never tells me anything! I am 
so sorry we cannot stay longer; however, we shall meet again in town 
very soon, I hope." 

They were obliged to put an end to such an expectation. 

"Not go to town!" cried Mrs. Palmer, with a laugh; "I shall be quite 
disappointed if you do not. I could get the nicest house in the world for 
you next door to ours, in Hanover Square. You must come, indeed. I am 
sure I shall be very happy to chaperon you at any time till I am confined, 
if Mrs. Dashwood should not like to go into public." 

They thanked her, but were obliged to resist all her entreaties. 

"Oh! my love," cried Mrs. Palmer to her husband, who just then 
entered the room; "you must help me to persuade the Miss Dashwoods to 
go to town this winter." 

Her love made no answer; and after slightly bowing to the ladies, 
began complaining of the weather. 

"How horrid all this is! " said he. "Such weather makes everything and 
everybody disgusting. Dullness is as much produced within doors as 
without by rain. It makes one detest all one's acquaintance. What the 
devil does Sir John mean by not having a billiard-room in his house? 
How few people know what comfort is! Sir John is as stupid as the 
weather." 

The rest of the company soon dropped in. 

"I am afraid, Miss Marianne," said Sir John, "you have not been 
able to take your usual walk to Allenham to-day." 

Marianne looked very grave, and said nothing. 

"Oh! don't be so sly before us," said Mrs. Palmer: "for we know all 
about it, I assure you; and I admire your taste very much, for I think 
he is extremely handsome. We do not live a great way from him in the 
country, you know, not above ten miles, I dare say." 

"Much nearer thirty," said her husband. 

"Ah! well! there is not much difference. I never was at his house; but 
they say it is a sweet, pretty place." 

"As vile a spot as ever I saw in my life," said Mr. Palmer. 

Marianne remained perfectly silent, though her countenance betrayed 
her interest in what was said. 

"Is it very ugly?" continued Mrs. Palmer "then it must be some 
other place that is so pretty, I suppose." 

When they were seated in the dining-room, Sir John observed with 
regret that they were only eight all together. 

"My dear," said he to his lady, "it is very provoking that we should 
be so few. Why did not you ask the Gilberts to come to us to-day?" 



SENSEANDSENSIBILITY 67 

"Did not I tell you, Sir John, when you spoke to me about it before, 
that it could not be done? They dined with us last." 

"You and I, Sir John," said Mrs. Jennings, "should not stand upon 
such ceremony." 

"Then you would be very ill-bred," cried Mr. Palmer. 

"My love, you contradict everybody," said his wife, with her usual 
laugh. "Do you know that you are quite rude?" 

"I did not know I contradicted anybody in calling your mother ill- 
bred." 

"Aye, you may abuse me as you please," said the good-natured old 
lady. "You have taken Charlotte off my hands, and cannot give her back 
again. So there I have the whip hand of you." 

Charlotte laughed heartily to think that her husband could not get 
rid of her, and exultingly said, she did not care how cross he was to her, 
as they must live together. It was impossible for any one to be more 
thoroughly good-natured or more determined to be happy than Mrs. 
Palmer. The studied indifference, insolence, and discontent of her hus- 
band gave her no pain; and when he scolded or abused her, she was 
highly diverted. 

"Mr. Palmer is so droll!" said she, in a whisper, to Elinor. "He is 
always out of humour. " 

Elinor was not inclined, after a little observation, to give him credit 
for being so genuinely and unaffectedly ill-natured or ill-bred as he wished 
to appear. His temper might perhaps be a little soured by finding, like 
many others of his sex, that through some unaccountable bias in favour 
of beauty, he was the husband of a very silly woman but she knew that 
this kind of blunder was too common for any sensible man to be lastingly 
hurt by it. It was rather a wish of distinction, she believed, which pro- 
duced his contemptuous treatment of everybody, and his general abuse 
of everything before him. It was the desire of appearing superior to other 
people. The motive was too common to be wondered at; but the means, 
however they might succeed by establishing his superiority in ill-breed- 
ing, were not likely to attach any one to him, except his wife. 

"Oh! my dear Miss Dashwood," said Mrs. Palmer soon afterwards, 
have got such a favour to ask of you and your sister. Will you come and 
spend some time at Cleveland this Christmas? Now, pray do and come 
while the Westons are with us. You cannot think how happy I shall be! 
It will be quite delightful! - My love," applying to her husband, 
"don't you long to have the Miss Dashwoods come to Cleveland? 

"Certainly," he replied with a sneer "I came into Devonshire with n 



," said his lady, "you see Mr. Palmer expects you; so you 

cannot refuse to come." 

They both eagerly and resolutely declined her invitation 

"But indeed, you must and shall come. I am sure you wil like it of a 
things. The Westons will be with us, and it will be quite delightful. You 



68 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

cannot think what a sweet place Cleveland is ; and we are so gay now, for 
Mr. Palmer is always going about the country canvassing against the 
election ; and so many people come to dine with us that I never saw be- 
fore, it is quite charming! But, poor fellow! it is very fatiguing to him! 
for he is forced to make everybody like him." 

Elinor could hardly keep her countenance as she assented to the hard- 
ship of such an obligation. 

"How charming it will be," said Charlotte, "when he is in Parliament! 
won't it? How I shall laugh! It will be so ridiculous to see all his letters 
directed to him with an M.P. But do you know, he says he will never 
frank for me. He declares he won't. Don't you, Mr. Palmer?" 

Mr. Palmer took no notice of her. 

"He cannot bear writing, you know," she continued "he says it is 
quite shocking." 

"No," said he, "I never said anything so irrational. Don't palm all your 
abuses of language upon me." 

"There now; you see how droll he is. This is always the way with him! 
Sometimes he won't speak to me for half a day together, and then he 
comes out with something so droll all about anything in the world." 

She surprised Elinor very much, as they returned into the drawing- 
room, by asking her whether she did not like Mr. Palmer excessively. 

"Certainly," said Elinor, "he seems very agreeable." 

"Well I am so glad you do. I thought you would, he is so pleasant; 
and Mr. Palmer is excessively pleased with you and your sisters, I can tell 
you, and you can't think how disappointed he will be if you don't come to 
Cleveland. I can't imagine why you should object to it." 

Elinor was again obliged to decline her invitation ; and by changing the 
subject, put a stop to her entreaties. She thought it probable that, as they 
lived in the same country, Mrs. Palmer might be able to give some more 
particular account of Willoughby's general character than could be 
gathered from the Middletons' partial acquaintance with him, and she 
was eager to gain from any one such a confirmation of his merits as might 
remove the possibility of fear for Marianne. She began by inquiring if 
they saw much of Mr. Willoughby at Cleveland, and whether they were 
intimately acquainted with him. 

"Oh! dear, yes; I know him extremely well," replied Mrs. Palmer. 
"Not that I ever spoke to him, indeed; but I have seen him for ever in 
town. Somehow or other, I never happened to be staying at Barton while 
he was at Allenham. Mamma saw him here once before ; but I was with 
tny uncle at Weymouth. However, I dare say we should have seen a great 
deal of him in Somersetshire, if it had not happened very unluckily that 
we should never have been in the country together. He is very little at 
Combe, I believe ; but if he were ever so much there, I do not think Mr. 
Palmer would visit him, for he is in the Opposition, you know, and be- 
sides it is such a way off. I know why you inquire about him, very well , 



SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 69 

your sister is to marry him. I am monstrous glad of it, for then I shall 
have her for a neighbour, you know." 

"Upon my word," replied Elinor, "you know much more of the matter 
than I do, if you have any reason to expect such a match." 

"Don't pretend to deny it, because you know it is what everybody talks 
of. I assure you I heard of it in my way through town." 

"My dear Mrs. Palmer!" 

"Upon my honour I did. I met Colonel Brandon, Monday morning in 
Bond Street, just before we left town, and he told me of it directly." 

"You surprise me very much. Colonel Brandon tell you of it! Surely 
you must be mistaken. To give such intelligence to a person who could 
not be interested in it, even if it were true, is not what I should expect 
Colonel Brandon to do." 

"But I do assure you it was so, for all that, and I will tell you how it 
happened. When we met him, he turned back and walked with us ; and so 
we began talking of my brother and sister, and one thing and another, and 
I said to him, 'So, Colonel, there is a new family come to Barton Cottage 
I hear, and mamma sends me word they are very pretty, and that one of 
them is going to be married to Mr. Willoughby, of Combe Magna. Is it 
true, pray? for of course you must know, as you have been in Devonshire 
so lately.' " 

"And what did the Colonel say?" 

"Oh! he did not say much; but he looked as if he knew it to be true, so 
from that moment I set it down as certain. It will be quite delightful, I 
declare! When is it to take place?" 

"Mr. Brandon was very well, I hope?" 

"Oh! yes, quite well; and so full of your praises, he did nothing but say 
fine things of you." 

"I am flattered by his commendation. He seems an excellent man ; and 
1 think him uncommonly pleasing." 

"So do I. He is such a charming man, that is it quite a pity he should 
be so grave and so dull. Mamma says he was in love with your sister too. I 
assure you it was a great compliment if he was, for he hardly ever falls in 
love with anybody." 

"Is % Mr. Willoughby much known in your part of Somersetshire?" said 
Elinor. 

"Oh! yes, extremely well; that is, I do not believe many people are 
acquainted with him, because Combe Magna is so far off; but they all 
think him extremely agreeable, I assure you. Nobody is more liked than 
Mr. Willoughby wherever he goes, and so you may tell your sister. She is a 
monstrous lucky girl to get him, upon my honour ; not but that he is much 
more lucky in getting her, because she is so very handsome and agreeable 
that nothing can be good enough for her. However, I don't think her 
hardly at all handsomer than you, I assure you; for I think you both 
excessively pretty, and so does Mr. Palmer too, I am sure, though we 
could not get him to own it last night." 



70 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

Mrs. Palmer's information respecting Willoughby was not very ma- 
terial; but any testimony in his favour, however small, was pleasing to 
her. 

"I am so glad we are got acquainted at last," continued Charlotte. 
"And now I hope we shall always be great friends. You can't think how 
much I longed to see you ! It is so delightful that you should live at the 
cottage! Nothing can be like it, to be sure! And I am so glad your sister 
is going to be well married! I hope you will be a great deal at Combe 
Magna. It is a sweet place, by all accounts." 

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

"Yes, a great while; ever since my sister married. He was a particular 
friend of Sir John's. I believe," she added in a low voice, "he would have 
been very glad to have had me, if he could. Sir John and Lady Middleton 
wished it very much. But mamma did not think the match good enough 
.for me, otherwise Sir John would have mentioned it to the colonel, and 
we should have been married immediately." 

"Did not Colonel Brandon know of Sir John's proposal to your mother 
before it was made? Had he never owned his affection to yourself?" 

"Oh! no; but if mamma had not objected to it, I dare say he would 
have liked it of all things. He had not seen me then above twice, for it was 
before I left school. However, I am much happier as I am. Mr. Palmer is 
just the kind of man I like." 



Chapter 21 

THE Palmers returned to Cleveland the next day, and the two families 
at Barton were again left to entertain each other. But this did not last 
long; Elinor had hardly got their last visitors out of her, head had 
hardly done wondering at Charlotte's being so happy without a cause, 
at Mr. Palmer's acting so simply with good abilities, and at the strange 
unsuitableness which often existed between husband and wife, before 
Sir John's and Mrs. Jennings's active zeal in the cause of society pro- 
cured her some other new acquaintance to see and observe. 

In a morning's excursion to Exeter, they had met with two young ladies 
whom Mrs. Jennings had the satisfaction of discovering to be her rela- 
tions, and this was enough for Sir John to invite them directly to the Park, 
as soon as their present engagements at Exeter were over. Their engage- 
ments at Exeter instantly gave way before such an invitation, and Lady 
Middleton was thrown into no little alarm on the return of Sir John, by 
hearing that she was very soon to receive a visit from two girls whom she 
had never seen in her life, and of whose elegance whose tolerable gentil- 
ity even, she could have no proof ; for the assurances of her husband and 
mother on that subject went for nothing at all. Their being her relations 
too, made it so much the worse; and Mrs. Jennings's attempts at con- 
solation were therefore unfortunately founded, when she advised her 



SENSEANDSENSIBILITY 71 

daughter not to care about their being so fashionable, because they were 
all cousins and must put up with one another. 

As it was impossible however now to prevent their coming, Lady 
Middleton resigned herself to the idea of it with all the philosophy of a 
well-bred woman, contenting herself with merely giving her husband a 
gentle reprimand on the subject five or six times every day. 

The young ladies arrived, their appearance was by no means ungenteel 
or unfashionable. Their dress was very smart, their manners very civil, 
they were delighted with the house and in raptures with the furniture, 
and they happened to be so dotingly fond of children that Lady Middle- 
ton's good opinion was engaged in their favour before they had been an 
hour at the Park. She declared them to be very agreeable girls indeed, 
which for her ladyship was enthusiastic admiration. Sir John's confidence 
in his own judgment rose with this animated praise, and he set off directly 
for the cottage to tell the Miss Dashwoods of the Miss Steeles's arrival, and 
to assure them of their being the sweetest girls in the world. From such 
commendation as this, however, there was not much to be learned; Elinor 
well knew that the sweetest girls in the world were to be met with in 
every part of England, under every possible variation of form, face, 
temper, and understanding. Sir John wanted the whole family to walk to 
the Park directly and look at his guests. Benevolent, philanthropic man! 
It was painful to him even to keep a third cousin to himself. 

"Do come now," said he "pray come you must come I declare you 
shall come. You can't think how you will like them. Lucy is monstrous 
pretty, and so good-humoured and agreeable ! The children are all hang- 
ing about her already, as if she was an old acquaintance. And they both 
long to see you of all things, for they have heard at Exeter that you are the 
most beautiful creatures in the world ; and I have told them it is all very 
true, and a great deal more. You will be delighted with them, I am sure. 
They have brought the whole coach full of playthings for the children. 
How can you be so cross as not to come! Why, they are your cousins, you 
know, after a fashion. You are my cousins, and they are my wife's, so 
you must be related.' 7 

But Sir John could not prevail. He could only obtain a promise of their 
calling at the Park within a day or two, and then left them in amazement 
at their indifference, to walk home and boast anew of their attractions to 
the Miss Steeles, as he had been already boasting of the Miss Steeles to 
them. 

When their promised visit to the Park and consequent introduction to 
these young ladies took place, they found in the appearance of the eldest, 
who was nearly thirty, with a very plain and not a sensible face, nothing 
to admire, but in the other, who was not more than two or three and 
twenty, they acknowledged considerable beauty; her features were pretty, 
and she had a sharp, quick eye, and a smartness of air, which, though it 
did not give actual elegance or grace, gave distinction to her person. Their 
manners were particularly civil, and Elinor soon allowed them credit for 



72 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

some kind of sense, when she saw with what constant and judicious 
attentions they were making themselves agreeable to Lady Middleton. 
With her children they were in continual raptures, extolling their beauty, 
courting their notice, and humouring all their whims; and such of their 
time as could be spared from the importunate demands which this polite- 
ness made on it, was spent in admiration of whatever her ladyship was 
doing, if she happened to be doing anything, or in taking patterns of some 
elegant new dress, in which her appearance the day before had thrown 
them into unceasing delight. Fortunately for those who pay their court 
through such foibles, a fond mother, though in pursuit of praise for her 
children, the most rapacious of human beings, is likewise the most credu- 
lous ; her demands are exorbitant ; but she will swallow anything ; and the 
excessive affection and endurance of the Miss Steeles towards her off- 
spring, were viewed therefore by Lady Middleton without the smallest 
surprise or distrust. She saw with maternal complacency all the imperti- 
nent incroachments and mischievous tricks to which her cousins sub- 
mitted. She saw their sashes untied, their hair pulled about their ears, 
their work-bags searched, and their knives and scissors stolen away, and 
felt no doubt of its being a reciprocal enjoyment. It suggested no other 
surprise than that Elinor and Marianne should sit so composedly by 
without claiming a share in what was passing. 

"John is in such spirits to-day!" said she, on his taking Miss Steele's 
pocket handkerchief, and throwing it out of window. "He is full of mon- 
key tricks." 

And soon afterwards, on the second boy's violently pinching one of the 
same lady's fingers, she fondly observed, "How playful William is! " 

"And here is my sweet little Annamaria," she added, tenderly caressing 
a little girl of three years old, who had not made a noise for the last two 
minutes. "And she is always so gentle and quiet never was there such a 
quiet little thing!" 

But unfortunately, in bestowing these embraces, a pin in her lady- 
ship's head-dress slightly scratching the child's neck, produced from this 
pattern of gentleness such violent screams as could hardly be outdone by 
any creature professedly noisy. The mother's consternation was exces- 
sive; but it could not surpass the alarm of the Miss Steeles, and every- 
thing was done by all three, in so critical an emergency, which affection 
could suggest as likely to assuage the agonies of the little sufferer. She was 
seated in her mother's lap, covered with kisses, her wound bathed with 
lavender-water by one of the Miss Steeles, who was on her knees to at- 
tend her, and her mouth stuffed with sugar-plums by the other. With 
such a reward for her tears, the child was too wise to cease crying. She 
still screamed and sobbed lustily, kicked her two brothers for offering to 
touch her, and all their united soothings were ineffectual till Lady Mid- 
dleton luckily remembering that in a scene of similar distress last week, 
some apricot marmalade had been successfully applied for a bruised 
temple, the same remedy was eagerly proposed for this unfortunate 



JENSE AND SENSIBILITY 7.? 

scratch, and a slight intermission of screams in the young lady on hearing 
it, gave them reason to hope that it would not be rejected. She was car- 
ried out of the room therefore in her mother's arms, in quest of this medi- 
cine, and as the two boys chose to follow, though earnestly entreated by 
their mother to stay behind, the four young ladies were left in a quietness 
which the room had not known for many hours. 

"Poor little creature! " said Miss Steele, as soon as they were gone. "It 
might have been a very sad accident." 

"Yet I hardly know how," cried Marianne, "unless it had been under 
totally different circumstances. But this is the usual way of heightening 
alarm, where there is nothing to be alarmed at in reality." 

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

Marianne was silent ; it was impossible for her to say what she did not 
feel, however trivial the occasion; and upon Elinor, therefore, the whole 
task of telling lies when politeness required it always fell. She did her 
best, when thus called on, by speaking of Lady Middleton with more 
warmth than she felt, though with far less than Miss Lucy. 

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

Here, too, Miss Dashwood's commendation being only simple and just, 
came in without any eclat. She merely observed that he was perfectly 
good-humoured and friendly. 

"And what a charming little family they have! I never saw such fine 
children in my life. I declare I quite dote upon them already, and indeed 
I am always distractedly fond of children." 

"I should guess so," said Elinor with a smile, "from what I have wit- 
nessed this morning." 

"I have a notion," said Lucy, "you think the little Middletons rather 
too much indulged ; perhaps they may be the outside of enough ; but it is 
so natural in Lady Middleton ; and for my part, I love to see children full 
of life and spirits; I cannot bear them if they are tame and quiet." 

"I confess," replied Elinor / "that while I am at Barton Park, I never 
think of tame and quiet children with any abhorrence." 

A short pause succeeded this speech, which was first broken by Miss 
Steele, who seemed very much disposed for conversation, and who now 
said rather abruptly, "And how do you like Devonshire, Miss Dashwood? 
I suppose you were very sorry to leave Sussex." 

In some surprise at the familiarity of this question, or at least of the 
manner in which it was spoken, Elinor replied that she was. 

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

"We have heard Sir John admire it excessively," said Lucy, who seemed 
to think some apology necessary for the freedom of her sister. 

"I think every one must admire it," replied Elinor, "who ever saw the 
place; though it is not to be supposed that any one can estimate its 
beauties as we do." 

"And had you a great many smart beaux there? I suppose you have 



74 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

not so many in this part of the world; for my part, I think they are a 
vast addition always." 

"But why should you think," said Lucy, looking ashamed of her sister, 
"that there are not as many genteel young men in Devonshire as Sussex?" 

"Nay, my dear, I'm sure I don't pretend to say that there an't. I'm 
sure there's a vast many smart beaux in Exeter ; but you know, how could 
I tell what smart beaux there might be about Norland? and I was only 
afraid the Miss Dashwoods might find it dull at Barton, if they had not 
so many as they used to have. But perhaps you young ladies may not 
care about the beaux, and had as lief be without them as with them. For 
my part, I think they are vastly agreeable, provided they dress smart 
and behave civil. But I can't bear to see them dirty and nasty. Now, 
there" Mr. Rose at Exeter, a prodigious smart young man, quite a 
beau, clerk to Mr. Simpson, you know, and yet if you do but meet him 
of a morning, he is not fit to be seen. I suppose your brother was quite a 
beau, Miss Dashwood, before he married, as he was so rich?" 

"Upon my word," replied Elinor, "I cannot tell you, for I do not 
perfectly comprehend the meaning of the word. But this I can say, that if 
he ever was a beau before he married, he is one still, for there is not the 
smallest alteration in him." 

"Oh! dear! one never thinks of married men's being beaux they have 
something else to do." 

"Lord! Anne," cried her sister, "you can talk of nothing but beaux; 
you will make Miss Dashwood believe you think of nothing else." And 
then, to turn the discourse, she began admiring the house and furniture. 

This specimen of the Miss Steeles was enough. The vulgar freedom 
and folly of the eldest left her no recommendation, and as Elinor was 
not blinded by the beauty or the shrewd look of the youngest, to her 
want of real elegance and artlessness, she left the house without any 
wish of knowing them better. 

Not so the Miss Steeles. They came from Exeter, well provided with 
admiration for the use of Sir John Middleton, his family, and all his 
relations, and no niggardly proportion was now dealt out to his fair 
cousins, whom they declared to be the most beautiful, elegant, accom- 
plished and agreeable girls they had ever beheld, and with whom they 
were particularly anxious to be better acquainted. And to be better 
acquainted therefore, Elinor soon found was their inevitable lot; for as 
Sir John was entirely on the side of the Miss Steeles, their party would 
be too strong for opposition, and that kind of intimacy must be submitted 
to, which consists of sitting an hour or two together in the same room 
almost every day. Sir John could do no more ; but he did not know that 
any more was required; to be together was, in his opinion, to be intimate, 
and while his continual schemes for their meeting were effectual, he had 
not a doubt of their being established friends. 

To do him justice, he did everything in his power, to promote their 
unreserve, by making the Miss Steeles acquainted with whatever he knew 



SENSEANDSENSIBILITY 75 

or supposed of his cousins' situations in the most delicate particulars, 
and Elinor had not seen them more than twice, before the eldest of them 
wished her joy on her sister's having been so lucky as to make a conquest 
of a very smart beau since she came to Barton. 

" 'Twill be a fine thing to have her married so young, to be sure," said 
she, "and I hear he is quite a beau, and prodigious handsome. And I 
hope you may have as good luck yourself soon, but perhaps you may 
have a friend in the corner already." 

Elinor could not suppose that Sir John would be more nice in pro- 
claiming his suspicions of her regard for Edward, than he had been with 
respect to Marianne ; indeed it was rather his favourite joke of the two, 
as being somewhat newer and more conjectural: and since Edward's visit, 
they had never dined together without his drinking to her best affections 
with so much significancy, and so many nods and winks, as to excite 
general attention. The letter F had been likewise invariably brought 
forward, and found productive of such countless jokes, that its character 
as the wittiest letter in the alphabet had been long established with 
Elinor. 

The Miss Steeles, as she expected, had now all the benefit of these 
jokes, and in the eldest of them they raised a curiosity to know the name 
of the gentleman alluded to, which, though often impertinently expressed, 
was perfectly of a piece with her general inquisitiveness into the con- 
cerns of their family. But Sir John did not sport long with the curiosity 
which he delighted to raise, for he had at least as much pleasure in 
telling the name, as Miss Steele had in hearing it. 

"His name is Ferrars," said he, in a very audible whisper; "but pray 
do not tell it, for it's a great secret." 

"Ferrars!" repeated Miss Steele; "Mr. Ferrars is the happy man, is 
he? What! your sister-in-law's brother, Miss Dashwood? a very agree- 
able young man, to be sure; I know him very well." 

"How can you say so, Anne?" cried Lucy, who generally made an 
amendment to all her sister's assertions. "Though we have seen him once 
or twice at my uncle's, it is rather too much to pretend to know him very 
well." 

Elinor heard all this with attention and surprise. "And who was this 
uncle? where did he live? how came they acquainted!" She wished very 
much to have the subject continued, though she did not choose to join 
in it herself; but nothing more of it was said, and, for the first time in 
her life, she thought Mrs. Jennings deficient either in curiosity after 
petty information, or in a disposition to communicate it. The manner in 
which Miss Steele had spoken of Edward increased her curiosity; for it 
struck her as being rather ill-natured, and suggested the suspicion of that 
lady's knowing, or fancying herself to know, something to his disadvan- 
tage. But her curiosity was unavailing, for no farther notice was taken 
of Mr. Ferrars's name by Miss Steele when alluded to or even openly 
mentioned by Sir John. 



76 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

Chapter 22 

MARIANNE, who had never much toleration for anything like imperti- 
nence, vulgarity, inferiority of parts, or even difference of taste from 
herself, was at this time particularly ill-disposed, from the state of her 
spirits, to be pleased with the Miss Steeles, or to encourage their ad- 
vances; and to the invariable coldness of her behaviour towards them, 
which checked every endeavour at intimacy on their side, Elinor prin- 
cipally attributed that preference of herself which soon became evident 
in the manners of both, but especially of Lucy, who missed no oppor- 
tunity of engaging her in conversation, or of striving to improve their 
acquaintance by an easy and frank communication of her sentiments. 

Lucy was naturally clever; her remarks were often just and amusing; 
and as a companion for half an hour Elinor frequently found her agree- 
able; but her powers had received no aid from education, she was igno- 
rant and illiterate, and her deficiency of all mental improvement, her 
want of information in the most common particulars could not be con- 
cealed from Miss Dashwood, in spite of her constant endeavour to appear 
to advantage. Elinor saw, and pitied her for the neglect of abilities which 
education might have rendered so respectable; but she saw, with less 
tenderness of feeling, the thorough want of delicacy, of rectitude, and 
integrity of mind, which her attentions, her assiduities, her flatteries at 
the Park betrayed; and she could have no lasting satisfaction in the 
company of a person who joined insincerity with ignorance, whose want 
of instruction prevented their meeting in conversation on terms of equal- 
ity, and whose conduct towards others made every show of attention 
and deference towards herself prefectly valueless. 

"You will think my question an odd one, I dare say," said Lucy to her 
one day as they were walking together from the Park to the cottage 
"but, pray, are you personally acquainted with your sister-in-law's 
mother, Mrs. Ferrars?" 

Elinor did think the question a very odd one, and her countenance 
expressed it, as she answered that she had never seen Mrs. Ferrars. 

"Indeed!" replied Lucy; "I wonder at that, for I thought you must 
have seen her at Norland sometimes. Then perhaps you cannot tell me 
what sort of a woman she is?" 

"No," returned Elinor, cautious of giving her real opinion of Edward's 
mother, and not very desirous of satisfying what seemed impertinent 
curiosity "I know nothing of her." 

"I am sure you think me very strange, for inquiring about her in such 
a way," said Lucy, eyeing Elinor attentively as she spoke; "but perhaps 
there may be reasons I wish I might venture ; but however I hope you 
will do me the justice of believing that I do not mean to be impertinent." 

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



SENSEANDSENSIBILITY 77 

silence. It was broken by Lucy, who renewed the subject again by saying 
with some hesitation: 

"I cannot bear to have you think me impertinently curious; I am sure 
I would rather do anything in the world than be thought so by a person 
whose good opinion is so well worth having as yours. And I am sure I 
should not have the smallest fear of trusting you; indeed I should be very 
glad of your advice how to manage in such an uncomfortable situation as 
I am ; but however there is no occasion to trouble you. I am sorry you do 
not happen to know Mrs. Ferrars." 

"I am sorry I do not" said Elinor in great astonishment, "if it could be 
of any use to you to know my opinion of her. But really, I never under- 
stood that you were at all connected with that family, and therefore I 
am a little surprised, I confess, at so serious an inquiry into her char- 
acter." 

"I dare say you are, and I am sure I do not at all wonder at it. But if 
I dared tell you all, you would not be so much surprised. Mrs. Ferrars is 
certainly nothing to me at present but the time may come how soon it 
will come must depend upon herself when we may be very intimately 
connected." 

She looked down as she said this, amiably bashful, with only one side- 
glance at her companion to observe its effect on her. 

"Good heavens! " cried Elinor, "what do you mean? Are you acquainted 
with Mr. Robert Ferrars? Can you be?" And she did not feel much de- 
lighted with the idea of such a sister-in-law. 

"No," replied Lucy, "not with Mr. Robert Ferrars I never saw him 
in my life; but," fixing her eyes upon Elinor, "with his elder brother." 

What felt Elinor at that moment? Astonishment, that would have been 
as painful as it was strong had not an immediate disbelief of the assertion 
attended it. She turned towards Lucy in silent amazement, unable to 
divine the reason or object of such a declaration; and though her com- 
plexion varied, she stood firm in incredulity, and felt in no danger of an 
hysterical fit or a swoon. 

"You may well be surprised," continued Lucy; "for, to be sure, you 
could have had no idea of it before; for I dare say he never dropped the 
smallest hint of it to you or any of your family; because it was always 
meant to be a great secret, and I am sure has been faithfully kept so by 
me to this hour. Not a soul of all my relations know of it but Anne, and I 
never should have mentioned it to you, if I had not felt the greatest 
dependence in the world upon your secrecy; and I really thought my 
behaviour in asking so many questions about Mrs. Ferrars must seem so 
odd that it ought to be explained. And I do not think Mr. Ferrars can be 
displeased when he knows I have trusted you, because I know he has the 
highest opinion in the world of all your family, and looks upon yourself 
and the other Miss Dashwoods quite as his own sisters." She paused. 

Elinor for a few moments remained silent. Her astonishment at what 
she heard w*s at first too great for words; but at length forcing herself to 



78 THEWORKSOFJANEAUSTEN 

speak, and to speak cautiously, she said with a calmness of manner which 
tolerably well concealed her surprise and solicitude "May I ask if your 
engagement is of long standing?" 

"We have been engaged these four years." 

"Four years?" 

"Yes." 

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

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

"Our acquaintance, however, is of many years' date. He was under my 
uncle's care, you know, a considerable while." 

"Your uncle!" 

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

"I think I have," replied Elinor, with an exertion of spirits which 
increased with her increase of emotion. 

"He was four years with my uncle, who lives at Longstaple, near 
Plymouth. It was there our acquaintance begun, for my sister and me 
was often staying with my uncle, and it was there our engagement was 
formed, though not till a year after he had quitted as a pupil; but he 
was almost always with us afterwards. I was very unwilling to enter into 
it, as you may imagine, without the knowledge and approbation of his 
mother; but I was too young and loved him too well to be so prudent 
as I ought to have been. Though you do not know him so well as me, 
Miss Dashwood, you must have seen enough of him to be sensible he is 
very capable of making a woman sincerely attached to him." 

"Certainly," answered Elinor, without knowing what she said; but 
after a moment's reflection, she added with revived security of Edward's 
honour and love, and her companion's falsehood "Engaged to Mr. 
Edward Ferrars! I confess myself so totally surprised at what you tell 
me, that really I beg your pardon; but surely there must be some 
mistake of person or name. We cannot mean the same Mr. Ferrars." 

"We can mean no other," cried Lucy, smiling. "Mr. Edward Ferrars, 
the eldest son of Mrs. Ferrars of Park Street, and brother of your sister- 
in-law, Mrs. John Dashwood, is the person I mean ; you must allow that 
7 am not likely to be deceived as to the name of the man on who all my 
happiness depends." 

"It is strange," replied Elinor, in a most painful perplexity, "that I 
should never have heard him even mention your name." 

"No; considering our situation, it was not strange. Our first care has 
been to keep the matter secret. You knew nothing of me or my family, 
and therefore there could be no occasion for ever mentioning my name 
to you; and as he was always particularly afraid of his sister's suspecting 
anything, that was reason enough for his not mentioning it." 

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

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



SENSEANDSENSIBILITY 79 

"Yes; and heaven knows how much longer we may have to wait. Poor 
Edward! it puts him quite out of heart." Then taking a small miniature 
from her pocket she added, "To prevent the possibility of mistake, be so 
good as to look at this face. It does not do him justice, to be sure, but yet 
I think you cannot be deceived as to the person it was drew for. I have 
had it above these three years." 

She put it into her hands as she spoke, and when Elinor saw the paint- 
ing whatever other doubts her fear of a too hasty decision or her wish of 
detecting falsehood might suffer to linger in her mind, she could have 
none of its being Edward's face. She returned it almost instantly, acknowl- 
edging the likeness. 

"I have never been able," continued Lucy, "to give him my picture in 
return, which I am very much vexed at, for he has been always so anxious 
to get it! But I am determined to sit for it the very first opportunity." 

"You are quite in the right," replied Elinor calmly. They then pro- 
ceeded a few paces in silence. Lucy spoke first. 

"I am sure," said she, "I have no doubt in the world of your faithfully 
keeping this secret, because you must know of what importance it is to 
us not to have it reach his mother ; for she would never approve of it, I 
dare say. I shall have no fortune, and I fancy she is an exceeding proud 
woman." 

"I certainly did not seek your confidence," said Elinor; "but you do 
me no more than justice in imagining that I may be depended on. Your 
secret is safe with me; but pardon me if I express some surprise at so 
unnecessary a communication. You must at least have felt that my being 
acquainted with it could not add to its safety." 

As she said this, she looked earnestly at Lucy, hoping to discover 
something in her countenance perhaps the falsehood of the greatest 
part of what she had been saying; but Lucy's countenance suffered no 
change. 

"I was afraid you would think I was taking a great liberty with you," 
said she, "in telling you all this. I have not known you long to be sure, 
personally at least, but I have known you all and your family by de- 
scription a great while; and as soon as I saw you, I felt almost as if you 
was an old acquaintance. Besides, in the present case, I really thought 
some explanation was due to you after my making such particular in- 
quiries about Edward's mother; and I am so unfortunate that I have not 
a creature whose advice I can ask. Anne is the only person that knows 
of it, and she has no judgment at all; indeed, she does me a great deal 
more harm than good, for I am in constant fear of her betraying me. She 
does not know how to hold her tongue, as you must perceive; and I am 
sure I was in the greatest fright in the world t'other day, when Edward's 
name was mentioned by Sir John, lest she should out with it all. You 
can't think how much I go through in my mind from it altogether. I only 
wonder that I am alive after what I have suffered for Edward's sake 
these last four years. Everything in such suspense and uncertainty, and 



8o THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

seeing him so seldom we can hardly meet above twice a year. I am sure 
I wonder my heart is not quite broke." 

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

"Sometimes," continued Lucy, after wiping her eyes, "I think whether 
it would not be better for us both, to break off the matter entirely." As 
she said this, she looked directly at her companion. "But then, at other 
times, I have not resolution enough for it. I cannot bear the thoughts of 
making him so miserable, as I know the very mention of such a thing 
would do. And on my own account too so dear as he is to me I don't 
think I could be equal to it. What would you advise me to do in such a 
case, Miss Dashwood? What would you do yourself?" 

"Pardon me," replied Elinor, startled by the question; "but I can give 
you no advice under such circumstances. Your own judgment must direct 
you." 

"To be sure," continued Lucy, after a few minutes' silence on both 
sides, "his mother must provide for him some time or other; but poor 
Edward is so cast down about it! Did not you think him dreadful low- 
spirited when he was at Barton? he was so miserable when he left us at 
Longstaple, to go to you, that I was afraid you would think him quite 
ill." 

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

"Ob yes; he had been staying a fortnight with us. Did you think he 
came directly from town?" 

"No," replied Elinor, most feelingly sensible of every fresh circum- 
stance in favour of Lucy's veracity. "I remember he told us that he had 
been staying a fortnight with some friends near Plymouth." She remem- 
bered, too, her own surprise at the time, at his mentioning nothing further 
of those friends, at his total silence with respect even to their names. 

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

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

"I begged him to exert himself for fear you should suspect what was 
the matter ; but it made him so melancholy, not being able to stay more 
than a fortnight with us, and seeing me so much affected. Poor fellow! I 
am afraid it is just the same with him now; for he writes in wretched 
spirits. I heard from him just before I left Exeter"; taking a letter from 
her pocket and carelessly showing the direction to Elinor. "You know 
his hand, I dare say, a charming one it is ; but that is not written so well 
as usual. He was tired, I dare say, for he had just filled the sheet to me 
as full as possible." 

Elinor saw that it was his hand, and she could doubt no longer. The 
picture, she had allowed herself to believe, might have been accidentally 
obtained; it might not have been Edward's gift; but a correspondence 
between them by letter could subsist only under a positive engagement, 
could be authorised by nothing else; for a few moments she was almost 
overcome her heart sunk within her, and she could hardly stand; but 



SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 8x 

exertion was indispensably necessary, and she struggled so resolutely 
against the oppression of her feelings that her success was speedy, and 
for the time complete. 

"Writing to each other," said Lucy, returning the letter into her 
pocket, "is the only comfort we have in such long separations. Yes. / 
have one other comfort in his picture; but poor Edward has not even 
that. If he had but my picture, he says he should be easy. I gave him a 
lock of my hair set in a ring when he was at Longstaple last, and that 
was some comfort to him, he said, but not equal to a picture. Perhaps 
you might notice the ring when you saw him?" 

"I did," said Elinor, with a composure of voice under which was 
concealed an emotion and distress beyond anything she had ever felt 
before. She was mortified, shocked, confounded. 

Fortunately for her they had now reached the cottage, and the con- 
versation could be continued no farther. After sitting with them a few 
minutes, the Miss Steeles returned to the Park, and Elinor was then at 
liberty to think and be wretched. 



Chapter 23 

HOWEVER small Elinor's general dependence on Lucy's veracity might 
be, it was impossible for her on serious reflection to suspect it in the 
present case, where no temptation could be answerable to the folly of 
inventing a falsehood of such a description. What Lucy had asserted to 
be true, therefore, Elinor could not, dared not longer doubt; supported 
as it was too on every side by such probabilities and proofs, and contra- 
dicted by nothing but her own wishes. Their opportunity of acquaintance 
in the house of Mr. Pratt was a foundation for the rest, at once indis- 
putable and alarming; and Edward's visit near Plymouth, his melancholy 
state of mind, his dissatisfaction at his own prospects, his uncertain be- 
haviour towards herself, the intimate knowledge of the Miss Steeles as 
to Norland and their family connections, which had often surprised her, 
the picture, the letter, the ring, formed altogether such a body of evidence 
as overcame every fear of condemning him unfairly, and established ay 
a fact which no partiality could set aside, his ill-treatment of herself. 
Her resentment of such behaviour, her indignation at having been itf. 
dupe, for a short time made her feel only for herself; but other ideas, 
other considerations, soon arose. Had Edward been intentionally deceit 
ing her? Had he feigned a regard for her which he did not feel? Was his 
engagement to Lucy an engagement of the heart? No; whatever it might 
once have been, she could not believe it such at present. His affection 
was all her own. She could not be deceived in that. Her mother, sisters, 
Fanny, all had been conscious of his regard for her at Norland ; it was not 
an illusion of her own vanity. He certainly loved her. What a softener 
of the heart was this persuasion! How much could it not tempt her to 



82 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

forgive! 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 miserable for a while; but it 
seemed to have deprived himself of all chance of ever being otherwise. 
She might in time regain tranquillity ; but he, what had he to look forward 
to? Could he ever be tolerably happy with Lucy Steele? Could he, were 
his affection for herself out of the question, with his integrity, his delicacy, 
and well-informed mind, be satisfied with a wife like her illiterate, artful, 
and selfish? 

The youthful infatuation of nineteen would naturally blind him to 
everything but her beauty and good-nature; but the four succeeding 
years years which, if rationally spent, give such improvement to the 
understanding, must have opened his eyes to her defects of education: 
while the same period of time, spent on her side in inferior society and 
more frivolous pursuits, had perhaps robbed her of that simplicity which 
might once have given an interesting character to her beauty. 

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

As these considerations occurred to her in painful succession, she wept 
for him more than for herself. Supported by the conviction of having 
done nothing to merit her present unhappiness, and consoled by the belief 
that Edward had done nothing to forfeit her esteem, she thought she 
could even now, under the first smart of the heavy blow, command her- 
self enough to guard every suspicion of the truth from her mother and 
sisters. And so well was she able to answer her own expectations, that 
when she joined them at dinner only two hours after she had first suf- 
fered the extinction of all her dearest hopes, no one would have supposed 
from the appearance of the sisters, that Elinor was mourning in secret 
over obstacles which must divide her for ever from the object of her 
love, and that Marianne was internally dwelling on the perfections of a 
man of whose whole heart she felt thoroughly possessed, and whom she 
expected to see in every carriage which drove near their house. 

The necessity of concealing from her mother and Marianne what had 
been entrusted in confidence to herself, though it obliged her to unceas- 
ing 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 con- 
demnation of Edward which would probably flow from the excess of their 



SENSEANDSENSIBILITY 83 

partial affection for herself, and which was more than she felt equal to 
support. 

From their counsel or their conversation she knew she could receive 
no assistance ; their tenderness and sorrow must add to her distress, while 
her self-command would neither receive encouragement from their exam- 
ple nor from their praise. She was stronger alone, and her own good 
sense so well supported her, that her firmness was as unshaken, her 
appearance of cheerfulness as invariable, as, with regrets so poignant and 
so fresh, it was possible for them to be. 

Much as she had suffered from her first conversation with Lucy on the 
subject, she soon felt an earnest wish of renewing it, and this for more 
reasons than one. She wanted to hear many particulars of their engage- 
ment repeated again, she wanted more clearly to understand what Lucy 
really felt for Edward, whether there were any sincerity in her declaration 
of tender regard for him, and she particularly wanted to convince Lucy, 
by her readiness to enter on the matter again, and her calmness in con- 
versing on it, that she was no otherwise interested in it than as a friend, 
which she very much feared her involuntary agitation, in their morning 
discourse must have left at least doubtful. That Lucy was disposed to be 
jealous of her, appeared very probable; it was plain that Edward had 
always spoken highly in her praise, not merely from Lucy's assertion, but 
from her venturing to trust her on so short a personal acquaintance, with 
a secret so confessedly and evidently important. And even Sir John's 
joking intelligence must have had some weight. But indeed, while Elinor 
remained so well assured within herself, of being really beloved by 
Edward, it required no other consideration of probabilities to make it 
natural that Lucy should be jealous; and that she was so, her very con- 
fidence was a proof. What other reason for the disclosure of the affair 
could there be, but that Elinor might be informed by it of Lucy's superior 
claims on Edward, and be taught to avoid him in future? She had little 
difficulty in understanding thus much of her rival's intentions, and while 
she was firmly resolved to act by her as every principle of honour and 
honesty directed, to combat her own affection for Edward and to see him 
as little as possible ; she could not deny herself the comfort of endeavour- 
ing to convince Lucy that her heart was unwounded. And as she could 
now have nothing more painful to hear on the subject than had already 
been told, she did not mistrust her own ability of going through a repeti 
tion 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 advan- 
tage of any that occurred; for the weather was not often fine enough to 
allow of their joining in a walk, where they might most easily separate 
themselves from the others; and though they met at least every other 
evening either at the Park or cottage, and chiefly at the former, they 
could not be supposed to meet for the sake of conversation. Such a thought 
would never enter either Sir John or Lady Middleton's head, and therefore 



84 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

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 the name of charity, that they would all 
dine with Lady Middleton that day, as he was obliged to attend the club 
at Exeter, and she would otherwise be quite alone, except her mother and 
the two Miss Steeles. Elinor, who foresaw a fairer opening for the point 
she had in view, in such a party as this was likely to be, more at liberty 
among themselves under the tranquil and well-bred direction of Lady 
Middleton than when her husband united them together in one noisy 
purpose, immediately accepted the invitation; Margaret, with her 
mother's permission, was equally compliant, and Marianne, though al- 
ways unwilling to join any of their parties, was persuaded by her mother, 
who could not bear to have her seclude herself from any chance of 
amusement, to go likewise. 

The young ladies went, and Lady Middleton was happily preserved 
from the frightful solitude which had threatened her. The insipidity of the 
meeting was exactly such as Elinor had expected; it produced not one 
novelty of thought or expression, and nothing could be less interesting 
than the whole of their discourse both in the dining-parlour and drawing- 
room: to the latter, the children accompanied them, and while they 
remained there, she was too well convinced of the impossibility of 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 entertained a hope of finding time for 
conversation at the Park. They all rose up in preparation for a round 
game. 

"I am glad," said Lady Middleton to Lucy, "you are not going to finish 
poor little Annamaria's basket this evening; for I am sure it must hurt 
your eyes to work 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 recollected herself instantly and replied, 
"Indeed, you are very much mistaken, Lady Middleton; I am only wait- 
ing to know whether you can make your party without me, or I should 
have been at my fillagree already. I would not disappoint the little angel 
for all the world ; and if you want me at the card-table now, I am resolved 
to finish the basket after supper." 

"You are very good; I hope it won't hurt your eyes will you ring the 
bell for some working candles? My poor little girl v/ould be sadly dis- 
appointed, 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 having it 
done.'' 



SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 85 

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 rubber of casino to the others. No one 
made any objection but Marianne, who, with her usual inattention to the 
forms of general civility, exclaimed, "Your ladyship will have the good- 
ness to excuse me you know I detest cards. I shall go to the pianoforte; 
I have not touched it since it was tuned." And without further ceremony, 
she turned away and walked to the instrument. 

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

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

The remaining five were now to draw their cards. 

"Perhaps," continued Elinor, "if I should happen to cut out, I may be 
of some use to Miss Lucy Steele, in rolling her papers for her ; and there is 
so much still to be done to the basket, that it must be impossible, I think, 
for her labour singly, to finish it this evening. I should like the work 
exceedingly, if she would allow me a share in it." 

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

"Oh! that would be terrible indeed," said Miss Steele. "Dear little soul, 
how I do love her!" 

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

Elinor joyfully profited by the first of these proposals, and thus, by a 
little of that address which Marianne could never condescend to practise, 
gained her own end and pleased Lady Middleton at the same time. Lucy 
made room for her with ready attention, and the two fair rivals were thus 
seated side by side at the same table, and with the utmost harmony 
engaged in forwarding the same work. The pianoforte, at which Marianne, 
wrapped up in her own music and her own thoughts, had by this time 
forgotten that anybody was in the room besides herself, was luckily so 
near them that Miss Dashwood now judged she might safely, under the 
shelter of its noise, introduce the interesting subject, without any risk of 
being heard at the card-table. 



Chapter 24 

IN a firm, though cautious, tone Elinor thus began: 

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



86 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

with, if I felt no desire for its continuance, or no further curiosity on 
its subject. I will not apologise therefore for bringing it forward again." 

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

"Offended me! How could you suppose so? Believe me," and Elinor 
spoke it with the truest sincerity, "nothing could be farther from my 
intention than to give you such an idea. Could you have a motive for the 
trust that was not honourable and flattering to me?" 

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

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

"He has only two thousand pounds of his own ; it would be madness to 
marry upon that, though for my own part I could give up every prospect 
of more without a sigh. I have been always used to a very small income, 
and could struggle with any poverty for him ; but I love him too well to be 
the selfish means of robbing- him, perhaps, of all that his mother might 
give him if he married to please her. We must wait, it may be for many 
years. With almost every other man in the world, it would be an alarming 
prospect; but Edward's affection and constancy nothing can deprive me 
of, I know." 

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

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

"Edward's love for me," said Lucy, "has been pretty well put to the 
test, by our long, very long absence since we were first engaged, and it has 
stood the trial so well that I should be unpardonable to doubt it now. I 



SENSEANDSENSIBILITY 87 

can safely say that he has never gave me one moment's alarm on that 
account from the first." 

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

Lucy went on. "I am rather of a jealous temper, too, by nature, and 
from our different situations in life, from his being so much more in the 
world than me, and our continual separation, I was enough inclined for 
suspicion to have found out the truth in an insta'ht, if there had been the 
slightest alteration in his behaviour to me when we met, or any lowness of 
spirits that I could not account for, or if he had talked more of one lady 
than another, or seemed in any respect less happy at Longstaple than he 
used to be. I do not mean to say that I am particularly observant or 
quick-sighted in general, but in such a case I am sure I could not be 
deceived." 

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

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

"If we could be certain that it would be only for a while! But Mrs. 
Ferrars is a very headstrong, proud woman, and in her first fit of anger 
upon hearing it, would very likely secure everything to Robert ; and the 
idea of that, for Edward's sake, frightens away all my inclination for 
hasty measures." 

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

Lucy looked at Elinor again, and was silent. 

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

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

"A great coxcomb!" repeated Miss Steele, whose ear had caught those 
words by a sudden pause in Marianne's music. "Oh! they are talking of 
their favourite beaux, I dare say." 

"No, sister," cried Lucy, "you are mistaken there, our favourite beaux 
are not great coxcombs." 

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

"Oh!" cried Miss Steele, loking significantly round at them, "I dare 
say Lucy's beau 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 



88 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

an end to it by saying in a lower tone, though Marianne was then giving 
them the powerful protection of a very magnificent concerto : 

"I will honestly tell you of one scheme which has lately come into my 
head for bringing matters to bear; indeed, I am bound to let you into 
the secret, for you are a party concerned. I dare say you have seen 
enough of Edward to know that he would prefer the church to every 
other profession. Now, my plan is that he should take orders as soon as 
he can, and then through your interest, which I am sure you would be 
kind enough to use out of friendship for him, and, I hope, out of some 
regard to me, your brother might be persuaded to give him Norland 
living; which I understand is a very good one, and the present incum- 
bent 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," replied Elinor, "to show any mark of my 
esteem and friendship for Mr. Ferrars ; but do not you perceive 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 engagement. We seem so beset with difficulties on 
every side, that though it would make us miserable for a time, we should 
be happier perhaps in the end. But will you not give me your advice, 
Miss Dashwood?" 

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

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

Elinor blushed for the insincerity of Edward's future wife, and replied, 
"This compliment would effectually frighten me from giving any opinion 
on the subject, had I formed one. It raises my influence much too high ; 
the power of dividing two people so tenderly attached is too much for an 
ndifferent person." 

" Tis because you are an indifferent person," said Lucy, with some 
pique, and laying a particular stress on those words, "that your judgment 
might justly have such weight with me. If you could be supposed to be 



SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 8s 

biased in any respect by your own feelings, your opinion would not be 
worth having." 

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

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

"Certainly not." 

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

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

"How unlucky that is! I had quite depended upon meeting you there. 
Anne and me are to go the latter end of January to some relations who 
have been wanting us to visit them these several years! But I only go for 
the sake of seeing Edward. He will be there in February; otherwise Lon- 
don would have no charms for me, I have not spirits for it." 

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

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

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



90 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

which requires a more than ordinary share of private balls and large 
dinners to proclaim its importance. 



Chapter 25 

THOUGH Mrs. Jennings was in the habit of spending a large portion 
of the year at the houses of her children and friends, she was not without 
a settled habitation of her own. Since the death of her husband, who had 
traded with success in a less elegant part of the town, she had resided 
every winter in a house in one of the streets near Portman Square. 
Towards this home, she began on the approach of January to turn her 
thoughts, and thither she one day abruptly, and very unexpectedly by 
them, asked the elder Miss Dashwoods to accompany her. Elinor, with- 
out observing the varying complexion of her sister, and the animated 
look which spoke no indifference to the plan, immediately gave a grateful 
but absolute denial for both, in which she believed herself to be speaking 
their united inclinations. The reason alleged, was their determined reso- 
lution of not leaving their mother at that time of year. Mrs. Jennings 
received the refusal with some surprise and repeated her invitation im- 
mediately. 

"O Lord! I am sure your mother can spare you very well, and I do beg 
you will favour me with your company, for I've quite set my heart upon 
it. Don't fancy that you will be any inconvenience to me, for I shan't put 
myself at all out of my way for you. It will only be sending Betty by the 
coach, and I hope I can afford that. We three shall be able to go very well 
in my chaise ; and when we are in town, if you do not like to go wherever 
I do, well and good, you may always go with one of my daughters. I am 
sure your mother will not object to it; for I have had such good luck in 
getting my own children off my hands, that she will think me a very fit 
person to have the charge of you: and if I don't get one of you at least 
well married before I have done with you, it shall not be my fault. I shall 
speak a good word for you to all the young men, you may depend upon it." 

"I have a notion," said Sir John, "that Miss Marianne would not object 
to such a scheme, if her elder sister would come into it. It is very hard 
indeed that she should not have a little pleasure, because Miss Dashwood 
does not wish it. So I would advise you two to set off for town when you 
are tired of Barton, without saying a word to Miss Dashwood about it." 

"Nay," cried Mrs. Jennings, "I am sure I shall be monstrous glad of 
Miss Marianne's company, whether Miss Dashwood will go or not, only 
the more the merrier say I, and I thought it would be more comfortable 
for them to be together ; because if they got tired of me, they might talk 
to one another, and laugh at my 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 myself, I who have been always used till this winter 
to have Charlotte with me. Come, Miss Marianne, let us strike hands 



SENSEANDSENSIBILITY 91 

upon the bargain, and if Miss Dashwood will change her mind by and by, 
why, so much the better." 

"I thank you, ma'am, sincerely thank you," said Marianne, with 
warmth; "your invitation has insured my gratitude for ever, and it would 
give me such happiness yes, almost the greatest happiness I am capable 
of, to be able to accept it. But my mother, my dearest, kindest mother 
I feel the justice of what Elinor has urged, and if she were to be made less 
happy, less comfortable by our absence Oh! no, nothing should tempt 
me to leave her. It should not, must not be a struggle." 

Mrs. Jennings repeated her assurance that Mrs. Dashwood could spare 
them perfectly well ; and Elinor, who now understood her sister, and saw 
to what indifference to almost everything else she was carried by her 
eagerness to be with Willoughby again, made no further direct opposition 
to the plan, and merely referred it to her mother's decision, from whom 
however she scarcely expected to receive any support in her endeavour 
to prevent a visit which she could not approve of for Marianne, and which 
on her own account she had particular reasons to avoid. Whatever Mari- 
anne was desirous of her mother would be eager to promote she could 
not expect to influence the latter to cautiousness of conduct in an affair 
respecting which she had never been able to inspire her with distrust: 
and she dared not explain the motive of her own disinclination for going 
to London. That Marianne, fastidious as she was, thoroughly acquainted 
with Mrs. Jennings's manners, and invariably disgusted by them, should 
overlook every inconvenience of that kind, should disregard whatever 
must be most wounding to her irritable feelings, in her pursuit of one 
object, was such a proof, so strong, so full, of the importance of that 
object to her, as Elinor, in spite of all that had passed, was not prepared 
to witness. 

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

"I am delighted with the plan," she cried, "it is exactly what I could 
wish. Margaret and I shall be as much benefited by it as yourselves. 
When you and the Middletons are gone, we shall go on so quietly and 
happily together with our books and our music! You will find Margaret so 
improved when you come back again ! And I have a little plan of altera- 
tion for your bedrooms too, which may now be performed without incon- 
venience to anyone. It is very right that you should go to town ; I would 
have every young woman of your condition in life acquainted with the 
manners and amusements of London. You will be under the care of a 
motherly, good sort of woman, of whose kindness to you I can have no 
doubt. And in all probability you will see your brother, and whatever 



92 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

may be his faults, or the faults of his wife, when I consider whose son he 
is, I cannot bear to have you so wholly estranged from each other." 

"Though, with your usual anxiety for our happiness," said Elinor, "you 
have been obviating every impediment to the present scheme which 
occurred to you, there is still one objection which, in my opinion, cannot 
be so easily removed." 

Marianne's countenance sank. 

"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 this: though I think very well of Mrs. Jennings's 
heart, she is not a woman whose society can afford us pleasure, or whose 
protection will give us consequence." 

"That is very true," replied her mother; "but of her society, separately 
from that of other people, you will scarcely have anything at all, and you 
will almost always appear in public with Lady Middleton." 

"If Elinor is frightened away by her dislike of Mrs. Jennings," said 
Marianne, "at least it need not prevent my accepting her invitation. I 
have no such scruples, and I am sure I could put up with every 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 persuading 
Marianne to behave with tolerable politeness, and resolved within herself, 
that if her sister persisted in going, she would go likewise, as she did not 
think it proper that Marianne should be left to the sole guidance of her 
own judgment, or that Mrs. Jennings should be abandoned to the mercy 
of Marianne for all the comfort of her domestic hours. To this determina- 
tion s-he was the more easily reconciled, by recollecting that Edward 
Ferrars, by Lucy's account, was not to be in town before February, and 
that their visit, without any unreasonable abridgment, might be pre- 
viously finished. 

"I will have you both go," said Mrs. Dashwood; "these objections are 
nonsensical. You will have much pleasure in being in London, and es- 
pecially in being together; and if Elinor would ever condescend to antici- 
pate enjoyment, she would foresee it there from a variety of sources ; she 
would perhaps expect some from improving her acquaintance with her 
sister-in-law's family." 

Elinor had often wished for an opportunity of attempting to weaken 
her mother's dependence on the attachment of Edward and herself, that 
the shock might be the less when the whole truth were revealed, and now 
on this attack, though almost hopless of success, she forced herself to 
begin her design by saying, as calmly as she could, "I like Edward 
Ferrars very much, and shall always be glad to see him; but as to the 
rest of the family, it is a matter of perfect indifference to me whether 
I am ever known to them or not." 

Mrs. Dashwood smiled and said nothing. Marianne lifted up her eyes 



SENSEANDSENSIBILITY 93 

in astonishment, and Elinor conjectured that she might as well have held 
her tongue. 

After very little farther discourse, it was finally settled that the invita- 
tion should be fully accepted. Mrs. Jennings received the information 
with a great deal of joy, and many assurances of kindness and care ; nor 
was it a matter of pleasure merely to her. Sir John was delighted ; for to 
a man whose prevailing anxiety was the dread of being alone, the acquisi- 
tion of two to the number of inhabitants in London was something. Even 
Lady Middleton took the trouble of being delighted, which was putting 
herself rather out of her way; and as for the Miss Steeles, especially 
Lucy, they had never been so happy in their lives as this intelligence 
made them. 

Elinor submitted to the arrangement which counteracted her wishes 
with less reluctance than she had expected to feel. With regard to herself, 
it was now a matter of unconcern whether she went to town or not ; and 
when she saw her mother so thoroughly pleased with the plan, and her 
sister exhilarated by it in look, voice, and manner, restored to all her 
usual animation, and elevated to more than her usual gaiety, she could 
not be dissatisfied with the cause, and would hardly allow herself to 
distrust the consequence. 

Marianne's joy was almost a degree beyond happiness, so great was the 
perturbation of her spirits and her impatience to be gone. Her unwilling- 
ness to quit her mother was her only restorative to calmness; and at the 
moment of parting her grief on that score was excessive. Her mother's 
affliction was hardly less, and Elinor was the only one of the three who 
seemed to consider the separation as anything short of eternal. 

Their departure took place in the first week in January. The Middle- 
tons were to follow in about a week. The Miss Steeles kept their station 
at the Park, and were to quit it only with the rest of the family. 



Chapter 26 

ELINOR could not find herself in the carriage with Mrs. Jennings, and 
beginning a journey to London under her protection, and as her guest, 
without wondering at her own situation, so short had their acquaintance 
with that lady been, so wholly unsuited were they in age and disposi- 
tion, and so many had been her objections against such a measure only 
a few days before! But these objections had all, with that happy ardour 
of youth which Marianne and her mother equally shared, been overcome 
or overlooked; and Elinor, in spite of every occasional doubt of Wil- 
loughby's constancy, could not witness the rapture of delightful ex- 
pectation which filled the whole soul and beamed in the eyes of Marianne, 
without feeling how blank was her own prospect, how cheerless her own 
state of mind in the comparison, and how gladly she would engage in the 
solicitude of Marianne's situation to have the same animating object in 



94 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

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 de- 
pendence on finding him there ; and Elinor was resolved not only upon 
gaining every new light as to his character which her own observation or 
the intelligence of others could give her, but likewise upon watching his 
behaviour to her sister with such zealous attention, as to ascertain what 
he was, and what he meant, before many meetings had taken place. 
Should the result of her observations be unfavourable, she was deter- 
mined at all events to open the eyes of her sister ; should it be otherwise, 
her exertions would be of a different nature she must then learn to avoid 
every selfish comparison, and banish every regret which might lessen her 
satisfaction in the happiness of Marianne. 

They were three days on their journey, and Marianne's behaviour as 
they travelled was a happy specimen of what her future complaisance and 
companionableness to Mrs. Jennings might be expected to be. She sat in 
silence almost all the way, wrapt in her own meditations, and scarcely 
ever voluntarily speaking, except when any object of picturesque beauty 
within their view drew from her an exclamation of delight exclusively 
addressed to her sister. To atone for this conduct, therefore, Elinor took 
immediate possession of the post of civility which she had assigned her- 
self, behaved with the greatest attention to Mrs. Jennings, talked with 
her, laughed with her, and listened to her whenever she could; and Mrs. 
Jennings on her side treated them both with all possible kindness, was 
solicitous on every occasion for their ease and enjoyment, and only dis- 
turbed that she could not make them choose their own dinners at the inn, 
nor extort a confession of their preferring salmon to cod, or boiled fowls 
to veal cutlets. They reached town by three o'clock the third day, glad to 
be released, after such a journey, from the confinement of a carriage, and 
ready to enjoy all the luxury of a good fire. 

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

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

"I am not going to write to my mother," replied Marianne hastily, and 
as if wishing to avoid any further inquiry. Elinor said no more; it imme- 
diately struck her that she must then be writing to Willoughby, and the 
conclusion which as instantly followed was, that however mysteriously 
they might wish to conduct the affair, they must 'be engaged. This con- 
viction, though not entirely satisfactory, gave her pleasure, and she con- 



SENSEANDSENSIBILITY 95 

tinued her letter with greater alacrity. Marianne's was finished in a very 
few minutes ; in length it could be no more than a note : it was then folded 
up, sealed and directed with eager rapidity. Elinor thought she could 
distinguish a large W in the direction, and no sooner was it complete than 
Marianne, ringing the bell, requested the footman who answered it, to 
get that letter conveyed for her to the twopenny post. This decided the 
matter at once. 

Her spirits still continued very high, but there was a flutter in them 
which prevented their giving much pleasure to her sister, and this agita- 
tion increased as the evening drew on. She could scarcely eat any dinner, 
and when they afterwards returned to the drawing-room, seemed anx- 
iously listening to the sound of every carriage. 

It was a great satisfaction to Elinor that Mrs. Jennings, by being much 
engaged in her own room, could see little of what was passing. The tea- 
things were brought in, and already had Marianne been disappointed 
more than once by a rap at a neighbouring door, when a loud one was 
suddenly heard which could not be mistaken for one at any other house. 
Elinor felt secure of its announcing Willoughby's approach, and Mari- 
anne, starting up, moved towards the door. Everything was silent; this 
could not be borne many seconds, she opened the door, advanced a few 
steps towards the stairs, and after listening half a minute, returned into 
the room in all the agitation which a conviction of having heard him 
would naturally produce; in the ecstasy of her feelings at that instant 
she could not help exclaiming, "O Elinor, it is Willoughby, indeed it 
is!" and seemed almost ready to throw herself into his arms, when 
Colonel Brandon appeared. 

It was too great a shock to be borne with calmness, and she immediately 
left the room. Elinor was disappointed too; but at the same time her 
regard for Colonel Brandon ensured his welcome with her, and she felt 
particularly hurt that a man so partial to her sister should perceive that 
she experienced nothing but grief and disappointment in seeing him. 
She instantly saw that it was not unnoticed by him, that he even observed 
Marianne as she quitted the room, with such astonishment and concern ; 
as hardly left him the recollection of what civility demanded towards 
herself. 

"Is your sister ill?" said he. 

Elinor answered in some distress that she was, and then talked of 
headaches, low spirits, and over-fatigues, and of everything to which 
she could decently attribute her sister's behaviour. 

He heard her with the most earnest attention, but seeming to recollect 
himself, said no more on the subject, and began directly to speak of his 
pleasure at seeing them in London, making the usual inquiries about their 
journey and the friends they had left behind. 

In this calm kind of way, with very little interest on either side, they 
continued to talk, both of them out of spirits, and the thoughts of both 
engaged elsewhere. Elinor wished very much to ask whether Willoughby 



?6 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

were then in town, but she was afraid of giving him pain by any inquiry 
after his rival ; and at length by way of saying something, she asked if he 
had been in London ever since she had seen him last. "Yes," he replied 
with some embarrassment, "almost ever since ; I have been once or twice 
at Delaford for a few days, but it has never been in my power to return 
to Barton." 

This, and the manner in which it was said, immediately brought back 
to her remembrance all the circumstances of his quitting that place, with 
the uneasiness and suspicions they had caused to Mrs. Jennings, and she 
was fearful that her question had implied much more curiosity on the 
subject than she had ever felt. 

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

"I had the pleasure of hearing it at Mr. Palmer's, where I have been 
dining." 

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

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

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

He replied with his accustomary mildness to all her inquiries, but with- 
out satisfying her in any. Elinor now began to make the tea, and Marianne 
was obliged to appear again. 

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

Marianne rose the next morning with recovered spirits and happy 
looks. The disappointment of the evening before seemed forgotten in the 



SENSEANDSENSIBILITY 97 

expectation of what was to happen that day. They had not long finished 
their breakfast before Mrs. Palmer's barouche stopped at the door, and 
in a few minutes she came laughing into the room; so delighted to see 
them all, that it was hard to say whether she received most pleasure from 
meeting her mother or the Miss Dash woods again. So surprised at their 
coming to town, though it was what she had rather expected all along; 
so angry at their accepting her mother's invitation after having declined 
her own, though at the same time she would never have forgiven them if 
they had not come! 

"Mr. Palmer will be so happy to see you,'* said she; "what do you 
think he said when he heard of your coming with mamma? I forget what 
it was now, but it was something so droll ! " 

After an hour or two spent in what her mother called comfortable chat, 
or in other words, in every variety of inquiry concerning all their ac- 
quaintances on Mrs. Jennings's side, and in laughter without cause on 
Mrs. Palmer's, it was proposed by the latter that they should all accom- 
pany her to some shops where she had business that morning, to which 
Mrs. Jennings and Elinor readily consented, as having likewise some 
purchases to make themselves; and Marianne, though declining it at 
first, was induced to go likewise. 

Wherever they went, she was evidently always on the watch. In Bond 
Street especially, where much of their business lay, her eyes were in con- 
stant inquiry; and in whatever shop the party engaged, her mind was 
equally abstracted from everything actually before them, from all that 
interested and occupied the others. Restless and dissatisfied everywhere , 
her sister could never obtain her opinion of any article of purchase, how 
ever it might equally concern them both ; she received no pleasure from 
anything; was only impatient to be at home again, and could with diffi- 
culty govern her vexation at the tediousness of Mrs. Palmer, whose eye 
was caught by everything pretty, expensive, or new; who was wild to 
buy all, could determine on none, and dawdled away her time in rapture 
and indecision. 

It was late in the morning before they returned home ; and no sooner 
had they entered the house than Marianne flew eagerly upstairs, and 
when Elinor followed, she found her turning from the table with a sor- 
rowful countenance, which declared that no Willoughby had been there. 

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

The man replied that none had. 

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

"How odd indeed! " repeated Elinor within herself, regarding her s 
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; 



98 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

and if he is in town, how odd that he should neither come nor write! Oh, 
my dear mother, you must be wrong in permitting an engagement between 
a daughter so young, a man so little known, to be carried on in so doubt- 
ful, so mysterious a manner! / long to inquire; but how will my inter- 
ference be borne!" 

She determined, after some consideration, that if appearances con- 
tinued many days longer as unpleasant as they now were she would 
represent in the strongest manner to her mother the necessity of some 
serious inquiry into the affair. 

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



Chapter 27 

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

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

It was a lucky recollection, all her good spirits were restored by it. "It 
is charming weather for them indeed," she continued, as she sat down to 
the breakfast table with a happy countenance. "How much they must 
enjoy it! But (with a little return of anxiety) it cannot be expected to 
last long. At this time of year, and after such a series of rain, we shall 
certainly have very little more of it. Frosts will soon set in, and in all 
probability with severity. In another day or two, perhaps; this extreme 
mildness can hardly last longer nay, perhaps it may freeze to-night!" 

"At any rate," said Elinor, wishing to prevent Mrs. Jennings from 
seeing her sister's thoughts as clearly as she did, "I dare say we shall 
have Sir John and Lady Middleton in town by the end of next week.' 7 



SENSEANDSENSIBILITY 99 

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

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

But if she did, the letter was written and sent away with a privacy 
that eluded all her watchfulness to ascertain the fact. Whatever the truth 
of it might be, and far as Elinor was from feeling thorough contentment 
about it, yet while she saw Marianne in spirits, she could not be very 
uncomfortable herself. And Marianne was in spirits, happy in the mild- 
ness 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 acquaintances to inform them of her being in town; and 
Marianne was all the time busy in observing the direction of the wind, 
watching the variations of the sky, and imagining an alteration in the air. 

"Don't you find it colder than it was in the morning, Elinor? There 
seems to me a very decided difference. I can hardly keep my hands warm 
even in my muff. It was not so yesterday, I think. The clouds seem part- 
ing too, the sun will be out in a moment, and we shall have a clear after- 
noon." 

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

The Miss Dashwoods had no greater reason to be dissatisfied with Mrs. 
Jennings's style of living and set of acquaintances than with her be- 
haviour to themselves, which was invariably kind. Everything in her 
household arrangements was conducted on the most liberal plan, and 
excepting a few old city friends, whom, to Lady Middleton's regret, she 
had never dropped, she visited no one to whom an introduction could 
at all discompose the feelings of her young companions. Pleased to find 
herself more comfortably situated in that particular than she had ex- 
pected, Elinor was very willing to compound for the want of much real 
enjoyment from any of their evening parties, which, whether at home 
or abroad, formed only for cards, could have little to amuse her. 

Colonel Brandon, who had a general invitation to the house, was with 
them almost every day; he came to look at Marianne and talk to Elinor, 
who often derived more satisfaction from conversing with him than from 
any other daily occurrence, but who saw at the same time with much 
concern his continued regard for her sister. She feared it was a strength- 
ening regard. It grieved her to see the earnestness with which he often 
watched Marianne, and his spirits were certainly worse than when at 
Barton. 

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

"Good God!" cried Marianne, "he has been here while we were out. 



ioo THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

Elinor, rejoiced to be assured of his being in London, now ventured 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 spirits of Elinor, restored to those of her 
sister all, and more than all, their former agitation. From this moment her 
mind was never quiet; the expectation of seeing him every hour of the 
day made her unfit for 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 
returned was enough to inform her that Willoughby had paid no second 
visit there A note was just then brought in, and laid on the table. 

"For me!" cried Marianne, stepping hastily forward. 

"No, ma'am, for my mistress." 

But Marianne, not convinced, took it instantly up. 

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

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

"Yes! a little not much." 

After a short pause, "You have no confidence in me, Marianne." 

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

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

"Nor I," answered Marianne with energy; "our situations then are 
alike. We have neither of us anything 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 
for greater openness in Marianne. 

Mrs. Jennings soon appeared, and the note being given her, she read it 
aloud. It was from Lady Middleto.n, announcing their arrival in Conduit 
Street the night before, and requesting the company of her mother and 
cousins the following evening. Business on Sir John's part, and a violent 
cold on her own, prevented their calling in Berkeley Street. The invitation 
was accepted: but when the hour of appointment drew near, necessary as 
it was in common civility to Mrs. Jennings that they should both attend 
her on such a visit, Elinor had some difficulty in persuading her sister to 
go, for still she had seen nothing of Willoughby, and therefore was not 
more indisposed for amusement abroad, than unwilling to run the risk of 
his calling again in her absence. 

Elinor found, when the evening was over, that disposition is not materi- 
ally altered by 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 



SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 101 

Lady Middleton did not approve. In the country, an unpremeditated 
dance was very allowable ; but in London, where the reputation of elegance 
was more important and less easily obtained, 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 couples, with two violins, and a 
mere sideboard collation. 

Mr. and Mrs. Palmer were of the party ; from the former, whom they 
had not seen before since their arrival in town, as he was careful to avoid 
the appearance of any attention to his mother-in-law, and therefore never 
came near her, they received no mark of recognition on their entrance. He 
looked at them slightly, without seeming to know who they were, and 
merely nodded to Mrs. Jennings from the other side of the room. Marianne 
gave one glance round the apartment as she entered; it was enough, he 
was not there and she sat down, equally ill-disposed to receive or com- 
municate pleasure. After they had been assembled about an hour, Mr. 
Palmer sauntered towards the Miss Dashwoods, to express his surprise on 
seeing them in town, though Colonel Brandon had been first informed of 
their arrival at his house, and he had himself said something very droll 
on hearing that they were to come. 

"I thought you were both in Devonshire," said he. 

"Did you?" replied Elinor. 

"When do you go back again?" 

"I do not know." And thus ended their discourse. 

Never had Marianne been so unwilling to dance in her life as she was 
that evening, and never so much fatigued by the exercise. She complained 
of it as they returned to Berkeley Street. 

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

"Invited!" cried Marianne. 

"So my daughter Middleton told me, for it seems Sir John met him 
somewhere in the street this morning." 

Marianne said no more, but looked exceedingly hurt. Impatient in this 
situation to be doing something that might lead to her sister's relief, Elinor 
resolved to write the next morning to her mother, and hoped by awakening 
her fears for the health of Marianne, to procure those inquiries which had 
been so long delayed; and she was still more eagerly bent on this measure, 
by perceiving after breakfast on the morrow, that Marianne was again 
writing to Willoughby, for she could not suppose it to be to any other 
person. 

About the middle of the day, Mrs. Jennings went out by herself on 
business, and Elinor began her letter directly; while Marianne, too restless 
for employment, too anxious for conversation, walked from one window 
to the other, or sat down by the fire in melancholy meditation. Elinor was 
very earnest in her application to her mother, relating all that had passed, 



102 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

her suspicions of Willoughby's inconstancy, urging her by every plea of 
duty and affection to demand from Marianne an account of her real situa- 
tion with respect to him. 

Her letter was scarcely finished when a rap foretold a visitor, and 
Colonel Brandon was announced. Marianne, who had seen him from the 
window, and who hated company of any kind, left the room before he 
entered it. He looked more than usually grave, and though expressing 
satisfaction at finding Miss Dashwood alone, as if he had somewhat in 
particular to tell her, sat for some time without saying a word. Elinor, 
persuaded that he had some communication to make in which her sister 
was concerned, impatiently expected its opening. It was not the first time 
of her feeling the same kind of conviction; for more than once before, 
beginning with the observation of "Your sister looks unwell to-day," or 
"Your sister seems out of spirits," he had appeared on the point, either 
of disclosing, or of inquiring, something particular about her. After a 
pause of several minutes their silence was broken by his asking her, in a 
voice of some agitation, when he was to congratulate her on the acquisition 
of a brother? Elinor was not prepared for such a question, and having no 
answer ready, was obliged to adopt the simple and common expedient of 
asking what he meant? He tried to smile as he replied, "Your sister's 
engagement to Mr. Willoughby is very generally known." 

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

He looked surprised, and said, "I beg your pardon, I am afraid my 
inquiry has been impertinent ; but I had not supposed any secrecy intended 
as they openly correspond, and their marriage is universally talked of." 

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

"By many by some of whom you know nothing, by others with whom 
you are most intimate Mrs. Jennings, Mrs. Palmer, and the Middletons. 
But still I might not have believed it for where the mind is perhaps 
rather unwilling to be convinced, it will always find something to support 
its doubts if I had not, when the servant let me in to-day, accidentally 
seen a letter in his hand, directed to Mr. Willoughby in your sister's 
writing. I came to inquire, but I was convinced before I could ask the 

question. Is everything 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 1 hardly 
know what to do, and on your prudence I have the strongest dependence 
Tell me that it is all absolutely resolved on, that any attempt that in 
short concealment, if concealment be possible, is all that remains." 

These words, which conveyed to Elinor a direct avowal of his love for 
her sister, affected her very much. She was not immediately able to say 
anything, and even when her spirits were recovered, she debated for a 
short time on the answer it would be most proper to give. The real state of 
things between Willoughby and her sister was so little known to herself, 
that in endeavouring to explain it, she might be as liable to say too much 



SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 103 

as too little. Yet as she was convinced that Marianne's affection for 
Willoughby could leave no hope of Colonel Brandon's success, whatever 
the event of that affection might be, and at the same time wished to shield 
her conduct from censure, she thought it most prudent and kind, after some 
consideration, to say more than she really knew or believed. She acknowl- 
edged, therefore, that though she had never been informed by themselves 
of the terms on which they stood with each other, of their mutual affection 
she had no doubt, and of their correspondence she was not astonished to 
hear. 

He listened to her with silent attention, and on her ceasing to speak, 
rose directly from his seat, and after saying in a voice of emotion, "To 
your sister I wish all imaginable happiness ; to Willoughby, that he may 
endeavour to deserve her," took leave, and went away. 

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



Chapter 28 

NOTHING occurred during the next three or four days to make Elinor 
regret what she had done in applying to her mother; for Willoughby 
neither came nor wrote. They were engaged about the end of that time 
to attend Lady Middleton to a party, from which Mrs. Jennings was kept 
away by the indisposition of her youngest daughter ; and for this party, 
Marianne, wholly dispirited, careless of her appearance, and seeming 
equally indifferent whether she went or stayed, prepared, without one 
look of hope, or one expression of pleasure. She sat by the drawing-room 
fire after tea, till the moment of Lady Middleton's arrival, without once 
stirring from her seat, or altering her attitude, lost in her own thoughts 
and insensible of her sister's presence: and when at last they were told 
that Lady Middleton waited for them at the door, she started as if she 
had forgotten that any one was expected. 

They arrived in due time at the place of destination, and as soon as the 
string of carriages before them would allow, alighted, ascended the stairs, 
heard their names announced from one landing-place to another in an 
audible voice, and entered a room splendidly lit up, quite full of company, 
and insufferably hot. When they had paid their tribute of politeness by 
curtseying to the lady of the house, they were permitted to mingle in the 
crowd, and take their share of the heat and inconvenience, to which their 
arrival must necessarily add. After some time spent in saying little and 
doing less, Lady Middleton sat down to casino, 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. 



104 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

They had not remained in this manner long, before Elinor perceived 
Willoughby, standing within a few yards of them, in earnest conversation 
with a very fashionable-looking young woman. She soon caught his eye, 
and he immediately bowed, but without attempting to speak to her, or to 
approach Marianne, though he could not but see her ; and then continued 
his discourse with the same lady. Elinor turned involuntarily to Marianne. 
t > see whether it could be unobserved by her. At that moment she first 
pe/ceived him, and her whole countenance glowing with sudden delight, 
she would have moved towards him instantly, had not her sister caught 
hold of her. 

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

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

This, however, was more than she could believe herself, and to be 
composed ai such a moment was not only beyond the reach of Marianne, 
it was beyond her wish. She sat in 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 rather to Elinor than Mari- 
anne, as if wishing to avoid her eye, and determined not to observe her 
attitude, inquired in a hurried manner after Mrs. Dashwood, and asked 
how long they had been in town. Elinor was robbed of all presence of 
mind by such an address, and was unable to say a word. But the feelings 
of her sister were instantly expressed. Her face crimsoned over, and she ex- 
claimed in a voice of the greatest emotion, "Good God! Willoughby, what 
is the meaning of this? Have you not received my letters? Will you not 
shake hands with me?" 

He could not then avoid it, but her touch seemed painful to him, and 
he held her hand only for a moment. During all this time he was evidently 
struggling for composure. Elinor watched his countenance, and saw its 
expression becoming more tranquil. After a moment's pause, he spoke 
with calmness. 

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

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

He made no reply ; his complexion changed and all his embarrassment 
returned; but as if, on catching the eye of the young lady with whom 
he had been previously talking, he felt the necessity of instant exertion, 
he recovered himself again, and after saying, "Yes, I had the pleasure 
of receiving the information of your arrival in town, which you were so 



SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 105 

good as to send me," turned hastily away with a slight bow and joined 
his friend. 

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

"Go to him, Elinor," she said, as soon as she could speak, "and force 
him to come to me. Tell him I must see him again must speak to him 
instantly. I cannot rest I shall not have a moment's peace till this is 
explained some dreadful misapprehension or other. Oh, go to him this 
moment." 

"How can that be done? No, my dearest Marianne, you must wait. 
This is not a place for explanations. Wait only till to-morrow." 

With difficulty, however, could she prevent her from following him 
herself; and to persuade her to check her agitation to wait, at least, 
with the appearance of composure till she might speak to him with 
more privacy and more effect, was impossible; for Marianne continued 
incessantly to give way in a low voice to the misery of her feelings, by 
exclamations of wretchedness. In a short time Elinor saw Willoughby 
quit the room by the door towards the staircase, and telling Marianne 
that he was gone, urged the impossibility of speaking to him again that 
evening, as a fresh argument for her to be calm. She instantly begged 
her sister would entreat Lady Middleton to take them home, as she was 
too miserable to stay a minute longer. 

Lady Middleton, though in the middle of a rubber, on being informed 
that Marianne was unwell, was too polite to object for a moment to her 
wish of going away, and making over her cards to a friend, they departed 
as soon as the carriage could be found. Scarcely a word was spoken dur- 
ing their return to Berkeley Street. Marianne was in a silent agony, too 
much oppressed even for tears; but as Mrs. Jennings was luckily not 
come home, they could go directly to their own room, where hartshorn 
restored her a little to herself. She was soon undressed and in bed, and 
as she seemed desirous of being alone, her sister then left her, and while 
she waited the return of Mrs. Jennings, had leisure enough for thinking 
over the past. 

That some kind of engagement had subsisted between Willoughby and 
Marianne, she could not doubt; and that Willoughby was weary of it, 
seemed equally clear; for however Marianne might still feed her own 
wishes, she could not attribute such behaviour to mistake or 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 investigation. 
Absence might have weakened Ms regard, and convenience might have 



106 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

determined him to overcome it, but that such a regard had formerly- 
existed she could not bring herself to doubt. 

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



Chapter 29 

BEFORE the house-maid had lit their fire the next day, or the sun 
gained any power over a cold, gloomy morning in January, Marianne, 
only half dressed, was kneeling against one of the window-seats for the 
sake of all the little light she could command from it, and writing as 
fast as a continual flow of tears would permit her. In this situation, Elinor, 
roused from sleep by her agitation and sobs, first perceived her ; and after 
observing her for a few moments with silent anxiety, said, in a tone of the 
most considerate gentleness : 

"Marianne, may I ask ?" 

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

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

Elinor paid her every quiet and unobtrusive attention in her power ; 
and she would have tried to soothe and tranquillise her still more, had 
not Marianne entreated her, with all the eagerness of the most nervous 
irritability, not to speak to her for the world. In such circumstances, it 
was better for both that they should not be long together ; and the restless 
state of Marianne's mind not only prevented her from remaining in the 
room a moment after she was dressed, but requiring at once solitude and 
continual change of place, made her wander about the house till break- 
fast time, avoiding the sight of everybody. 

At breakfast she neither ate nor attempted to eat anything; and 
Elinor's attention was then all employed, not in urging her, not in pitying 
her, nor in appearing to regard her, but in endeavouring to engage Mrs. 
Jennings's notice entirely to herself. 

As this was a favourite meal with Mrs. Jennings, it lasted a consider- 



SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 107 

able time, and they were just setting themselves, after it, round the 
common work table, when a letter was delivered to Marianne, which she 
eagerly caught from the servant, and, turning of a death-like paleness, 
instantly ran out of the room. Elinor, who saw as plainly by this, as if 
she had seen the direction, that it must come from Willoughby, felt 
immediately such a ^ sickness at heart as made her hardly able to hold 
up her head, and sat in such a general tremor as made her fear it impossible 
to escape Mrs. Jennings 's notice. That good lady, however, saw only that 
Marianne had received a letter from Willoughby, which appeared to her 
a very good joke, and which she treated accordingly, by hoping, with a 
laugh, that she would find it to her liking. Of Elinor's distress, she was 
too busily employed in measuring lengths of worsted for her rug, to see 
anything at all ; and calmly continuing her talk, as soon as Marianne dis- 
apeared, she said: 

"Upon my word, I never saw a young woman so desperately in love in 
my life! My girls were nothing to her, and yet they used to be foolish 
enough; but as for Miss Marianne, she is quite an altered creature. I 
hope, from the bottom of my heart, he won't keep her waiting much 
longer, for it is quite grievous to see her look so ill and forlorn. Pray, 
when are they to be married?" 

Elinor, though never less disposed to speak than at that moment, 
obliged herself to answer such an attack as this, and, therefore, trying 
to smile, replied, "And have you really, ma'am, talked yourself into a 
persuasion of my sister's being engaged to Mr. Willoughby? I thought 
it had been only a joke, but so serious a question seems to imply more: 
and I must beg, therefore, that you will not deceive yourself any longer. 
I do assure you that nothing would surprise me more than to hear of 
their being going to be married." 

"For shame, for shame, Miss Dashwood! How can you talk so! Don't 
we all know that it must be a match that they were over head and ears 
in love with each other from the first moment they met? Did not I see 
them together in Devonshire every day, and all day long? And did not I 
know that your sister came to town with me on purpose to buy wedding 
clothes? Come, come, this won't do. Because you are so sly about it your- 
self, 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 
everybody of it, and so does Charlotte." 

"Indeed, ma'am," said Elinor very seriously, "you are mistaken. 
Indeed, you are doing a very unkind thing in spreading the report, and 
you will find that you have though you will not believe me now." 

Mrs. Jennings laughed again, but Elinor had not spirits to say more, 
and eager at all events to know what Willoughby had written, hurried 
away to their room, where, on opening the door, she saw Marianne 
stretched on the bed, almost choked by grief, one letter in her hand, and 
two or three others lying by her. Elinor drew near, but without saying 
a word; and seating herself on the bed, took her hand, kissed her affec- 



io8 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

tionately several times, and then gave way to a burst of tears, which at 
first was scarcely less violent than Marianne's. The latter, though unable 
to speak, seemed to feel all the tenderness of this behaviour, and after 
some time thus spent in joint affliction, she put all the letters into Elinor's 
hands ; and then covering her face with her handkerchief, almost screamed 
with agony. Elinor, who knew that such grief, shocking as it was to 
witness it, must have its course, watched by her till this excess of suffer- 
ing had somewhat spent itself, and then turning eagerly to Willoughby's 
letter, read as follows : 

"BOND STREET, January. 

"MY DEAR MADAM, I have just had the honour of receiving your 
letter, for which I beg to return my sincere acknowledgments. I am much 
concerned to find there was anything in my behaviour last night that did 
not meet your approbation ; and though I am quite at a loss to discover 
in what point I could be so unfortunate as to offend you, I entreat your 
forgiveness of what I can assure you to have been perfectly unintentional. 
I shall never reflect on my former acquaintance with your family in 
Devonshire without the most grateful pleasure, and flatter myself it will 
not be broken by any mistake or misapprehension of my actions. My 
esteem for your whole family is very sincere ; but if I have been so unfor- 
tunate 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 profes- 
sions of that esteem. That I should ever have meant more, you will 
allow to be impossible, when you understand that my affections have been 
long engaged elsewhere, and it will not be many weeks, I believe, before 
this engagement is fulfilled. It is with great regret that I obey your com- 
mands of returning the letters with which I have been honoured from you, 
and the lock of hair which you so obligingly bestowed on me. 

"I am, dear Madam, 

"Your most obedient 

"humble Servant, 

"JOHN WlLLOUGHBY." 

With what indignation such a letter as this must be read by Miss 
Dashwood, may be imagined. Though aware, before she began it, that it 
must bring a confession of his inconstancy, and confirm their separation 
for ever, she was not aware that such language could be suffered to 
announce it! nor could she have supposed Willoughby capable of de- 
parting so far from the appearance of every honourable and delicate 
feeling so far from the common decorum of a gentleman, as to send a 
letter so impudently cruel: a letter which, instead of bringing with his 
desire of a release any professions of regret, acknowledged no breach of 
faith, denied all peculiar affection whatever a letter of which every line 
was an insult, and which proclaimed its writer to be deep in hardened 
villainy. 



SENSEANDSENSIBILITY 109 

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

In her earnest meditations on the contents of the letter, on the de- 
pravity of that mind which could dictate it, and, probably, on the very 
different mind of a very different person, who had no other connection 
whatever with the affair than what her heart gave him with everything 
that passed, Elinor forgot the immediate distress of her sister, forgot 
that she had three letters on her lap yet unread, and so entirely forgot 
how long she had been in the room, that when, on hearing a carriage 
drive up to the door, she went to the window to see who could be coming 
so unreasonably early, she was all astonishment to perceive Mrs. Jen- 
nings's chariot, which she knew had not been ordered till one. Determined 
not to quit Marianne, though hopeless of contributing, at present, to her 
ease, she hurried away to excuse herself from attending Mrs. Jennings, 
on account of her sister being indisposed. Mrs. Jennings, with a thor- 
oughly good-humoured concern for its cause, admitted the excuse most 
readily, and Elinor, after seeing her safe off, returned to Marianne, whom 
she found attempting to rise from the bed, and whom she reached just 
in time to prevent her from falling on the floor, faint and giddy from a 
long want of proper rest and food ; for it was many days since she had 
any appetite, and many nights since she had really slept ; and now, when 
her mind was no longer supported by the fever of suspense, the conse- 
quence of all this was felt in an aching head, a weakened stomach, and 
general nervous faintness. A glass of wine, which Elinor procured for her 
directly, made her more comfortable, and she was at last able to express 
some sense of her kindness by saying: 

"Poor Elinor! How unhappy I make you!" 

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

This, as everything else would have been, was too much for Marianne, 
who could only exclaim, in the anguish of her heart, "O Elinor, I am 
miserable indeed," before her voice was entirely lost in sobs. 

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

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

"I cannot, I cannot," cried Marianne; "leave me, leave me, if I distress 
you; leave me, hate me, forget me; but do not torture me so. Oh! how 
easy for those who have no sorrow of their own to talk of exertion! 
Happy, happy Elinor, you cannot have an idea of what I suffer." 



no THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

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

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

"Many, many circumstances," said Elinor solemnly. 

"No, no, no," cried Marianne wildly; "he loves you, and only you. 
You can have no grief." 

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

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

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

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

"No engagement!" 

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

"But he told you that he loved you?" 

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

"Yet you wrote to him?" 

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

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

"BERKELEY STREET, January. 

"How surprised you will bs, Willoughby, on receiving this! and I think 
you will feel something more than surprise when you know I am in town, 
An opportunity of coming hither, though with Mrs. Jennings, was a 
temptation we could not resist. I wish you may receive this in time to 
come here 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 my disappointment in having missed you the day 
before yesterday, nor my astonishment at not having received any answer 



SENSE AND SENSIBILITY in 

to a note which I sent you above a week ago. I have been expecting to 
hear from you, and still more to see you, every hour of the day. Pray call 
again as soon as possible, and explain the reason of my having expected 
this in vain. You had better come earlier another time, because we are 
generally out by one. We were last night at Lady Middleton's where 
there was a dance. I have been told that you were asked to be of the 
party. But could it be so? You must be very much altered indeed since 
we parted, if that could be the case, and you not there. But I will not 
suppose this possible, and I hope very soon to receive your personal 
assurance of its being otherwise. M. D." 

The contents of her last note to him were these: 

"What am I to imagine, Willoughby, by your behaviour last night? 
Again I demand an explanation of it. I was prepared to meet you with 
the pleasure which our separation naturally produced, with the familiar- 
ity which our intimacy at Barton appeared 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 be- 
haviour, I am perfectly ready to hear your justification of it. You have 
perhaps been misinformed, or purposely deceived, in something concern- 
ing me, which may have lowered me in your opinion. Tell me what it is, 
explain the grounds on which you acted, and I shall be satisfied in being 
able to satisfy you. It would grieve me indeed to be obliged to think ill 
of you ; but if I am to do it, if I am to learn that you are not what we 
have hitherto believed you, that your regard for us all was insincere, 
that your behaviour to me was intended only to deceive, let it be told 
as soon as possible. My feelings are at present in a state of dreadful 
indecision; I wish to acquit you, but certainty on either side will be ease 
to what I now suffer. If your sentiments are no longer what they were, 
you will return my notes, and the lock of my hair which is in your 
possession. M. D." 

That such letters, so full of affection and confidence, could have been 
so answered, Elinor, for Willoughby's sake, would have been unwilling 
to believe. But her condemnation of him did not blind her to the im- 
propriety of their having been written at all ; and she was silently griev- 
ing 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 fin- 
ished 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." 



JI2 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

"He did feel the same, Elinor for weeks and weeks he felt it. "L know 
he did. Whatever may have changed him now (and nothing but the 
blackest art employed against me can have done it), I was once as dear 
to him as my own soul could wish. This lock of hair, which now he can so 
readily give up, was begged of me with the most earnest supplication. 
Had you seen his look, his manner, had you heard his voice at that mo- 
ment! Have you forgot the last evening of our being together at Barton? 
The morning that we parted too! When he told me that it might be 
many weeks before we met again his distress can I ever forget his 
distress!" 

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

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

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

"By all the world, rather than by his own heart. I could rather believe 
tivery creature of my acquaintance leagued together to ruin me in his 
opinion, than believe his nature capable of such cruelty. This woman of 
whom he writes whoever she be or any one, in short, but your own 
dear self, mamma, and Edward, may have been so barbarous to belie me. 
Beyond you three, is there a creature in the world whom I would not 
rather suspect of evil than Willoughby, whose heart I know so well?" 

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

"No, no," cried Marianne, "misery such as mine has no pride. I care 
not who knows that I am wretched. The triumph of seeing 'me so may be 
open to all the world. Elinor, Elinor, they who suffer little may be proud 
and independent as they like may resist insult, or return mortification 
but I cannot. I must feel I must be wretched and they are welcome to 
enjoy the consciousness of it that can." 

"But for my mother's sake and mine " 

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

Again they were both silent. Elinor was employed in walking thought- 
fully from the fire to the window, from the window to the fire, without 
knowing that she received warmth from one, or discerning objects through 
the other; and Marianne, seated at the foot of the bed, with her head 
leaning against one of its posts, again took up Willoughby's letter, and 
after shuddering over every sentence, exclaimed: 

"It is too much! O Willoughby, Willoughb>, could this be yours! 
Cruel, cruel nothing can acquit you. Elinor, nothing can. Whatever he 
might have heard against me ought he not to have suspended his belief? 
ought he not to have told me of it, to have given me the power of clear- 



SENSEANDSENSIBILITY 113 

mg myself? 'The lock of hair (repeating it from the letter) which you 
so obligingly bestowed on me' that is unpardonable. Willoughby, where 
was your heart when you wrote those words? Oh! barbarously insolent 1 
Elinor, can he be justified?" 

"No, Marianne, in no possible way." 

"And yet this woman who knows what her art may have been how 
long it may have been premeditated, and how deeply contrived by her! 
Who is she? Who can she be? Whom did I ever hear him talk of as young 
and attractive among his female acquaintances? 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 mamma. 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 regards me?'' 

"It would be impossible to go to-morrow. We owe Mrs. Jennings much 
more than civility; and civility of the commonest kind must prevent such 
a hasty removal as that." 

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

Elinor advised her to lie down again, and for a moment she did so; but 
no attitude could give her ease, and in restless pain of mind and body she 
moved from one posture to another, till growing more and more hysteri- 
cal, her sister could with difficulty keep her on the bed at all, and for 
some time was fearful of being constrained to call for assistance. Some 
lavender drops, however, which she was at length persuaded to take, 
were of use; and from that time till Mrs. Jennings returned, she con- 
tinued on the bed quiet and motionless. 

Chapter 30 

MRS. JENNINGS came immediately to their room on her return, and 
without waiting to have her request of admittance answered, opened the 
door and walked in with a look of real concern. 

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

"How is she, Miss Dashwood? Poor thing! she locks very bad. Nc 
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 
half an hour ago, and she was told it by a particular friend of Miss Grey 
herself, else I am sure I should not have believed it; and T was almost 



ii 4 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

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

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

Marianne, to the surprise of her sister, determined on dining with them. 
Elinor even advised her against it. But "no, she would go down; she could 
bear it very well, and the bustle about her would be less." Elinor, pleased 
to have her governed for a moment by such a motive, though believing it 
hardly possible that she could sit out the dinner, said no more; and 
adjusting her dress for her as well as she could while Marianne still 
remained on the bed, was ready to assist her into the dining-room as 
soon as they were summoned to it. , 

When there, though looking most wretchedly, she ate more and was 
calmer than her sister had expected. Had she tried to speak, or had she 
been conscious of half Mrs. Jennings's well-meant but ill-judged atten- 
tions to her, this calmness could not have been maintained; but not a 
syllable escaped her lips, and the abstraction of her thoughts preserved 
her in ignorance of everything that was passing before her. 

Elinor, who did justice to Mrs. Jennings's kindness though its effusions 
were often distressing, and sometimes almost ridiculous, made her those 
acknowledgments, and returned her those civilities, which her sister could 
not make or return for herself. Their good friend saw that Marianne 
was unhappy, and felt that everything was due to her which might 
make her at all less so. She treated her, therefore, with all the indulgent 
fondness of a parent towards a favourite child on the last day of its 
holidays. Marianne was to have the best place by the fire, was to be 
tempted to eat by every delicacy in the house, and to be amused by the 
relation of all the news of the day. Had not Elinor, in the sad counte- 
nance 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 sweetmeat and olives, and a good fire. As soon, however, as 
the consciousness of all this was forced by continual repetition on Mari- 
anne 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 
grives me to see her! And I declare if she is not gone away without 



SENSEANDSENSIBILITY 115 

finishing her wine! And the dried cherries too! Lord! nothing seems to 
do her any good. I am sure if I knew of anything she would like, I would 
send all over the town for it. Well, it is the oddest thing for me, that a 
man should use such a pretty girl so ill ! But when there is plenty of money 
on one side, and next to none on the other, Lord, bless you! they care no 
more about such things ! " 

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

"Fifty thousand pounds, my dear. Did you ever see her? A smart, 
stylish girl, they say, but not handsome. I remember her aunt very well, 
Biddy Henshawe; she married a very wealthy man. But the family are 
all rich together. Fifty thousand pounds! and by all accounts it won't 
come before it's wanted; for they say he is all to pieces. No wonder! 
dashing about with his curricle and hunters! Well, it don't signify talk- 
ing, 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 would have been ready to wait till matters came round. But 
that won't do now-a-days; nothing in the way of pleasure can ever be 
given up by the young men of this age." 

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

"I never heard any harm of her; indeed, I hardly ever heard her men- 
tioned ; except that Mrs. Taylor did say this morning, that one day Miss 
Walker hinted to her that she believed Mr. and Mrs. Ellison would not 
be sorry to have Miss Grey married, for she and Mrs. Ellison could 
never agree." 

"And who are the Ellisons?" 

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

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

"Aye, I believe that will be best for her. Let her name her own supper, 
and go to bed. Lord! no wonder she has been looking so bad and so cast- 
down this last week or two, for this matter I suppose has been hanging 
over her head as long as that. And so the letter that came 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 common love-letter, 



ti6 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

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 me, I might have called in Conduit Street in my 
way home, and told them of it. But I shall see them to-morrow." 

"It would be unnecessary, I am sure, for you to caution Mrs. Palmer 
and Sir John against ever naming Mr. Willoughby, or making the slight- 
est allusion to what has passed, before my sister. Their own good-nature 
must point out to them the real cruelty of appearing to know anything 
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." 

"O Lord! yes, that I do indeed. It must be terrible for you to hear it 
talked of ; and as for your sister, I am sure I would not mention a word 
about it to her for the world. You saw I did not all dinner-time. No more 
would Sir John nor my daughters, for they are all very thoughtful and 
considerate especially if I give them a hint, as I certainly will. For my 
part, I think the less that is said about such things, the better, the sooner 
'tis blown over and forgot. And what 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 attended by circumstances which, 
for the sake of every one concerned in it, make it unfit to become the 
public conversation. I must do this justice to Mr. Willoughby he has 
broken no positive engagement with my sister." 

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

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

"Well, my dear, 'tis a true saying about an ill wind, for it will be all 
the better for Colonel Brandon. He will have her at last; aye, that he 
will. Mind me, now, if they an't married by 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 is a nice place, I can tell you; exactly what I call a 
nice old-fashioned place, full of comforts and conveniences; quite shut 
in with great garden walls that are covered with the best fruit-trees in 
the country; and such a mulberry tree in one corner! Lord! how Char- 
lotte 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 everything, 
in short, that one could wish for: and, moreover, it is close to the church, 



SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 117 

and only a quarter of a mile from the turnpike-road, so 'tis never dull, 
for if you only go and sit up in an old yew harbour behind the house, 
you may see all the carriages that pass along. Oh! 'tis a nice place! A 
butcher hard by in the village, and the parsonage-house within a stone's 
throw. To my fancy, a thousand times prettier than Barton Park, where 
they are forced to send three miles for their meat, and have not a neigh- 
bour nearer than your mother. Well, I shall spirit up the Colonel as 
soon as I can. One shoulder of mutton you know, drives another down. 
If we can but put Willoughby out of her head!" 

"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 awaj 
to join Marianne, whom she found, as she expected, in her own room, 
leaning, in silent misery, over the small remains of a fire which, till 
Elinor's entrance, had been her only light. 

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

"I will leave you," said Elinor, "if you will go to bed." But this, from 
the momentary perverseness of impatient suffering, she at first refused to 
do. Her sister's earnest, though gentle persuasion, however, soon softened 
her to compliance, and Elinor saw her lay her aching head on the pillow, 
and 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 anything 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 was recommended, "how good you are! But I have* 
just left Marianne in bed, and, I hope, almost asleep; and as I think 
nothing will be of so much service to her as rest, if you will give me leave, 
I will drink the wine myself." 

Mrs. Jennings, though regretting that she had not been five minutes 
earlier, was satisfied with the compromise ; and Elinor, as she swallowed 
the chief of it, reflected that, though its good effects on a cholicky gout 
were at present of little importance to her, its healing powers on a dis- 
appointed heart might be as reasonably tried on herself as on her sister. 

Colonel Brandon came in while the party were at tea, and by his 
manner of looking round the room for Marianne, Elinor immediately 
fancied that he neither expected nor wished to see her there, and, in 
short, that he was already aware of what occasioned her absence. Mrs. 
Jennings was not struck by the same thought; for, soon after his 
entrance, she walked across the room to the tea-table where Elinor pre- 



n8 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

sided, 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 hers, and with a look 
which perfectly assured her of his good information, inquired after her 
sister. 

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

"Perhaps, then," he hesitatingly replied, "what I heard this morning 
may be true there may be more truth in it than I could believe possible 
at first." 

"What did you hear?" 

"That a gentleman, whom 1 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 elucidation, for this very morning first 
unfolded it to us. Mr. Willoughby is unfathomable ! Where did you 
hear it?" 

"In a stationer's shop in Pall Mall, where I had business. Two ladies 
were waiting for their carriage, and one of them was giving the other an 
account of the intended match, in a voice so little attempting conceal- 
ment, that it was impossible for me not to hear all. The name of Wil- 
loughby, John Willoughby, frequently repeated, first caught my atten- 
tion, and what followed was a positive assertion that everything 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 preparation and other matters. One thing, especially, 
I remember, because it served to identify the man still more; as soon 
as the ceremony was over, they were to go to Combe Magna, his seat in 
Somersetshire. My astonishment! But it would be impossible to describe 
what I felt. The communicative lady, I learnt on inquiry, for I stayed 
in the shop till they were gone, was a Mrs. Ellison, and that, as I have 
been since informed, is the name of Miss Grey's guardian." 

"It is. But have you likewise heard that Miss Grey has fifty thousand 
pounds? In that, if in anything, 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, 
u 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 affliction. 
Till yesterday, I believe, she never doubted his regard; and even now, 
perhaps but / am almost convinced that he never was really attached 
to her. He has been very deceitful! and, in some points, there seems a 
hardness of heart about him." 

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



SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 119 

not I think you said so she does not consider it quite as you do?" 
"You know her disposition, and may believe how eagerly she would 
still justify him if she could." 

He made no answer ; and soon afterwards, by the removal of the tea- 
things, and the arrangement of the card parties, the subject was neces^ 
sarily dropped. Mrs. Jennings, who had watched them with pleasure 
while they were talking, and who expected to see the effect of Miss 
Dashwood's communication, in such an instantaneous gaiety on Colonel 
Brandon's side as might have become a man in the bloom of youth, of 
hope and happiness, saw him, with amazement, remain the whole evening 
more serious and thoughtful than usual. 



Chapter 31 

FROM a night of more sleep than she had expected, Marianne awoke 
the next morning to the same consciousness of misery in which she had 
closed her eyes. Elinor encouraged her as much as possible to talk of 
what she felt; and before breakfast was ready, they had gone through 
the subject again and again; with the same steady conviction and affec- 
tionate counsel on Elinor's side, the same impetuous feelings and vary- 
ing opinions on Marianne's, as before. Sometimes she could believe Wil- 
loughby to be as unfortunate and as innocent as herself, and at others, 
lost every consolation in the impossibility of acquitting him. At one 
moment she was absolutely indifferent to the observation of all the 
world, at another she would seclude herself from it for ever, and at a 
third could resist it with energy. In one thing, however, she was uniform, 
when it came to the point, in avoiding, where it was possible, the presence 
of Mrs. Jennings, and in a determined silence when obliged to endure it. 
Her heart was hardened against the belief of Mrs. Jennings's entering 
into her sorrows with any compassion. 

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

Elinor had not needed this to be assured of the injustice to which her 
sister was often led in her opinion of others, by the irritable refinement 
of her own mind, and the too great importance placed by her on the 
delicacies of a strong sensibility, and the graces of a polished manner. 
Like half the rest of the world, if more than half there be that is clever 
and good, Marianne with excellent abilities and an excellent disposition, 
was neither reasonable nor candid. She expected from other people the 
same opinions and feelings as her own, and she judged of their motives 
by the immediate effect of their actions on herself. Thus a circumstance 
occurred, while the sisters were together in their own room after break- 
fast, which sunk the heart of Mrs. Jennings still lower in her estimation; 
because, through her own weakness, it chanced to prove a source of 



120 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

fresh pain to herself, though Mrs. Jennings was governed in it by an 
impulse of the utmost good-will. 

With a letter in her outstretched hand, and countenance gaily smiling, 
from the persuasion of bringing comfort, she entered their room, saying: 

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

Marianne heard enough. In one moment her imagination placed before 
her a letter from Willoughby, full of tenderness and contrition, explana- 
tory of all that had passed, satisfactory, convincing; and instantly fol- 
lowed by Willoughby himself, rushing eagerly into the room to inforce, 
at her feet, by the eloquence of his eyes, the assurances of his letter. The 
work of one moment was destroyed by the next. The handwriting of her 
mother, never till then unwelcome, was before her ; and, in the acuteness 
of the disappointment which followed such an ecstasy of more than hope, 
she felt as if, till that instant, she had never suffered. 

The cruelty of Mrs. Jennings no language, within her reach in her 
moments of happiest eloquence, could have expressed ; and now she could 
reproach her only by the tears which streamed from her eyes with pas- 
sionate violence a reproach, however, 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. Willoughby filled every page. Her mother, still 
confident of her engagement, and relying as warmly as ever on his con- 
stancy, had only been roused by Elinor's application, to entreat from 
Marianne greater openness towards them both, and this, with such ten- 
derness towards her, such affection for Willoughby, and such a convic- 
tion of their future happiness in each other, that she wept with agony 
through the whole of it. 

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

Mrs. Jennings left them earlier than usual ; for she could not be easy 
till the Middletons and Palmers were able to grieve as much as herself ; 
and positively refusing Elinor's offered attendance, went out alone for 
the rest of the morning. Elinor, with a very heavy heart, aware of the 
pain she was going to communicate, and perceiving by Marianne's letter 
how ill she had succeeded in laying any foundation for it, then sat down 
to write her mother an account of what had passed, and entreat her direc- 
tions for the future; while Marianne, who came into the drawing-room 
on Mrs. Jennings's going away, remained fixed at the table where Elinor 
wrote, watching the advancement of her pen, grieving over her for the 



SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 121 

hardship of such a task, and grieving still more fondly over its effect on 
her mother. 

In this manner they had continued about a quarter of an hour, when 
Marianne, whose nerves could not then bear any sudden noise, was 
startled by a rap at the door. 

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

Marianne moved to the window. 

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

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

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

The event proved her conjecture right, though it was founded on 
injustice and error, for Colonel Brandon did come in; and Elinor, who 
was convinced that solicitude for Marianne brought him thither, and 
who saw that solicitude in his disturbed and melancholy look, and in his 
anxious though brief inquiry after her, could not forgive her sister for 
esteeming him so lightly. 

"I met Mrs. Jennings in Bond Street," said he, after the first saluta- 
tion, "and she encouraged me to come on; and I was the more easily 
encouraged, because I thought it probable that I might find you alone, 
which I was very desirous of doing. My object my wish my sole wish 
in desiring it I hope, I believe it is is to be a means of giving com- 
fort no, I must not say comfort not present comfort but conviction, 
lasting conviction to your sister's mind. My regard for her, for yourself, 
for your mother will you allow me to prove it by relating some cir- 
cumstances, which nothing but a very sincere regard nothing but an 
earnest desire of being useful I think I am justified though where so 
many hours have been spent in convincing myself that I am right, is there 
not some reason to fear I may be wrong?" He stopped. 

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

"You shall; and, to be brief, when I quitted Barton last October but 
this will give you no idea. I must go farther back. You will find me a very 
awkward narrator, Miss Dashwood; I hardly know where to begin. A 
short account of myself, I believe, will be necessary, and it shall be a 
short one. On such a subject," sighing heavily, "I can have little tempta- 
tion to be diffuse." 

He stopped a moment for recollection, and then, with another sigh, 
went on. 



I22 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

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

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

"If I am not deceived by the uncertainty, the partiality of tender 
recollection, there is a very strong resemblance between them as well in 
mind as person the same warmth of heart; the same eagerness of fancy 
and spirits. This lady was one of my nearest relations, an orphan from 
her infancy, and under the guardianship of my father. Our ages were 
nearly the same, and from our earliest years we were playfellows and 
friends. I cannot remember the time when I did not love Eliza ; and my 
affection for her, as we grew up, was such, as perhaps, judging from my 
present forlorn and cheerless gravity, you might think me incapable of 
having ever felt. Hers, for me, was, I believe, fervent as the attachment 
of your sister to Mr. Willoughby, and it was, though from a different 
cause, no less unfortunate. At seventeen she was lost to me for ever. 
She was married married against her inclination to my brother. Her 
fortune was large, and our family estate much encumbered. And this, I 
fear, is all that can be said for the conduct of one who was at once her 
uncle and guardian. My brother did not deserve her; he did not even 
love her. I had hoped that her regard for me would support her under 
any difficulty, and for some time it did; but at last the misery of her 
situation, for she experienced great unkindness, overcame all her reso- 
lution, and though she had promised me that nothing but how blindly 
I relate! I have never told you how this was brought on. We were within 
a few hours of eloping together for Scotland. The treachery, or the folly, 
of my cousin's maid betrayed us. I was banished to the house of a rela- 
tion far distant, and she was allowed no liberty, no society, no amuse- 
ment, till my father's point was gained. I had depended on her fortitude 
too far, and the blow was a severe one but had her marriage been happy, 
so young as I then was, a few months must have reconciled me to it, or 
at least I should not have now to lament it. This, however, was not the 
case. My brother had no regard for her; his pleasures were not what they 
ought to have been, and from the first he treated her unkindly. The 
consequence of this, upon a mind so young, so lively, so inexperienced as 
Mrs. Brandon's, was but too natural. She resigned herself at first to all 
the misery of her situation; and happy had it been if she had not lived 
to overcome those regrets which the remembrance of me occasioned. 
But can we wonder that with such a husband to provoke inconstancy, 
and without a friend to advise or restrain her (for my father lived only 
a few months after their marriage, and I was with my regiment in the 
East Indies), she should fall? Had I remained in England, perhaps 
but I meant to promote the happiness of both by removing from her for 



SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 123 

years, and for that purpose had procured my exchange. The shock which 
her marriage had given me," he continued in a voice of great agitation, 
"was of trifling weight was nothing to what I felt when I heard, about 
two years afterwards, of her divorce. It was that which threw this gloom, 
even now the recollection of what I suffered 

He could say no more, and rising hastily walked for a few minutes 
about the room. Elinor, affected by his relation, and still more by his 
distress, could not speak. He saw her concern, and coming to her, took 
her hand, pressed it, and kissed it with grateful respect. A few minutes 
more of silent exertion enabled him to proceed with composure. 

"It was nearly three years after this unhappy period before I returned 
to England. My first care, when I did arrive, was of course to seek for 
her; but the search was as fruitless as it was melancholy. I could not 
trace her beyond her first seducer, and there was every reason to fear 
that she had removed from him only to sink deeper in a life of sin. Her 
legal allowance was not adequate to her fortune, nor sufficient for her 
comfortable maintenance, and I learnt from my brother that the power 
of receiving it had been made over some months before to another person. 
He imagined, and calmly could he imagine it, that her extravagance and 
consequent distress had obliged her to dispose of it for some immediate 
relief. At last, however, and after I had been six months in England, I 
did find her. Regard for a former servant of my own, who had since 
fallen into misfortune, carried me to visit him in a spunging-house, 
where he was confined for debt, and there, in the same house, under a 
similar confinement, was my unfortunate sister. So altered so faded- 
worn down by acute suffering of every kind! hardly could I believe the 
melancholy and sickly figure before me, to be the remains of the lovely, 
blooming, healthful girl, on whom I had once doted. What I endured in 
so beholding her but I have no right to wound your feelings by attempt- 
ing to describe it I have pained you too much already. That she was, 
to all appearance, in the last stage of consumption, was yes, in such 
a situation it was my greatest comfort. Life could do nothing for her, 
beyond giving time for a better preparation for death; and that was 
given. I saw her placed in comfortable lodgings, and under proper 
attendants; I visited her every day during the rest of her short life: I 
was with her in her last moments." 

Again he stopped to recover himself; and Elinor spoke her feelings in 
an exclamation of tender concern at the fate of his unfortunate friend. 

"Your sister, I hope, cannot be offended," said he, "by the resemblance 
I have fancied between her and my poor disgraced relation. Their fates, 
their fortunes cannot be the same; and had the natural sweet disposition 
of the one been guarded by a firmer mind, or a happier marriage, she 
might have been all that you will live to see the other be. But to what 
does all this lead? I seem to have been distressing you for nothing. Ah! 
Miss Dashwood a subject such as this untouched for fourteen years 
it is dangerous to handle it at all! I will be more collected more 



I2 4 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

concise. She left to my care her only little child, a little girl, the offspring 
of her first guilty connection, who was then about three years old. She 
loved the child, and had always kept it with her. It was a valued, a 
precious trust to me; and gladly would I have discharged it in the 
strictest sense, by watching over her education myself, had the nature 
of our situations allowed it; but I had no family, no home; and my 
little Eliza was therefore placed at school. I saw her there whenever 
I could, and after the death of my brother (which happened about five 
years ago, and which left me the possession of the family property), she 
frequently visited me at Delaford. I called her a distant relation ; but I 
am well aware that I have in general been suspected of a much nearer 
connection with her. It is now three years ago (she had just reached her 
fourteenth year), that I removed her from school, to place her under the 
care of a very respectable woman, residing in Dorsetshire, who had the 
charge of four or five other girls of about the same time of life; and 
for two years I had every reason to be pleased with her situation. But 
last February, almost a twelvemonth back, she suddenly disappeared. 
I had allowed her (imprudently, as it has since turned out), at her earnest 
desire to go to Bath with one of her young friends, who was attending 
her father there for his health. I knew him to be a very good sort of 
man, and I thought well cf his daughter better than she deserved, for, 
with a most obstinate and ill-judged secrecy, she would tell nothing, 
would give no clue, though she certainly knew all. He, her father, a well- 
meaning, but not a quick-sighted man, could really, I believe, give no 
information; for he had been generally confined to the house, while the 
girls were ranging over the town and making what acquaintances they 
chose; and he tried to convince me, as thoroughly as he was convinced 
himself, of his daughter's being entirely unconcerned in the business. In 
short, I could learn nothing but that she was gone; all the rest, for eight 
long months, was left to conjecture. What I thought, what I feared, may 
be imagined; and what I suffered too." 

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

"The first news that reached me of her," he continued, "came in a 
letter from herself last October. It was forwarded to me from Delaford; 
and I received it on the very morning of our intended party to Whitwell; 
and this was the reason of my leaving Barton so suddenly, which I am 
sure must at the time have appeared strange to everybody, and which 
I believe gave offence to some. Little did Mr. Willoughby imagine, I 
suppose, when his looks censured me for incivility in breaking up the 
party, that I was called away to the relief of one whom he had made 
poor and miserable; but had he known it, what would it have availed? 
Would he have been less gay or less happy in the smiles of your sister? 
No, he had already done that which no man who can feel for another 
would do. He had left the girl whose youth and innocence he had seduced, 
in a situation of the utmost distress, with no creditable home, no help, 



SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 125 

no friends, ignorant of his address! He had left her, promising to return; 
he neither returned, nor wrote, nor relieved her." 

"This is beyond everything!' 7 exclaimed Elinor. 

"His character is now before you expensive, dissipated, and worse 
than both. Knowing all this, as I have now known it many weeks, guess 
what I must have felt on seeing your sister as fond of him as ever, and 
on being assured that she was to marry him ; guess what I must have felt 
for all your sakes. When I came to you last week and found you alone, 
I came determined to know the truth, though irresolute what to do when 
it was known. My behaviour must have seemed strange to you then; but 
now you will comprehend it. To suffer you all to be so deceived; to see 
your sister but what could I do? I had no hope of interfering with suc- 
cess; and sometimes I thought your sister's influence might yet reclaim 
him. But now, after such dishonourable usage, who can tell what were 
his designs on her? Whatever they may have been, however, she may 
now, and hereafter doubtless will, turn with gratitude towards her own 
condition, when she compares it with that of my poor Eliza, when she 
considers the wretched and hopeless situation of this poor girl, and 
pictures her to herself, with an affection for him 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 proceed from 
no misconduct, and can bring no disgrace. On the contrary, every friend 
must be made still more her friend by them. Concern for her unhappiness, 
and respect for her fortitude under it, must strengthen every attachment. 
Use your own discretion, however, in communicating to her what I have 
told you. You must know best what will be its effect; but had I not 
seriously and from my heart believed it might be of service, might lessen 
her regrets, I would not have suffered myself to trouble you with this 
account of my family afflictions, with a recital which may seem to have 
been intended to raise myself at the expense of others." 

Elinor's thanks followed this speech with grateful earnestness; at- 
tended too with the assurance of her expecting material advantage to 
Marianne, from the communication of what had passed. 

"I have been more pained," said she, "by her endeavours to acquit 
him than by all the rest; for it irritates her mind more than the most 
perfect conviction of his un worthiness can do. Now, though at first she 
will suffer much, I am sure she will soon become easier. Have you," she 
continued, after a short silence, "ever seen Mr. Willoughby since you left 
him at Barton?" 

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

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

"What! have you met him to " 

"I could meet him 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 



I2 6 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

to defend, I to punish his conduct. We returned unwounded, and the 
meeting, therefore, never got abroad." 

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

"Such," said Colonel Brandon, after a pause, "has been the unhappy 
resemblance between the fate of mother and daughter! And so imperfectly 
have I discharged my trust ! " 

"Is she still in town?" 

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

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



Chapter 32 

WHEN the particulars of this conversation were repeated by Miss 
Dashwood to her sister, as they very soon were, their effect on her was 
not entirely such as the former had hoped to see. Not that Marianne 
appeared to distrust the truth of any part of it, for she listened to it all 
with the most steady and submissive attention, made neither objection 
nor remark, attempted no vindication of Willoughby, and seemed to 
show by her tears that she felt it to be impossible. But though this be- 
haviour assured Elinor that the conviction of his guilt was carried home 
to her mind; though she saw with satisfaction the effect of -it, in her no 
longer avoiding Colonel Brandon when he called, in her speaking to him, 
even voluntarily speaking, with a kind of compassionate respect, and 
though she saw her spirits less violently irritated than before; she did 
not see her less wretched. Her mind did become settled, but it was settled 
in a gloomy dejection. She felt the loss of Willoughby's character yet 
more heavily than she had felt the loss of his heart; his seduction and 
desertion of Miss Williams, the misery of that poor girl, and the doubt 
of what his designs might once have been on herself, preyed together so 
much on her spirits, that she could not bring herself to speak of what 
she felt even to Elinor; and brooding over her sorrows in silence, gave 
more pain to her sister than could have been communicated by the most 
open and most frequent confession of them. 

To give the feelings or the language of Mrs. Dashwood on receiving 
and answering Elinor's letter, would be only to give a repetition of what 
her daughters had already felt and said ; of a disappointment hardly less 
painful than Marianne's, and an indignation even greater than Elinor's. 
Long letters from her, quickly succeeding each other, arrived to tell all 
that she suffered and thought; to express her anxious solicitude for 



SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 127 

Marianne, and entreat she would bear up with fortitude under this mist 
fortune. Bad indeed must the nature of Marianne's affliction be, when 
her mother could talk of fortitude! Mortifying and humilating must be 
the origin of those regrets, which she could wish her not to indulge ! 

Against the interest of her own individual comfort, Mrs. Dash wood 
had determined that it would be better for Marianne to be anywhere at 
that time than at Barton, where everything within her view would be 
bringing back the past in the strongest and most afflicting manner, by 
constantly placing Willoughby. before her, such as she had always seen 
him there. She recommended it to her daughters, therefore, by all means 
not to shorten their visit to Mrs. Jennings; the length of which, though 
never exactly fixed, had been expected by all to comprise at least five 
or six weeks. A variety of occupations, of objects, and of company, which 
could not be procured at Barton, would be inevitable there, and might 
yet, she hoped, cheat Marianne, at times, into some interest beyond 
herself, and even into some amusement, much as the idea of both might 
now be spurned by her. 

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

She had yet another reason for wishing her children to remain where 
they were; a letter from her son-in-law had told her that he and his wife 
were to be in town before the middle of February, and she judged it right 
that they should sometimes see their brother. 

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

But it was a matter of great consolation to her, that what brought evil 
to herself would bring good to her sister; and Elinor, on the other hand, 
suspecting that it would not be in her power to avoid Edward entirely, 
comforted herself by thinking, that though their longer stay would there- 
fore militate against her own happiness, it would be better for Marianne 
than an immediate return into Devonshire. 

Her carefulness in guarding her sister from ever hearing Willoughby s 
name mentioned, was not thrown away. Marianne, though without know- 



I 2 8 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

ing it herself, reaped all its advantage ; for neither Mrs. Jennings, nor Sir 
John, nor even Mrs. Palmer herself, ever spoke of him before her. Elinor 
wished that the same forbearance could have extended towards herself, 
but that was impossible, and she was obliged to listen day after day to 
the indignation of them all. 

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

Mrs. Palmer, in her way, was equally angry. "She was determined to 
drop his acquaintance immediately, and she was very thankful that she 
had never been acquainted with him at all. She wished with all her heart 
Combe Magna was not so near Cleveland ; but it did not signify, for it was 
a great deal too far off to visit; she hated him so much that she was 
resolved never to mention his name again, and she should tell everybody 
she saw how good-for-nothing he was." 

The rest of Mrs. Palmer's sympathy was shown in procuring all the 
particulars in her power of the approaching marriage, and communicating 
them to Elinor. She could soon tell at what coachmaker's the new carriage 
was building, by what painter Mr. Willoughby's portrait was drawn, and 
at what warehouse Miss Grey's clothes might be seen. 

The calm and polite unconcern of Lady Middleton on the occasion was 
a happy relief to Elinor's spirits, oppressed as they of ten. were by the 
clamorous kindness of the others. It was a great comfort to her to be 
sure of exciting no interest in one person at least among their circle of 
friends ; a great comfort to know that there was one who would meet her 
without feeling any curiosity after particulars, or any anxiety for her 
sister's health. 

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

Lady Middleton expressed her sense of the affair about once every day, 
or twice, if the subject occurred very often, by saying, "It is very shocking 
indeed! " and by the means of this continual though gentle vent, was able 
not only to see the Miss Dashwoods from the first without the smallest 
emotion, but very soon to see them without recollecting a word of the 
matter ; and having thus supported the dignity of her own sex, and spoken 
her decided censure of what was wrong in the other, she thought herself 
at liberty to attend to the interest of her own assemblies, and therefore 
determined (though rather against the opinion of Sir John), as Mrs. 



SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 129 

Willoughby would at once be a woman of elegance and fortune, to leave 
her card with her as soon as she married. 

Colonel Brandon's delicate unobtrusive inquiries were never unwelcome 
to Miss Dashwood. He had abundantly earned the privilege of intimate 
discussion of her sister's disappointment, by the friendly zeal with which 
he had endeavoured to soften it, and they always conversed with confi- 
dence. His chief reward for the painful exertion of disclosing past sorrows 
and present humiliations, was given in the pitying eye with which Mari- 
anne sometimes observed him, and the gentleness of her voice whenever 
(though it did not often happen) she was obliged, or could oblige herself 
to speak to him. These assured him that his exertion had produced an 
increase of good-will towards himself, and these gave Elinor hopes of its 
being further 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 never 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 Michaelmas, 
and by the end of a week that it would not be a match at all. The good 
understanding between the Colonel and Miss Dashwood seemed rather to 
declare that the honours of the mulberry-tree, the canal, and the yew 
arbour, would all be made over to her; and Mrs. Jennings had for some 
time ceased to think at all of Mr. Ferrars. 

Early in February, within a fortnight from the receipt of Willoughby 's 
letter, Elinor had the painful office of informing her sister that he 
was married. She had taken care to have the intelligence conveyed 
to herself, as soon as it was known that the ceremony was over, as she 
was desirous that Marianne should not receive the first notice of it 
from the public papers, which she saw her eagerly examining every 
morning. 

She received the news with resolute composure; made no observation 
on it, and at first shed no tears; but after a short time they would burst 
out, and for the rest of the day she was in a state hardly less pitiable than 
when she first learnt to expect the event. 

The Willoughbys left town as soon as they were married ; and Elinor 
now hoped, as there could be no danger of her seeing either of them, to 
prevail on her sister, who had never yet left the house since the blow first 
fell, to go out again by degrees as she had done before. 

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

Elinor only was sorry to see them. Their presence always gave her pain, 
and she hardly knew how to make a very gracious return to the over- 
powering delight of Lucy in finding her still in town. 

"I should have been quite disappointed if I had not found you here 
still" said she repeatedly, with a strong emphasis on the word. "But 



130 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

always thought I should. I was almost sure you would not leave London 
yet awhile; though you told me, you know, at Barton, that you should not 
stay above a month. But I thought, at the time, that you would most 
likely change your mind when it came to the point. It would have been 
such a great pity to have went away before your brother and sister came. 
And now, to be sure, you will be in no hurry to be gone. I am amazingly 
glad you did not keep to your word" 

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

"Well, my dear," said Mrs. Jennings, "and how did you travel?" 

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

"Oh, oh!" cried Mrs. Jennings, "very pretty, indeed! And the Doctor 
is a single man, I warrant you." 

"There now," said Miss Steele, affectedly simpering; "everybody laughs 
at me so about the Doctor, and I cannot think why. My cousins say they 
are sure I have made a conquest ; but for my part I declare I never think 
about him from one hour's end to another. 'Lord! here comes your beau, 
Nancy,' my cousin said t'other day, when she saw him crossing the street 
to the house. 'My beau, indeed!' said I, 'I cannot think who you mean. 
The Doctor is no beau of mine/ " 

"Aye, aye, that is very pretty talking but it won't do the Doctor 
is the man, I see." 

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

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

"I suppose you will go and stay with your brother and sister, Miss 
Dashwood, when they come to town," said Lucy, returning, after a 
cessation of hostile hints, to the charge. 

"No, I do not think we shall." 

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

Elinor would not humour her by further 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 pleasure 



SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 131 

of seeing you; but she has been very much plagued lately with nervous 
headaches, which make her unfit for company or conversation." 

"Oh, dear, that is a great pity! But such old friends as Lucy and me! 
I think she might see us; and I am sure we would not speak a word." 

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

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

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

Chapter 33 

AFTER some opposition, Marianne yielded to her sister's entreaties, 
and consented to go out with her and Mrs. Jennings one morning for 
half an hour. She expressly conditioned, however, for paying no visits, 
and would do no more than accompany them to Gray's in Sackville Street, 
where Elinor was carrying on a negotiation for the exchange of a few old- 
fashioned jewels of her mother. 

When they stopped at the door, Mrs. Jennings recollected that there 
was a lady at the other end of the street on whom she ought to call ; and 
as she had no business at Gray's, it was resolved, that while her young 
friends transacted theirs, she should pay her visit, and return to 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 could 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 hope 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 debating for a quarter of an hour over 
every toothpick-case in the shop, were finally arranged by his own in- 
ventive fancy he had no leisure to bestow any other attention on the 
two ladies, than what was comprised in three or four very broad stares; 
a kind of notice which served to imprint on Elinor the remembrance of 
a person and face of strong, natural, sterling insignificance, though adorned 
in the first style of fashion. 

Marianne was spared from the troublesome feelings of contempt and 
resentment, on this impertinent examination of their features, and on the 
puppyism of his manner in deciding on all the different horrors of the 



i 3 2 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

different toothpick-cases presented to his inspection, by remaining un- 
conscious of it all ; for she was as well able to collect her thoughts within 
herself, and be as ignorant of what was passing around her, in Mr. Gray's 
shop, as in her own bedroom. 

At last the affair was decided. The ivory, the gold, and the pearls, all 
received their appointment, and the gentleman having named the last 
day on which his existence could be continued without the possession of 
the toothpick-case, drew on his gloves with leisurely care, and bestowing 
another glance on the Miss Dashwoods, but such a one as seemed rather 
to demand than express admiration, walked off with a happy air of real 
conceit and affected indifference. 

Elinor lost no time in bringing her business forward, 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 very 
creditable appearance in Mr. Gray's shop. John Dashwood was really far 
from being sorry to see his sisters again ; it rather gave them satisfaction ; 
and his inquiries after their mother were respectful and attentive. 

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

"I wished very much to call upon you yesterday," said he, "but it was 
impossible, for we were obliged to take Harry to see the wild beasts at 
Exeter Exchange; and we spent the rest of the day with Mrs. Ferrars. 
Harry was vastly pleased. This morning I had fully intended to call on 
you, if I could possibly find a spare half -hour, but one has always so much 
to do on first coming to town! I am come here to bespeak Fanny a seal. 
But to-morrow I think I shall certainly be able to call in Berkeley Street, 
and be introduced to your friend Mrs. Jennings. I understand she is a 
woman of very good fortune. And the Middletons too, you must introduce 
me to them. As my mother-in-law's relations, I shall be happy to show 
them every respect. They are excellent neighbours to you in the country, 
I understand." 

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

"I am extremely glad to hear it, upon my word; extremely glad indeed. 
But so it ought to be ; they are people of large fortune, they are related to 
you, and every civility and accommodation that can serve to make your 
situation pleasant, might be reasonably expected. And so you are most 
comfortably settled in your little cottage, and want for nothing. Edward 
brought us a most charming account of the place ; the most complete thing 
of its kind, he said, that ever was, and you all seemed to enjoy it beyond 
anything. It was a great satisfaction to us to hear it, I assure you." 

Elinor did feel a little ashamed of her brother ; and was not sorry to be 
spared the necessity of answering him, by the arrival of Mrs. Jennings's 
servant, who came to tell her that his mistress waited for them at the 
door. 



SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 133 

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

His visit was duly paid. He came with a pretence of an apology from 
their sister-in-law, for not coming too; "but she was so much engaged 
with her mother, that really she had no leisure for going anywhere." Mrs. 
Jennings, however, assured him directly, that she should not stand upon 
ceremony, for they were all cousins, or something like it, and she should 
certainly wait on Mrs. John Dashwood very soon, and bring her sisters 
to see her. His manners to them, though calm, were perfectly kind; to 
Mrs. Jennings, most attentively civil ; and on Colonel Brandon's coming 
in soon after himself, he eyed him with a curiosity which seemed to say. 
that he only wanted to know him to be rich to be equally civil to him. 

After staying with them half an hour, he asked Elinor to walk with him 
to Conduit Street, and introduce him to Sir John and Lady Middleton. 
The weather was remarkably fine, and she readily consented. As soon as 
they were out of the house, his inquiries began. 

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

"Yes; he has a very good property in Dorsetshire." 

"I am glad of it. He seems a most gentlemanlike man, and I think, 
Elinor, I may congratulate you on the prospect of a very respectable 
establishment in life." 

"Me, brother what do you mean?" 

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

"I believe about two thousand a year." 

"Two thousand a year"; and then working himself up to a pitch of 
enthusiastic generosity, he added: 

"Elinor, I wish with all my heart it were twice as much for your sake." 

"Indeed I believe you," replied Elinor, "but I am very sure that Colonel 
Brandon has not the smallest wish of marrying me" 

"You are mistaken, Elinor; you are very much mistaken. A very little 
trouble on your side secures him. Perhaps just at present he may be un- 
decided; the smallness of your fortune may make him hang back; his 
friends may all advise him "against it. But some of those little attentions 
and encouragements which ladies can so easily give, will fix him, in spite 
of himself. And there can be no reason why you should not try for him. 
It is not to be supposed that any prior attachment on your side in short, 
you know as to an attachment of that kind, it is quite out of the question, 
the objections are insurmountable you have too much sense not to see 
all that. Colonel Brandon must be the man; and no civility shall be want- 
ing on my part, to make him pleased with you and your family. It is a 
match that must give universal satisfaction. In short, it is a kind of thing 
that" lowering his voice to an important whisper "will be exceedingly 
welcome to all parties." Recollecting himself, however, he added, "That 
is. I mean to say your friends are all truly anxious to see you well settled, 



134 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

Fanny particularly, for she has your interest very much at heart, I assure 
you. And her mother too, Mrs. Ferrars, a very good-natured woman, I am 
sure it would give her great pleasure; she said as much the other day." 

Elinor would not vouchsafe any answer. 

"It would be something remarkable now," he continued, "something 
droll, if Fanny should have a brother and I a sister settling at the same 
time. And yet it is not very unlikely." 

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

"It is not actually settled, but there is such a thing in agitation. He has 
a most excellent mother. Mrs. Ferrars, with the utmost liberality, will 
come forward, and settle on him a thousand a year, if the match takes 
place. The lady is the Honourable Miss Morton, only daughter of the late 
Lord Morton, with thirty thousand pounds a very desirable connection 
on both sides, and I have not a doubt of its taking place in time. A thou- 
sand a year is a great deal for a mother to give away, to make over for 
ever ; but Mrs. Ferrars has a noble spirit. To give you another instance of 
her liberality: The other day, as soon as we came to town, aware that 
money could not be very plenty with us just now, she put bank-notes into 
Fanny's hands to the amount of two hundred pounds. And extremely 
acceptable it is, for we must live at a great expense while we are here." 

He paused for her assent and compassion; and she forced herself to 
say: 

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

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

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

Elinor could only smile. 

"Other great and inevitable expenses too we have had on first coming 
to Norland. Our respected father, as you well know, bequeathed all the 
Stanhill effects that remained at Norland (and very valuable they were) 
to your mother. Far be it for me to repine at his doing so ; he had an un- 



SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 135 

doubted right to dispose of his own property as he chose. But, in conse- 
quence of it, we have been obliged to make large purchases of linen, china, 
etc., to supply the place of what was taken away. You may guess, after 
all these expenses, how very far we must be from being rich, and how 
acceptable Mrs. Ferrars's kindness is." 

"Certainly," said Elinor; "and assisted by her liberality I hope you 
may yet live to be in easy circumstances." 

"Another year or two may do much towards it," he gravely replied; 
"but however there is still a great deal to be done. There is not a stone laid 
of Fanny's greenhouse, and nothing but the plan of the flower garden 
marked out." 

"Where is the greenhouse to be?" 

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

Elinor kept her concern and her censure to herself, and was very 
thankful that Marianne was not present to share the provocation. 

Having now said enough to make his poverty clear, and to do away 
the necessity of buying a pair of ear-rings for each of his sisters, in his 
next visit at Gray's, his thoughts took a more cheerful turn, and he 
began to congratulate Elinor on having such a friend as Mrs. Jennings. 

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

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

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

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

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

"But she raises none in those most concerned. Indeed, ^brother, your 
anxiety for our welfare and prosperity carries you too far." 



136 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

"Why, to be sure,' 7 said he, seeming to recollect himself, "people have 
little, nave very little in their power. But, my dear Elinor, what is the 
matter with Marianne? She looks very unwell, has lost her colour, and 
is grown quite thin. Is she ill?" 

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

"I am sorry for that. At her time of life, anything of an illness destroys 
the bloom for ever ! Hers 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 something in her style of beauty to please them particularly. 
I remember Fanny used to say that she would marry sooner and better 
than you did; not but what she is exceeding fond of you but so it 
happened to strike her. She will be mistaken, however. I question whether 
Marianne now will marry a man worth more than five or six hundred a 
year at the utmost, and I am very much deceived if you do not do better. 
Dorsetshire ! I know very little of Dorsetshire, but, my dear Elinor, I shall 
be exceedingly glad to know more of it; and I think I can answer for 
your having Fanny and myself among the earliest and best pleased of 
your visitors." 

Elinor tried very seriously to convince him that there was no likelihood 
of her marrying Colonel Brandon ; but it was an expectation of too much 
pleasure to himself to be relinquished, and he was really resolved on 
seeking an intimacy with that gentleman, and promoting the marriage 
by every possible attention. He had just compunction enough for having 
done nothing for his sisters himself, to be exceedingly anxious that every- 
body else should do a great deal ; and an offer from Colonel Brandon, or 
a legacy from Mrs. Jennings, was the easiest means of atoning for his 
own neglect. 

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

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



SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 137 

Chapter 34 

MRS. JOHN DASHWOOD had so much confidence in her husband's judg- 
ment, that she waited the very next day both on Mrs. Jennings and her 
daughter ; and her confidence was rewarded by finding even the former, 
even the woman with whom her sisters were staying, by no means 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 coldhearted selfishness on both sides, which mutually attracted 
them; and they sympathised with each other in an insipid propriety of 
demeanour, and a general want of understanding. 

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

Elinor wanted very much to know, though she did not choose to ask, 
whether Edward was then in town; but nothing would have induced 
Fanny voluntarily to mention his name before her, till able to tell her 
that his marriage with Miss Morton was resolved on, or till her husband's 
expectations on Colonel Brandon were answered; because she believed 
them still so very much attached to each other, that they could not be 
too sedulously divided in word and deed on every occasion. The intelli- 
gence, however, which she would not give, soon flowed from another 
quarter. Lucy came very shortly to claim Elinor's compassion on being 
unable to see Edward, though he had arrived in town with Mr. and Mrs. 
Dashwood. He dared not come to Bartlett's Buildings for fear of detec- 
tion, and though their mutual impatience to meet was not to be told, they 
could do nothing at present but write. 

Edward assured them himself of his being in town, within a very short 
time, by twice calling in Berkeley Street. Twice was his card found on 
the table, when they returned from their morning's engagements. Elinor 
was pleased that he had called, and still more pleased that she had missed 
him. 

The Dashwoods were so prodigiously delighted with the Middletons, 
that though not much in the habit of giving anything, they determined 
to give them a dinner, and soon after their acquaintance began, invited 
them to dine in Harley Street, where they had taken a very good house 
for three months. Their sisters and Mrs. Jennings were invited likewise, 
and John Dashwood was careful to secure Colonel Brandon, who, always 
glad to be where the Miss Dashwoods were, received his eager civilities 
with some surprise, but much more pleasure. They were to meet Mrs 



138 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

Ferrars; but Elinor could not learn whether her sons were to be of the 
party. The expectation of seeing her, however, was enough to make her 
interested in the engagement; for though she could now meet Edward's 
mother without that strong anxiety which had once promised to attend 
such an introduction, though she could now see her with perfect indiffer- 
ence, as to her opinion of herself, her desire of being in company with Mrs. 
Ferrars, her curiosity to know what she was like, was as lively as ever. 

The interest with which she thus anticipated the party, was soon 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 
certainly not elegant, and her sister not even genteel, she was as ready 
as Sir John to ask them to spend a week or two in Conduit Street ; and it 
happened to be particularly convenient to the Miss Steeles, as soon as 
the Dashwoods' invitation was known, that their visit should begin a 
few days before the party took place. 

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

On Elinor its effect was very different. She began immediately to deter- 
mine 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 had passed, in the company of Lucy! she hardly knew 
how she could bear it ! 

These apprehensions perhaps were not founded entirely on reason, and 
certainly not at all on truth. They were relieved, however, not by her own 
recollection, but by the goodwill of Lucy, who believed herself to be 
inflicting a severe disappointment when she told her that Edward certainly 
would not be in Harley Street on Tuesday, and even hoped to be carrying 
the pain still further by persuading her, that he was kept away by that 
extreme affection for herself, which he could not conceal when they were 
together. 

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

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



SENSEANDSENSIBILITY 139 

Elinor could have given her immediate relief by suggesting the possi- 
bility of its being Miss Morton's mother, racher than her own, whom they 
were about to behold ; but instead of doing that, she assured her, and with 
great sincerity, that she did pity her, to the utter amazement of Lucy, 
who, though really uncomfortable herself, hoped at least to be an object 
of irrepressible envy to Elinor. 

Mrs. Ferrars was a little, thin woman, upright, even to formality, in her 
figure, and serious, even to sourness, in her aspect. Her complexion was 
sallow; and her features small, without beauty, and naturally without 
expression ; but a lucky contraction of the brow had rescued her counte- 
nance from the disgrace of insipidity, by giving it the strong characters 
of pride and ill-nature. She was not a woman of many words; for, unlike 
people in general, she proportioned them to the number of her ideas; and 
of the few syllables that did escape her, not one fell to the share of Miss 
Dashwood, whom she eyed with the spirited determination of disliking 
her at all events. 

Elinor could not now be made unhappy by this behaviour. A few months 
ago it would have hurt her exceedingly; but it was not in Mrs. Ferrars 's 
power to distress her by it now; and the difference of her manners to the 
Miss Steeles a difference which seemed purposely made to humble her 
more only amused her. She could not but smile to see the graciousness 
of both mother and daughter towards the very person for Lucy was 
particularly distinguished whom of all others, had they known as much 
as she did, they would have been most anxious to mortify; while she 
herself, who had comparatively no power to wound them, sat pointedly 
slighted by both. But while she smiled at a graciousness so misapplied, 
she could not reflect on the mean-spirited folly from which it sprung, nor 
observe the studied attentions with which the Miss Steeles courted its 
continuance, without thoroughly despising them all four. 

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

The dinner was a grand one, the servants were numerous, and every- 
thing bespoke the Mistress's inclination for show, and the Master's ability 
to support it. In spite of the improvements and additions which were 
making to the Norland estate, and in spite of its owner having once been 
within some thousand pounds of being obliged to sell out at a loss, nothing 
gave any symptom of that indigence which he had tried to infer from it; 
no poverty of any kind, except of conversation, appeared but there the 
deficiency was considerable. John Dashwood had not much to say for 
himself that was worth hearing, and his wife had still less. But there was 
no peculiar disgrace in this, for it was very much the case with the chief 
of their visitors, who almost all laboured under one or other of these dis- 
qualifications for being agreeable want of sense, either natural or im- 
proved, want of elegance, want of spirits, or want of temper. 

When the ladies withdrew to the drawing-room after dinner, this 
poverty was particularly evident, for the gentlemen had supplied the 



I 4 o THEWORKSOFJANEAUSTEN 

discourse with some variety the variety of politics, inclosing land, and 
breaking horses but then it was all over, and one subject only engaged 
the ladies till coffee came in, which was the comparative heights of Harry 
Dashwood, and Lady Middleton's second son William, who were nearly 
of the same age. 

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

The parties stood thus: 

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

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

Lucy, who was hardly less anxious to please one parent than the other, 
thought the boys were both remarkably tall for their age, and could not 
Conceive that there could be the smallest difference in the world between 
them ; and Miss Steele, with yet greater address, gave it, as fast as she 
could, in favour of each. 

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

Before her removing from Norland, Elinor had painted a very pretty 
pair of screens for her sister-in-law, which being now just mounted and 
brought home, ornamented her present drawing-room ; and these screens 
catching the eye of John Dashwood on his following the other gentlemen 
into the room, were officiously handed by him to Colonel Brandon for his 
"admiration. 

"These are done by my eldest sister," said he; "and you, as a man of 
taste, will, I dare say, be pleased with them. I do not know whether you 
ever happened to see any of her performances before, but she is in gen- 
eral reckoned to draw extremely well." 

The Colonel, though disclaiming all pretensions to connoisseurship, 
warmly admired the screens, as he would have done anything painted by 
Miss Dashwood; and the curiosity of the others being of course excited, 
they were handed round for general inspection. Mrs. Ferrars, not aware 
of their being Elinor's work, particularly requested to look at them; and 
after they had received the gratifying testimony of Lady Middleton's 
approbation, Fanny presented them to her mother, considerately inform- 
ing 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. 



SENSEANDSENSIBILITY 141 

Perhaps Fanny thought for a moment that her mother had been quite 
rude enough for, colouring a little, she immediately said: 

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

"Do you not think they are something in Miss Morton's style of paint- 
ing, ma'am? She does paint most delightfully. How beautifully her last 
landscape is done!" 

"Beautifully indeed. But she does everything well." 

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

"This is admiration of a very particular kind! What is Miss Morton to 
us? Who knows or who cares for her? It is Elinor of whom we think and 
speak." 

And so saying, she took the screens out of her sister-in-law's hand 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 philippic: "Miss Morton 
is Lord Morton's daughter." 

Fanny looked very angry too, and her husband was all in a fright at 
his sister's audacity. Elinor was much more hurt by Marianne's warmth, 
than she had been by what produced it; but Colonel Brandon's eyes, as 
they were fixed on Marianne, declared that he noticed only what was 
amiable in it; the affectionate heart which could not bear to see a sister 
slighted in the smallest point. 

Marianne's feeling did not stop here. The cold insolence of Mrs. Fer- 
rars's general behaviour to her sister, seemed to her to foretell such 
difficulties and distresses to Elinor, as her own wounded heart taught 
her to think of with horror; and urged by a strong impulse of affectionate 
sensibility, she moved, after a moment, to her sister's chair, and putting 
one arm round her neck, and one cheek close to hers, said in a low, but 
eager voice: 

'Dear, dear Elinor, don't mind them. Don't let them make you un- 
happy." 

She could say no more; her spirits were quite overcome, and hiding her 
face on Elinor's shoulder, she burst into tears. Everybody's attention was 
called, and almost everybody was concerned. Colonel Brandon rose up 
and went to them without knowing what he did. Mrs. Jennings, with a 
very intelligent "Ah! poor dear," immediately gave her her salts; and Sir 
John felt so desperately enraged against the author of this nervous dis- 
tress, that he instantly changed his seat to one close by Lucy Steele, and 
gave her in a whisper, a brief account of the whole shocking affair. 
3 In a few minutes, however, Marianne was recovered enough to put an 



I 4 2 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

end to the bustle, and sit down among the rest; though her spirits re- 
tained the impression of what had passed the whole evening. 

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



Chapter 35 

ELINOR'S curiosity to see Mrs. Ferrars was satisfied. She had found in 
her everything that could tend to make a further 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 own sake, that one greater 
obstacle preserved her from suffering under any other of Mrs. Ferrars's 
creation, preserved her from all dependence upon her caprice, or any 
solicitude for her good opinion. Or at least, if she did not bring herself 
quite to rejoice in Edward's being fettered to Lucy, she determined, that 
had Lucy been more amiable, she ought to have rejoiced. 

She wondered that Lucy's spirits could be so very much elevated by 
the civility of Mrs. Ferrars; that her interest and her vanity should so 
very much blind her, as to make the attention which seemed only paid 
her because she was not Elinor, appear a compliment to herself or to 
allow her to derive encouragement from a preference only given her, 
because her real situation was unknown. But that it was so, had not only 
been declared by Lucy's eyes at the time, but was declared over again 
the next morning more openly ; for, at her particular desire, Lady Middle- 
ton set her down in Berkeley Street on the chance of seeing Elinor alone, 
to tell her how happy she was. 

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

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

"She was certainly very civil to you." 

"Civil! Did you see nothing but only civility? I saw a vast deal more 



SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 143 

such kindness as fell to the share of nobody but me! No pride, no hauteur, 
and your sister just the same all sweetness and affability!" 

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

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

"I guessed you would say so," replied Lucy quickly; "but there was no 
reason in the world why Mrs. Ferrars should seem to like me, if she did 
not and her liking me is everything. You shan't talk me out of my 
satisfaction. I am sure it will all end well, and there will be no difficulties 
at all, to what I used to think. Mrs. Ferrars is a charming woman, and so 
is your sister. They are both delightful women indeed! I wonder I should 
never hear you say how agreeable Mrs. Dash wood 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 
without your friendship." 

Elinor tried to make a civil answer, though doubting her own success. 
But it seemed to satisfy Lucy, for she directly replied: 

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

But Elinor would not give her any encouragement to hope that she 
should tell her sister. Lucy continued: 

"I am sure I should have seen it in a moment, if Mrs. Ferrars had took 
a dislike to me. If she had only made me a formal curtsey, for instance, 
without saying a word, and never after had took any notice of me, and 
never looked at me in a pleasant way you know what I mean if I had 
been treated in that forbidding sort of way, I should have gave it all up in 
despair. I could not have stood it. For where she does dislike, I know it is 
most violent." 

Elinor was prevented from making any reply to this civil triumph, by 



144 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

the door being thrown open, the servant's announcing Mr. Ferrars, and 
Edward immediately walking in. 

It was a very awkward moment ; and the countenance of each showed 
that it was so. They all looked exceedingly foolish ; and Edward seemed to 
have as great an inclination to walk out of the room again, as to advance 
further into it. The very circumstance, in its unpleasant form, which they 
would each have been most anxious to avoid, had fallen on them they 
were not only all three together, but were together without the relief of 
any other person. The ladies recovered themselves first. It was not Lucy's 
business to put herself forward, and the appearance of secrecy must still 
be kept up. She could therefore only look her tenderness, and after slightly 
addressing him, said no more. 

But Elinor had more to do ; and so anxious was she, for his sake and her 
own, to do it well, that she forced herself after a moment's recollection, 
to welcome him, with a look and manner, that were almost easy and almost 
open ; and another struggle, another effort still improved them. She would 
not allow the presence of Lucy, nor the consciousness of some injustice 
towards herself, to deter her from saying that she was happy to see him, 
and that she had very much regretted being from home, when he called 
before in Berkeley Street. She would not be frightened from paying him 
those attentions which, as a friend and almost a relation, were his due, by 
the observant eyes of Lucy, though she soon perceived them to be nar- 
rowly watching her. 

Her manners gave some reassurance to Edward, and he had courage 
enough to sit down ; but his embarrassment still exceeded that of the ladies 
in a proportion which the case rendered reasonable, though his sex might 
make it rare ; for his heart had not the indifference of Lucy's, nor could his 
conscience have quite the ease of Elinor's. 

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

Her exertions did not stop here; for she soon afterwards felt herself so 
heroically disposed as to determine, under pretence of fetching Marianne, 
to leave the others by themselves ; and she really did it, and that in the 
handsomest manner, for she loitered away several minutes on the landing 
place, with the most high-minded fortitude, before she went to her sister. 
When that was once done, however, it was time for the raptures of Edward 
to cease ; for Marianne's joy hurried her into the drawing-room immedi- 
ately. Her pleasure in seeing him was like every other of her feelings, 
strong in itself and strongly spoken. She met him with a hand that would 
be taken, and a voice that expressed the affection of a sister. 

"Dear Edward! " she cried, "this is a moment of great happiness! This 
would almost make amends for everything!" 

Edward tried to return her kindness as it deserved, but before such 



SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 145 

witnesses he dared not say half what he really felt. Again they all sat 
down, and for a moment or two all were siknt; while Marianne was look- 
ing with the most speaking tenderness, sometimes at Edward and some- 
times at Elinor, regretting only that their delight in each other should be 
checked by Lucy's unwelcome presence. Edward was the first to speak, 
and it was to notice Marianne's altered looks, and express his fear of her 
not finding London agree with her. 

"Oh! don't think of me! 5> she replied, with spirited earnestness, though 
her eyes were filled with tears as she spoke, "don't think of my health. 
Elinor is well, you see. That must be enough for us both." 

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

"Do you like London?" said Edward, willing to say anything that might 
introduce another subject. 

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

She paused no one spoke. 

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

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

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

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

"But why were you not there, Edward? Why did you not come?" 

"I was engaged elsewhere." 

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

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

Elinor was very angry, but Marianne seemed entirely insensible of the 
sting; for she calmly replied, 

"Not so, indeed; for, seriously speaking, I am very sure that conscience 
only kept Edward from Harley Street. And I really believe he has the most 
delicate conscience in the world; the most scrupulous in performing every 
engagement, however minute, and however it may make against his 



i 4 6 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

interest or pleasure. He is the most fearful of giving pain, of wounding 
expectation, and the most incapable of being selfish of anybody I ever 
saw. Edward, it is so, and I will say it. What! are you never to hear 
yourself praised? Then you must be no friend of mine; for those who will 
accept of my love and esteem, must submit to my open commendation." 

The nature of her commendation in the present case, however, hap- 
pened to be particularly ill-suited to the feelings of two-thirds of her 
auditors, and was so very unexhilarating to Edward, that he very soon 
got up to go away. 

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

And drawing him a little aside, she whispered her persuasion that Lucy 
could not stay much longer. But even this encouragement failed, for he 
would go ; and Lucy, who would have outstayed him had his visit lasted 
two hours, soon afterwards went away. 

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

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

Marianne looked at her steadily, and said, "You know, Elinor, that this 
is a kind of talking which I cannot bear. If you only hope to have your 
assertion contradicted, as I must suppose to be the case, you ought to 
recollect that I am the last person in the world to do it. I cannot descend 
u be tricked out of assurances that are not really wanted." 

She then left the room ; and Elinor dared not follow her to say more, 
for bound as she was by her promise of secrecy to Lucy, she could give 
no information that would convince Marianne; and painfui is the con- 
sequences of her still continuing in an error might be, she was obliged to 
submit to it. All that she could hope was that Edward would not often 
expose her or himself to the distress of hearing Marianne's mistaken 
warmth, nor to the repetition of any other part of the pain that had 
attended their recent meeting and this she had every reason to expect. 



Chapter 36 

WITHIN a few days after this meeting, the newspapers announced to 
the world, that the lady of Thomas Palmer, Esq., was safely delivered of 
a son and heir; a very interesting and satisfactory paragraph, at least to 
all those intimate connections who knew it before. 

This event, highly important to Mrs. Jennings's happiness, produced a 
temporary alteration in the disposal of her time, and influenced in a like 
degree the engagements of her young friends; for as she wished to be as 
much as possible with Charlotte, she went thither every morning as soon 
as she was dressed, and did not return till late in the evening ; and the 



SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 147 

Miss Dashwoods, at the particular request of the Middletons, spent the 
whole of every day in Conduit Street. For their own comfort they would 
much rather have remained, at least all the morning, in Mrs. Jennings's 
house ; but it was not a thing to be urged against the wishes of everybody. 
Their hours were therefore made over to Lady Middleton and the two 
Miss Steeles, by whom their company 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 considered with a jealous eye, as intruding on 
their ground, and sharing the kindness which they wanted to monopolise. 
Though nothing could be more polite than Lady Middleton's behaviour 
to Elinor and Marianne, she did not really like them at all. Because they 
neither flattered herself nor her children, she could not believe them good- 
natured ; and because they were fond of reading, she fancied them satiri- 
cal : perhaps without knowing what it was to be satirical ; but that did not 
signify. It was censure in common use, and easily given. 

Their presence was a restraint both on her and on Lucy. It checked the 
idleness of one, and the business of the other. Lady Middleton was 
ashamed of doing nothing before them, and the flattery which Lucy was 
proud to think of and administer at other times, she feared they would 
despise her for offering. Miss Steele was the least discomposed of the three 
by their presence ; and it was in their power to reconcile her to it entirely. 
Would either of them only have given her a full and minute account of the 
whole affair between Marianne and Mr. Willoughby, she would have 
thought herself amply rewarded for the sacrifice of the best place by the 
fire after dinner, which their arrival occasioned. But this conciliation was 
not granted; for though she often threw out expressions of pity for her 
sister to Elinor, and more than once dropped a reflection on the incon- 
stancy 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 
a whole day without hearing any other raillery on the subject than what 
she was kind enough to bestow on herself. 

All these jealousies and discontents, however, were so totally 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 always came in excellent spirits, full of delight 
and importance, attributing Charlotte's well-doing to her own care, and 
ready to give so exact, so minute a detail of her situation, as only Miss 
Steele had curiosity enough to desire. One thing did disturb her; and of 
that she made her daily complaint. Mr. Palmer maintained the common, 
hut unfatherly opinion among his sex, of all infants being alike; and 



* 4 S THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

though she could plainly perceive at different times the most striking 
resemblance between this baby and every one of his relations on both 
sides, there was no convincing his father of it; no persuading him to 
believe that it was not exactly like every other baby of the same age ; nor 
could he even be brought to acknowledge the simple proposition of its 
being the finest child in the world. 

I come now to the relation of a misfortune which about this time befell 
Mrs. John Dashwood. It so happened that while her two sisters with Mrs. 
Jennings were first calling on her in Harley Street, another of her acquaint- 
ances had dropped in a circumstance in itself not apparently likely to 
produce evil to her. But while the imaginations of other people will carry 
them away to form wrong judgments of our conduct, and to decide on it 
by slight appearances, one's happiness must in some measure be always 
at the mercy of chance. In the present instance, this last-arrived lady 
allowed her fancy so far to outrun truth and probability, that on merely 
hearing the name of the Miss Dashwoods, and understanding them to be 
Mr. Dashwood's sisters, she immediately concluded them to be staying in 
Harley Street; and this misconstruction produced within a day or two 
afterwards cards of invitation for them, as well as for their brother and 
sister, to a small musical party at her house. The consequence of which 
was, that Mrs. John Dashwood was obliged to submit not only to the 
exceedingly great inconvenience of sending her carriage for the Miss 
Dashwoods, but, what was still worse, must be subject to all the un- 
pleasantness of appearing to treat them with attention: and who could 
tell that they might not expect to go out with her a second time? The 
power of disappointing them, it was true, must always be hers. But that 
was not enough; for when people are determined on a mode of conduct 
which they know to be wrong, they feel injured by the expectation of any- 
thing better from them. 

Marianne had now been brought by degrees so much into the habit of 
going out every day, that it was become a matter of indifference to her 
whether she went or not: and she prepared quietly and mechanically 
for every evening's engagement, though without expecting the smallest 
amusement from any, and very often without knowing till the last mo- 
ment 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 five minutes of their being 
together when it was finished. Nothing escaped her minute observation 
and general curiosity; she saw everything, and asked everything; 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 judgment 
than Marianne herself, and was not without hopes of finding out before 
they parted, how much her washing cost per week, and how much she had 
every year to spend upon herself. The impertinence of these kind of 
scrutinies, moreover, was generally concluded with a compliment, which 



SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 149 

though meant as its douceur, was considered by Marianne as the greatest 
impertinence of all ; for after undergoing an examination 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 
occasion to her brother's carriage; which they were ready to enter five 
minutes after it stopped at the door, a punctuality not very agreeable to 
their sister-in-law, who had preceded them to the house of her acquaint- 
ance, and was there hoping for some delay on their part that might 
inconvenience either herself or her coachman. 

The events of the evening were not very remarkable. The party, like 
other musical parties, comprehended a great many people who 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 violoncello, 
would fix them at pleasure on any other object in the room. In one of 
these excursive glances she perceived among the group of young men, the 
very he who had given them a lecture on toothpick-cases at Gray's. She 
perceived him soon afterwards 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 Mr. Dashwood introduced 
him to her as Mr. Robert Ferrars. 

He addressed her with easy civility, 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 described to be by Lucy. Happy 
had it been for her if her regard for Edward 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 of what the ill-humour of his 
mother and sister would have begun. But while she wondered at the 
difference of the two young men, she did not find that the emptiness and 
conceit of the one put her at all out of charity with the modesty and worth 
of the other. Why they were different, Robert explained to her himself in 
the coarse of a quarter of an hour's conversation; for, talking of his 
brother, and lamenting the extreme gaucherie which he really believed 
kept him from mixing ih proper society, he candidly and generously at- 
tributed it much less to any natural deficiency, than to the misfortune of 
a private education: while he himself, though probably without any par- 
ticular, any material superiority by nature, merely from the advantage of 
a public school, was as well fitted to mix in the world as any other man. 

"Upon my soul," he added, "I believe it is nothing more: and so I often 
tell my mother, when she is grieving about it. 'My dear madam,' I always 
say to her, 'you must make yourself easy. The evil is now irremediable, 



i 5 o THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

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 tuition, at the most critical time of his life? If you had only sent 
him to Westminster as well as myself, instead of sending him to Mr. 
Pratt's, all this would have been prevented.' This is the way in which I al- 
ways consider the matter, and my mother is perfectly convinced of her 
error." 

Elinor would not oppose his opinion, 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. 

"You reside in Devonshire, I think," was his next observation, "in a 
cottage near Dawlish." 

Elinor set him right as to its situation, and it seemed rather surprising 
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 myself 
down at any time, and collect a few friends about me and be happy. I 
advise everybody who is going to build, to build a cottage. My friend Lord 
Courtland came to me the other day on purpose to ask my advice, and laid 
before me three different 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 mistake. 
I was last month at my friend Elliott's near Dartf ord. Lady Elliott 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 
will hold ten couple, and where can the supper be?' / immediately saw 
that there could be no difficulty in it, so I said, 'My dear Lady Elliott, do 
not be uneasy. The dining parlour will admit eighteen couple with ease; 
card-tables may be placed in the drawing-room ; the library may be open 
for tea and other refreshments ; and let the supper be set out in the saloon.' 
Lady Elliott was delighted with the thought. We measured the dining- 
room, and found it would hold exactly eighteen couples, and the affair 
'was arranged 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 compliment 
of rational opposition. 

As John Dashwood had no more pleasure in music than his eldest sister, 
his mind was equally at liberty to fix on anything else; and a thought 
struck him during the evening, which he communicated to his wife, for her 
approbation when they got home. The consideration of Mrs. Dennison's 



SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 151 

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 expense would be nothing, the incon- 
venience not more ; and it was altogether an attention which the delicacy 
of his conscience pointed out to be requisite to its complete enfranchise- 
ment 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 I should be 
exceedingly glad to do it. You know I am always ready to pay them any 
attention in my power, as my taking them out this evening shows. But 
they are Lady Middleton 's visitors. How can I ask them away from her?" 

Her husband, but with great humility, did not see the force of her 
objection. 'They had already 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, / 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 Edward. 
We can ask your sisters some other year, you know ; but the Miss 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 mother ; and they 
are such favourites with Harry! " 

Mr. Dashwood was convinced. He saw the necessity of inviting the Miss 
Steeles immediately, and his conscience was pacified by the resolution of 
inviting his sisters another year ; at the same time, however, slyly suspect- 
ing 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 
secured 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. This was enough to make Lucy really and reasonably 
happy. Mrs. Dashwood seemed actually working for her herself, cherish- 
ing all her hopes, and promoting all her views! Such an opportunity of 
being with Edward and his family was, above all things, the most material 
to her interest, and such an invitation the most gratifying to her feelings! 
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 al- 
ways meant to end in two days' time. 

When the note was shown to Elinor, as it was within ten minutes after 
its arrival, it gave her, for the first time, some share in the expectations of 
Lucy; for such a mark of uncommon kindness, vouchsafed on so short an 
acquaintance, seemed to declare that the good-will towards her arose from 
something more than merely malice against herself, and might be brought 



i 5 2 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

by time and address, to do everything 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 Harley Street, and all that reached Elinor 
of their influence there, strengthened her expectation of the event. Sir 
John, who called on them more than once, brought home such accounts 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 each of them a needle-book, made by some 
emigrant ; called Lucy by her Christian name ; and did not know whether 
she should ever be able to part with them. 



Chapter 37 

MRS. PALMER was so well at the end of a fortn ; ght, that her mother 
felt it no longer necessary to give up the whole of her time to her ; and 
contenting herself with visiting her once or Vice a day, returned from 
that period to her own home, and her ovm habits, in which she found the 
Miss Dashwoods very ready to reassume their former share. 

About the third or fourth morning after their being thus re-settled in 
Berkeley Street, Mrs. Jennings, on returning from her ordinary visit to 
Mrs. Palmer, entered the drawing-room, where Elinor was sitting by her- 
self, with an air of such hurrying importance as prepared her to hear 
something wonderful; and giving her time only to form that idea, began 
directly to justify it by saying, 

"Lord! my dear Miss Dashwood! have you heard the news?" 

"No, ma'am. What is it?" 

"Something so strange! But you shall hear it all. When I got to Mr. 
Palmer's, I found Charlotte quite in a fuss about the child. She was sure it 
was very ill it cried, and fretted, and was all over pimples. So I looked at 
it directly, and 'Lord! my dear,' says I, 'it is nothing in the world but the 
red-gum'; and nurse said just the same. But Charlotte, she would not be 
satisfied, so Mr. Donavan was sent for ; and luckily he happened to be just 
come in from Harley Street, so he stepped over directly, and as soon as 
ever he saw the child, he said just as we did, that it was nothing in the 
world but the red-gum, and then Charlotte was easy. And so, just as he 
was going away again, it came into my head, I am sure I do not know how 
I happened to think of it, but it came into my head to ask him if there was 
any news. So upon that, he smirked, and simpered, and looked grave, and 
seemed to know something or other, and at last he said in a whisper, Tor 
fear any unpleasant report should reach the young ladies under your care 
as to their sister's indisposition, I think it advisable to say, that I believe 
there is no great reason for alarm; I hope Mrs. Dashwood will do very 
well.' " 



SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 153 

"What! is Fanny ill?" 

"That is exactly what I said, my dear. 'Lord ! ' says I, 'is Mrs. Dashwood 
ill?' So then it all came out; and the long and the short of the matter, by 
all I can learn, seems to be this: Mr. Edward Ferrars, the very young 
man I used to joke with you about (but, however, as it turns out, I am 
monstrous glad there never was anything in it), Mr. Edward Ferrars, it 
seems, has been engaged above this twelvemonth to my cousin Lucy! 
There's for you, my dear! And not a creature knowing a syllable of the 
matter except Nancy! Could you have believed such a thing possible? 
There is no great wonder in their liking one another; but that matters 
should be brought so forward between them, and nobody suspect it! That 
is strange ! I never happened to see them together, or I am sure I should 
have found it out directly. Well, and so this was kept a great secret, for 
fear of Mrs. Ferrars; and neither she nor your brother or sister suspected 
a word of the matter, till this very morning, poor Nancy, who, you know, 
is a well-meaning creature, but no conjurer, popped it all out. 'Lord!' 
thinks she to herself, 'they are all so fond of Lucy, to be sure they will 
make no difficulty about it'; and so, away she went to your sister, who 
was sitting all alone at her carpet-work, little suspecting what was to 
come for she had just been saying to your brother, only five minutes be- 
fore, that she thought to make a match between Edward and some lord's 
daughter or other, I forget who. So you may think what a blow it was to 
all her vanity and pride. She fell into violent hysterics immediately, with 
such screams as reached your brother's ears, as he was sitting in his own 
dressing-room downstairs, thinking about writing a letter to his steward 
in the country. So up he flew directly, and a terrible scene took place, for 
Lucy was come to them by that time, little dreaming what was going on. 
Poor soul ! I pity her. And I must say, I think she was used very hardly ; 
for your sister scolded like any fury, and soon drove her into a fainting 
fit. Nancy, she fell upon her knees, and cried bitterly; and your brother, 
he walked about the room, and said he did not know what to do. Mrs. 
Dashwood declared they should not stay a minute longer in the house, 
and your brother was forced to go down upon his knees too, to persuade 
her to let them stay till they had packed up their clothes. Then she fell 
into hysterics again, and he was so frightened that he would send for Mr. 
Donavan, and Mr. Donavan found the house in all this uproar. The car- 
riage was at the door ready to take my poor cousins away, and they were 
just stepping in as he came off; poor Lucy in such a condition, he says, 
she could hardly walk ; and Nancy, she was almost as bad. I declare, I 
have no patience with your sister ; and I hope, with all my heart, it will be 
a match in spite of her. Lord! what a taking poor Mr. Edward will be in 
when he hears of it! To have his love used so scornfully! for they say he 
is monstrous fond of her, as well he may. I should not wonder if he was 
to be in the greatest of a passion! and Mr. Donavan thinks just the same. 
He and I had a great deal of talk about it ; and the best of all is, that he is 
gone back again to Harley Street, that he may be within call when Mrs. 



iS4 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

Ferrars is told of it, for she was sent for as soon as ever my cousins left 
the house, for your sister was sure she would be in hysterics too ; and so 
she may, for what I care. I have no pity for either o r them. I have no no- 
tion of people's making such a to-do about money and greatness. There 
is no reason on "earth why Mr. Edward and Lucy should not marry; for I 
am sure Mrs. Ferrars may afford to do very well by her son ; and though 
Lucy has next to nothing herself, she knows better than anybody how to 
make the most of everything ; and I dare say, if Mrs. Ferrars would only 
allow him five hundred a year, she would make as good an appearance 
with it as anybody else would with eight. Lord! how snug they might live 
in such another cottage as yours or a little bigger with two maids and 
two men ; and I believe I could help them to a housemaid, for my Betty 
has a sister out of place, that would fit them exactly." 

Here Mrs. Jennings ceased, and as Elinor had had time enough to col- 
lect her thoughts, she was able to give such an answer and make such ob- 
servations, as the subject might naturally be supposed to produce. Happy 
to find that she was not suspected of an extraordinary interest in it ; that 
Mrs. Jennings (as she had of late often hoped might be the case) had 
ceased to imagine her at all attached to Edward ; and happy above all the 
rest, in the absence of Marianne, she felt very well able to speak of the 
affair without embarrassment, and to give her judgment, as she believed, 
with impartiality on the conduct of every one concerned in it. 

She could hardly determine what her own expectation of its event really 
was ; though she earnestly tried to drive away the notion of its being pos- 
sible to end otherwise at last, than in the marriage of Edward and Lucy. 
What Mrs. Ferrars would say and do, though there could not be a doubt 
of its nature, she was anxious to hear; and still more anxious to know 
how Edward would conduct himself. For him she felt much compassion; 
for Lucy very little and it cost her some pains to procure that little ; for 
the rest of the party none at all. 

As Mrs. Jennings could talk on no other subject, Elinor soon saw the 
necessity of preparing Marianne for its discussion. No time was to be lost 
in undeceiving her, in making her acquainted with the real truth, and in 
endeavouring to bring her to hear it talked of by others, without betraying 
that she felt any uneasiness for her sister, or any resentment against 
Edward. 

Elinor's office was a painful one. She was going to remove what she 
really believed to be her sister's chief consolation, to give such particulars 
of Edward, as she feared would ruin him for ever in her good opinion, and 
to make Marianne, by a resemblance in their situations, which to her fancy 
would seem strong, feel all her own disappointment over again. But un- 
welcome as such a task must be, it was necessary to be done, and Elinor 
therefore hastened to perform it. 

She was very far from wishing to dwell on her own feelings, or to 
represent herself as suffering much, any otherwise than as the self- 
command she had practised since her first knowledge of Edward's engage- 



SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 15$ 

ment, might suggest a hint of what was practicable to Marianne. Her 
narration was clear and simple ; and though it could not be given without 
emotion, it was not accompanied by violent agitation nor impetuous grief. 
That belonged rather to the hearer, for Marianne listened with horror, and 
cried excessively. Elinor was to be the comforter of others in her own 
distresses, no less than in theirs; and all the comfort that could be given 
by assurances of her own composure of mind, and a very earnest vindica- 
tion of Edward from every charge but of imprudence, was readily offered. 

But Marianne for some time would give credit to neither. Edward 
seemed a second Willoughby; and acknowledging as Elinor did, that she 
had loved him most sincerely, could she feel less than herself! As for Lucy 
Steele, she considered her so totally unamiable, so absolutely incapable of 
attaching a sensible man, that she could not be persuaded at first to be- 
lieve, and afterwards to pardon, any former affection of Edward for her. 
She would not even admit it to have been natural ; and Elinor left her to 
be convinced that it was so, by that which only could convince her, a 
better knowledge of mankind. 

Her first communication had reached no farther than to state the fact 
of the engagement, and the length of time it had existed. Marianne's 
feelings had then broken in, and put an end to all regularity of detail ; and 
for some time all that could be done was to soothe her distress, lessen her 
alarms, and combat her resentment. The first question on her side, whict 
led to farther particulars, was: 

"How long has this been known to you, Elinor? Has he written to you?'' 

"I have known it these four months. When Lucy first came to Barton 
Park last November, she told me in confidence of her engagement." 

At these words, Marianne's eyes expressed the astonishment which her 
lips could not utter. After a pause of wonder, she exclaimed: 

"Four months! Have you known of this four months?" 

Elinor confirmed it. 

"What! while attending me in all my misery, has this been on your 
heart? and I have reproached you for being happy! " 

"It was not fit that you should then know how much I was the reverse." 

"Four months!" cried Marianne again. "So calm! so cheerful! How 
have you been supported?" 

"By feeling that I was doing my duty. My promise to Lucy obliged me 
to be secret. I owed it to her, therefore, to avoid giving any hint of the 
truth; and I owed it to my family and friends not to create in them a 
solicitude about me, which it could not be in my power to satisfy." 

Marianne seemed much struck. 

"I have very often wished to undeceive yourself and my mother," 
added Elinor; "and once or twice I have attempted it; but without be- 
traying my trust, I never could have convinced you." 

"Four months! and yet you loved him!" 

"Yes. But I did not love only him; and while the comfort of others was 
dear to me, I was glad to spare them from knowing how much 7 felt. 



i 5 6 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

Now, I can think and speak of it with little emotion. I would not have you 
suffer on my account ; for I assure you I no longer suffer materially myself. 
I have many things to support me. I am not conscious of having provoked 
the disappointment by any imprudence of my own, and I have borne it as 
much as possible without spreading it farther. I acquit Edward of all 
essential misconduct. I wish him very happy; and I am so sure of his 
always doing his duty, that though now he may harbour some regret, in 
the end he must become so. Lucy does not want sense, and that is the 
foundation on which everything good may be built. And after all, Mari- 
anne, after all that is bewitching in the idea of a single and constant at- 
tachment, and all that can be said of one's happiness depending entirely 
on any particular person, it is not meant it is not fit it is not possible 
that it should be so. Edward will marry Lucy; he will marry a woman 
superior in person and understanding to half her sex ; and time and habit 
will teach him to forget that he ever thought another superior to her" 

"If such is your way of thinking," said Marianne, "if the loss of what is 
most valued is so easily to be made up by something else, your resolution, 
your self-command, are perhaps a little less to be wondered at. They are 
brought more within my comprehension." 

"I understand you. You do not suppose that I have ever felt much. For 
four months, Marianne, I have had all this hanging on my mind, without 
being at liberty to speak of it to a single creature ; knowing that it would 
make you and my mother most unhappy whenever it were explained to 
you, yet unable to prepare you for it in the least. It was told me it was in 
a manner forced on me by the very person herself whose prior engagement 
ruined all my prospects ; and told me, as I thought, with triumph. This 
person's suspicions, therefore, I have had to oppose, by endeavouring to 
appear indifferent where I have been most deeply interested. And it has 
not been only once; I have had her hopes and exultation to listen to again 
and again. I have known myself to be divided from Edward for ever, 
without hearing one circumstance that could make me less desire the 
connection. Nothing has proved him unworthy ; nor has anything declared 
him indifferent to me. I have had to contend against the unkindness of his 
sister, and the insolence of his mother, and have suffered the punishment 
of an attachment without enjoying its advantages. And all this has been 
going on at a time when, as you too well know, it has not been my only 
unhappiness. If you can think me capable of ever feeling surely you 
may suppose that I have suffered now. The composure of mind with 
which I have brought myself at present to consider the matter, the con- 
solation that I have been willing to admit, have been the effect of constant 
and painful exertion; they did not spring up of themselves; they did not 
occur to relieve my spirits at first; no, Marianne. Then, if I had not been 
bound to silence, perhaps nothing could have kept me entirely not even 
what I owed to my dearest friends from openly showing that I was very 
unhappy." 

Marianne was quite subdued. 



SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 157 

"Oh! Elinor," she cried, "you have made me hate myself for ever. How 
barbarous have I been to you! you, who have been my only comfort, who 
have borne with me in all my misery, who have seemed to be only suffering 
for me! Is this my gratitude? Is this the only return I can make you? 
Because your merit cries out upon myself, I have been trying to do it 
away." 

The tenderest caresses followed this confession. In such a frame of mind 
as she was now in, Elinor had no difficulty in obtaining from her whatever 
promise she required; and, at her request, Marianne engaged never to 
speak of the affair to any one with the least appearance of bitterness; to 
meet Lucy without betraying the smallest increase of dislike to her ; and 
even to see Edward himself, if chance should bring them together, without 
any diminution of her usual cordiality. These were great concessions, but 
where Marianne felt that she had injured, no reparation could be too 
much for her to make. 

She performed her promise of being discreet to admiration. She attended 
to all that Mrs. Jennings had to say upon the subject with an unchanging 
complexion, dissented from her in nothing, and was heard three times to 
say, "Yes, ma'am." She listened to her praise of Lucy with only moving 
from one chair to another, and when Mrs. Jennings talked of Edward's 
affection, it cost her only a spasm in her throat. Such advances towards 
heroism in her sister, made Elinor feel equal to anything herself. 

The next morning brought a further trial of it, in a visit from their 
brother, who came with a most serious aspect to talk over the dreadful 
affair, and bring them news of his wife. 

"You have heard, I suppose," said he with great solemnity, as soon as 
he was seated, "of the very shocking discovery that took place under our 
roof yesterday." 

They all looked their assent; it seemed too awful a moment for speech. 
"Your sister," he continued, "has suffered dreadfully. Mrs. Ferrars too 
in short, it has been a scene of such complicated distress ; but I will hope 
that the storm may be weathered without our being, any of us, quite 
overcome. Poor Fanny! she was in hysterics all yesterday. But I would 
not alarm you too much. Donavan says there is nothing materially to be 
apprehended ; her constitution is a good one, and her resolution equal to 
anything. She has borne it all with the fortitude of an angel! She says she 
never shall think well of anybody again; and one cannot wonder at it, 
after being so deceived! meeting with such ingratitude, where so much 
kindness had been shown, so much confidence had been placed. It was 
quite out of the benevolence of her heart that she had asked these young 
women to her house; merely because she thought they deserved some at- 
tention, were harmless, well-behaved girls, and would be pleasant com- 
panions ; for otherwise we both wished very much to have invited you and 
Marianne to be with us, while your kind friend there was attending her 
daughter. And now to be so rewarded! 'I wish with all my heart,' says 



I S 8 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

poor Fanny in her affectionate way, 'that we had asked your sisters in- 
stead of them.' " 

Here he stopped to be thanked; which being done, he went on. 

"What poor Mrs. Ferrars suffered when first Fanny broke it to her, is 
not to be described. While she with the truest affection had been planning 
a most eligible connection for him, was it to be supposed that he could be 
all the time secretly engaged to another person! such a suspicion could 
never have entered her head! If she suspected any prepossession else- 
where, it could not be in that quarter. 'There, to be sure,' said she, 'I 
might have thought myself safe.' She was quite in an agony. We con- 
sulted together, however, as to what should be done, and at last she de- 
termined to send for Edward. He came. But I am sorry to relate what 
ensued. All that Mrs. Ferrars could say to make him put an end to the 
engagement, assisted too, as you may well suppose by my arguments, and 
Fanny's entreaties, was of no avail. Duty, affection, everything was disre- 
garded. I never thought Edward so stubborn, so unfeeling, before. His 
mother explained to him her liberal designs, in case of his marrying Miss 
Morton ; told him she would settle on him the Norfolk estate, which, clear 
of land-tax, brings in a good thousand a year ; offered even, when matters 
grew desperate, to make it twelve hundred ; and in opposition to this, if he 
still persisted in this low connection, represented to him the certain penury 
that must attend the match. His own two thousand pounds she protested 
should be his all; she would never see him again; and so far would she Li 
from affording him the smallest assistance, that if he were to enter into 
any profession with a view of better support, she would do all in her power 
to prevent his advancing in it." 

Here Marianne, in an ecstasy of indignation, clapped her hands to- 
gether and cried, "Gracious God! can this be possible! " 

"Well may you wonder, Marianne," replied her brother, "at the ob- 
stinacy which could resist such arguments as these. Your exclamation is 
very natural." 

Marianne was going to retort, but she remembered her promises and 
forbore. 

"All this, however," he continued, "was urged in vain. Edward said 
very little; but what he did say was in the most determined manner. 
Nothing should prevail on him to give up his engagement. He would 
stand to it, cost him what it might." 

"Then," cried Mrs. Jennings, with blunt sincerity, no longer able to be 
silent, "he has acted like an honest man. I beg your pardon, Mr. Dash- 
wood, but if he had done otherwise, I should have thought him a rascal. 
I have some little concern in the business, as well as yourself, for Lucy 
Steele is my cousin, and I believe there is not a better kind of girl in the 
world, nor one who more deserves a good husband." 

John Dashwood was greatly astonished; but his nature was calm, not 
open to provocation, and he never wished to offend anybody, especially 
anybody of good fortune. He therefore replied, without any resentment 



SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 159 

"I would by no means speak disrespectfully of any relation of yours, 
madam. Miss Lucy Steele is, I dare say, a very deserving young woman, 
but in the present case, you know, the connection must be impossible. And 
to have entered into a secret engagement with a young man under her 
uncle's care, the son of a woman especially of such very large fortune as 
Mrs. Ferrars, is perhaps altogether a little extraordinary. In short, I do not 
mean to reflect upon the behaviour of any person whom you have a regard 
for, Mrs. Jennings. We all wish her extremely happy, and Mrs. Ferrars's 
conduct throughout the whole has been such as every conscientious, good 
mother, in like circumstances, would adopt. It has been dignified and 
liberal. Edward has drawn his own lot, and I fear it will be a bad one." 

Marianne sighed out her similar apprehension; and Elinor's heart 
wrung for the feelings of Edward, while braving his mother's threats, for a 
woman who could not reward him. 

"Well, sir," said Mrs. Jennings, "and how did it end?" 

"I am sorry to say, ma'am, in a most unhappy rupture Edward is 
dismissed for ever from his mother's notice. He left her house yesterday, 
but where he is gone, or whether he is still in town, I do not know ; for we 
of course can make no inquiry." 

"Poor young man! and what is to become of him?" 

"What indeed, ma'am! It is a melancholy consideration. Born to the 
prospect of such affluence ! I cannot conceive a situation more deplorable. 
The interest of two thousand pounds how can a man live on it! and 
when to that is added the recollection that he might, but for his own folly, 
within three months have been in the receipt of two thousand five hundred 
a year (for Miss Morton has thirty thousand pounds), I cannot picture to 
myself a more wretched condition. We must all feel for him ; and the more 
so, because it is totally out of our power to assist him." 

"Poor young man! " cried Mrs. Jennings, "I am sure he should be very 
welcome to bed and board at my house; and so I would tell him, if I could 
see him. It is not fit that he should be living about at his own cnarge now, 
at lodgings and taverns." 

Elinor's heart thanked her for such kindness towards Edward, though 
she could not forbear smiling at the form of it. 

"If he would only have done as well by himself," said John Dashwood, 
"as all his friends were disposed to do by him, he might now have been in 
his proper situation, and would have wanted for nothing. But as it is, it 
must be out of anybody's power to assist him. And there is one thing more 
preparing against him, which must be worse than all his mother has 
determined, with a very natural kind of spirit, to settle that estate upon 
Robert immediately, which might have been Edward's on proper con- 
ditions. I left her this morning with her lawyer, talking over the business." 

"Well! " said Mrs. Jennings, "that is her revenge. Everybody has a way 
of their own. But I don't think mine would be to make one son independent 
because another had plagued me." 

Marianne got up, and walked about the room. 



160 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

"Can anything be more galling to the spirit of a man," continued John, 
"than to see his younger brother in possession of an estate which might 
have been his own? Poor Edward! I feel for him sincerely." 

A few minutes more spent in the same kind of effusion, concluded his 
visit ; and with repeated assurances to his sisters that he really believed 
there was no material danger in Fanny's indisposition, and that they need 
not therefore be very uneasy about it, he went away; leaving the three 
ladies unanimous in their sentiments on the present occasion, as far at 
least as it regarded Mrs. Ferrars's conduct, the Dashwoods', and Ed- 
ward's. 

Marianne's indignation burst forth as soon as he quitted the room; and 
as her vehemence made reserve impossible in Elinor, and unnecessary in 
Mrs. Jennings, they all joined in a very spirited critique upon the party. 



Chapter 38 

MRS. JENNINGS was very warm in her praise of Edward's conduct, but 
only Elinor and Marianne understood its true merit. They only knew how 
little he had had to tempt him to be disobedient, and how small was the 
consolation, beyond the consciousness of doing right, that could remain 
to him in the loss of friends and fortune. Elinor gloried in his integrity; 
and Marianne forgave all his offences in compassion for his punishment. 
But though confidence between them was, by this public discovery, re- 
stored to its proper state, it was not a subject on which either of them 
were fond of dwelling when alone. Elinor avoided it upon principle, as 
tending to fix still more upon her thoughts, by the too warm, too positive 
assurances of Marianne, that belief of Edward's continued affection for 
herself, which she rather wished to do away ; and Marianne's courage soon 
failed her, in trying to converse upon a topic which always left her more 
dissatisfied with herself than ever, by the comparison it necessarily pro- 
duced between Elinor's conduct and her own. 

She felt all the force of that comparison; but not as her sister had 
hoped, to urge her to exertion now; she felt it with all the pain of con- 
tinual self-reproach, regretted most bitterly that she had never exerted 
herself before ; but it brought only the torture of penitence, without the 
hope of amendment. Her mind was so much weakened that she still fan- 
cied present exertion impossible, and therefore it only dispirited her more. 

Nothing new was heard by them for a day or two afterwards, of affairs 
in Harley Street, or Bartlett*'s Buildings. But though so much of the mat- 
ter was known to them already, that Mrs. Jennings might have had 
enough to do in spreading that knowledge further, without seeking after 
more, she had resolved from the first to pay a visit of comfort and inquiry 
to her cousins as soon as she could ; and nothing but the hindrance of more 
visitors than usual, had prevented her going to them within that time. 

The third day succeeding their knowledge of the particulars, was so 



SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 161 

fine, so beautiful a Sunday as to draw many to Kensington Gardens, 
though it was only the second week in March. Mrs. Jennings and Elinor 
were of the number; but Marianne, who knew that the Willoughbys were 
again in town, and had a constant dread of meeting them, chose rather 
to stay home, than venture into so public a place. 

An intimate acquaintance of Mrs. Jennings joined them soon after they 
entered the Gardens, and Elinor was not sorry that by her continuing 
with them, and engaging all Mrs. Jennings's conversation, she was herself 
left to quiet reflection. She saw nothing of the Willoughbys, nothing of 
Edward, and for some time nothing of anybody who could by any chance, 
whether grave or gay, be interesting to her. But at last, she found herself, 
with some surprise, accosted by Miss Steele, who, though looking rather 
shy, expressed great satisfaction in meeting them, and on receiving en- 
couragement from the particular kindness of Mrs. Jennings, left her own 
party for a short time, to join theirs. Mrs. Jennings immediately whispered 
to Elinor: 

"Get it all out of her, my dear. She will tell you anything if you ask. 
You see I cannot leave Mrs. Clarke." 

It was lucky, however, for Mrs. Jennings's curiosity, and Elinor's too, 
that she would tell anything without being asked, for nothing would 
otherwise have been learnt. 

"I am so glad to meet you," said Miss Steele, taking her familiarly by 
the arm, "for I wanted to see you of all things in the world"; and then 
lowering her voice, "I suppose Mrs. Jennings has heard all about it. Is she 
angry?" 

"Not at all, I believe, with you." 

"That is a good thing. And Lady Middleton, is she angry?'* 

"I cannot suppose it possible that she should be." 

"I am monstrous glad of it. Good gracious! I have had such a time of it! 
I never saw Lucy in such a rage in my life. She vowed at first she would 
never trim me up a new bonnet, nor do anything else for me again, so long 
as she lived; but now she is quite come to, and we are as good friends as 
ever. Look, she made me this bow to my hat, and put in the feather last 
night.'There now, you are going to laugh at me too. But why should not I 
wear pink ribbons? I do not care if it is the Doctor's favourite colour. I am 
sure for my part, I should never have known he did like it better than any 
other colour, if he had not happened to say so. My cousins have been so 
plaguing me! I declare sometimes, I do not know which way to look before 

She had wandered away to a subject on which Elinor had nothing to 
say, and therefore soon judged it expedient to find her way back again to 
the first. 

"Well, but, Miss Dashwood," speaking triumphantly, people may say 
what they choose about Mr. Ferrars's declaring he would not have Lucy, 
for it's no such a thing, I can tell you; and it's quite a shame for such il 
matured reports to be spread abroad. Whatever Lucy might think about 



162 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

it herself, you know it was no business of other people to set it down for 
certain." 

"I never heard anything of the kind hinted at before, I assure you," 
said Elinor. 

"Oh! did not you? But it was said, I know very well, and by more than 
one ; for Miss Godby told Miss Sparks, that nobody in their senses could 
expect Mr. Ferrars to give up a woman like Miss Morton, with thirty 
thousand pounds to her fortune, for Lucy Steele, that had nothing at all; 
and I had it from Miss Sparks myself. And besides that, my cousin 
Richard said himself, that when it came to the point, he was afraid Mr. 
Ferrars would be off ; and when Edward did not come near us for three 
days, I could not tell what to think myself ; and I believe in my heart Lucy 
gave it all up for lost; for we came away from your brother's Wednesday, 
and we saw nothing of him not all Thursday, Friday, and Saturday, and 
did not know what was become with him. Once Lucy thought to write to 
him, but then her spirit rose against that. However, this morning he came 
just as we came home from church ; and then it all came out, how he had 
been sent for Wednesday to Harley Street, and been talked to by his 
mother and all of them, and how he had declared before them all that he 
loved nobody but Lucy, and nobody but Lucy would he have. And how 
he had been so worried by what passed, that as soon as he had went away 
from his mother 's house, he had got upon his horse, and ridden into the 
country somewhere or other ; and how he had stayed about at an inn all 
Thursday and Friday, on purpose to get the better of it. And after think- 
ing it all over and over again, he said it seemed to him as if, now he had no 
fortune, and no nothing at all, it would be quite unkind to keep her on to 
the engagement, because it must be for her loss, for he had nothing but 
two thousand pounds, and no hope of anything else ; and if he was to go 
into orders, as he had some thoughts, he could get nothing but a curacy, 
and how was they to live upon that? He could not bear to think of her do- 
ing no better, and so he begged, if she had the least mind for it, to put an 
end to the matter directly, and leave him to shift for himself. I heard him 
say all this as plain as could possibly be. And it was entirely for her sake, 
and upon her account, that he said a word about being off, and not upon 
his own. I will take my oath he never dropped a syllable of being tired 
of her, or of wishing to marry Miss Morton, or anything like it. But, to 
be sure, Lucy would not give ear to such kind of talking ; so she told him 
directly (with a great deal about sweet and love, you know, and all that 
Oh, la! one can't repeat such kind of things, you know) she told him 
directly, she had not the least mind in the world to be off, for she could 
live with him upon a trifle, and how little soever he might have, she should 
be very glad to have it all, you know, or something of the kind. So then he 
was monstrous happy, and talked on some time about what they should 
do, and they agreed he should take orders directly, and they must wait to 
be married till he got a living. And just then I could not hear any more, 
for my cousin called from below to tell me Mrs. Richardson was come in 



SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 163 

her coach, and would take one of us to Kensington Gardens; so I was 
forced to go into the room and interrupt them, to ask Lucy if she would 
like to go, but she did not care to leave Edward; so I just run upstairs and 
put on a pair of silk stockings, and came off with the Richardsons." 

"I do not understand what you mean by interrupting them," said 
Elinor; "you were all in the same room together, were not you?" 

"No indeed! not us. La! Miss Dashwood, do you think people make 
love when anybody else is by? Oh! for shame? To be sure, you must know 
better than that. (Laughing affectedly.) No, no; they were shut up in the 
drawing-room together, and all I heard was only by listening at the 
door." 

"How!" cried Elinor; "have you been repeating to me what you only 
learnt yourself by listening at the door? I am sorry I did not know it be- 
fore ; for I certainly would not have suffered you to give me particulars of 
a conversation which you ought not to have known yourself. How could 
you behave so unfairly by your sister?" 

"Oh, la! there is nothing in that. I only stood at the door, and heard 
what I could. And I am sure Lucy would have done just the same by me; 
for a year or two back, when Martha Sharpe and I had so many secret? 
together, she never made any bones of hiding in a closet, or behind a 
chimney-board, on purpose to hear what we said." 

Elinor tried to talk of something else ; but Miss Steele could not be kept 
beyond a couple of minutes from what was uppermost in her mind. 

"Edward talks of going to Oxford soon," said she, "but now he is 
lodging at No. , Pall Mall. What an ill-natured woman his mother is, 
an't she? And your brother and sister were not very kind! However, I 
shan't say anything against them to you; and to be sure they did send us 
home in their own chariot, which was more than I looked for. And for my 
part, I was all in a fright for fear your sister should ask us for the house- 
wifes she had gave us a day or two before; but however, nothing was said 
about them, and I took care to keep mine out of sight. Edward have got 
some business at Oxford, he says, so he must go there for a time: and after 
that, as soon as he can light upon a bishop, he will be ordained. I wonder 
what curacy he will get! Good gracious! (giggling as she spoke) I'd lay 
my life I know what my cousins will say, when they hear of it. They will 
tell me I should write to the Doctor, to get Edward the curacy of his new 
living. I know they will fbut I am sure I would not do such a thing for all 
the world. 'La!' I shall say directly, 'I wonder how you could think of 
such a thing. 7 write to the Doctor, indeed! ' ' 

"Well," said Elinor, "it is a comfort to be prepared against the worst 
You have got your answer ready." 

Miss Steele was going to reply on the same subject, but the approach of 
her own party made another more necessary. 

"Oh, la! here come the Richardsons. I had a vast deal more to say to 
you, but I must not stay away from them not any longer. I assure you 
 72 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

standing you mean to take orders, he has great pleasure in offering yo* 
the living of Delaford, now just vacant, and only wishes it were more 
valuable. Allow me to congratulate you on having so respectable and well- 
judging a friend, and to join in his wish that the living it is about two 
hundred a year were much more considerable, and such as might better 
enable you to as might be more than a temporary accommodation to 
yourself such, in short, as might establish all your views of happiness." 

What Edward felt, as he could not say it himself, it cannot be expected 
that anyone else should say it for him. He looked all the astonishment 
which such unexpected, such unthought-of information could not fail of 
exciting; but he said only these two words: 

"Colonel Brandon!" 

"Yes," continued Elinor, gathering more resolution, as some of the 
worst was over; "Colonel Brandon means it as a testimony of his concern 
for what has lately passed for the cruel situation in which the unjusti- 
fiable conduct of your family has placed you a concern which, I am sure, 
Marianne, myself, and all your friends must share ; and likewise as a proof 
of his high esteem for your general character, and his particular appro- 
bation of your behaviour on the present occasion." 

"Colonel Brandon give me a living! Can it be possible?" 

"The unkindness of your own relations has made you astonished to find 
friendship anywhere." 

"No," replied he, with sudden consciousness, "not to find it in you; 
for I cannot be ignorant that to you, to your goodness, I owe it all. 
I feel it I would express it if I could but, as you well know, I am no 
orator." 

"You are very much mistaken. I do assure you that you owe it entirely, 
at least almost entirely, to your own merit, and Colonel Brandon's discern- 
ment of it. I have had no hand in it. I did not even know, till I understood 
his design, that the living was vacant; nor had it ever occurred to me that 
he might have such a living in his gift. As a friend of mine, of my family, 
he may perhaps indeed I know he has, still greater pleasure in bestowing 
it; but, upon my word, you owe nothing to my solicitation." 

Truth obliged her to acknowledge some small share in the action ; but 
she was at the same time so unwilling to appear as the benefactress of 
Edward, that she acknowledged it with hesitation ; which probably con- 
tributed to fix that suspicion in his mind which had recently entered it. 
For a short time he sat deep in thought, after Elinor had ceased to speak ; 
at last, as if it were rather an effort, he said: 

"Colonel Brandon seems a man of great worth and respectability. I 
have always heard him spoken of as such, and your brother, I know, 
esteems him highly. He is undoubtedly a sensible man, and in his manners 
perfectly the gentleman." 

"Indeed," replied Elinor, "I believe that you will find him, on further 
acquaintance, all that you have heard him to be ; and as you will be such 
very near neighbours (for I understand the parsonage is almost close to 



SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 173 

the mansion house), it is particularly important that he should be all 
this." 

Edward made no answer ; but when she had turned away her head, gave 
her a look so serious, so earnest, so uncheerful, as seemed to say, that he 
might hereafter wish the distance between the parsonage and the mansion 
house much greater. 

"Colonel Brandon, I think, lodges in St. James's Street?" said he, soon 
Afterwards, rising from his chair. 
Elinor told him the number of the house. 

"I must hurry away then, to give him those thanks which you will not 
allow me to give you; to assure him that he has made me a very an 
exceedingly happy man." 

Elinor did not offer to detain him; and they parted, with a very earnest 
assurance on her side of her unceasing good wishes for his happiness in 
every change of situation that might befall him; on his, with rather an 
attempt to return the same goodwill, than the power of expressing it. 

"When I see him again," said Elinor to herself, as the door shut him 
out, "I shall see him the husband of Lucy." 

And with this pleasing anticipation, she sat down to reconsider the past, 
recall the words, and endeavoured to comprehend all the feelings of 
Edward ; and, of course, to reflect on her own discontent. 

When Mrs. Jennings came home, though she returned from seeing 
people whom she had never seen before, and of whom therefore she must 
have had a great deal to say, her mind was so much more occupied by the 
important secret in her possession, than by anything else, that she reverted 
to it again as soon as Elinor appeared. 

"Well, my dear," she cried, "I sent you up the young man. Did not I 
do right? And I suppose you had no great difficulty. You did not find him 
very unwilling to accept your proposal?" 
"No, ma'am; that was not very likely." 

"Well, and how soon will he be ready? For it seems all to depend upon 
that." 

"Really," said Elinor, "I know so little of these kind of forms, that I 
can hardly even conjecture as to the time, or the preparation necessary; 
but I suppose two or three months will complete his ordination." 

"Two or three months?" cried Mrs. Jennings; "Lord! my dear, how 
calmly you talk of it! And can the Colonel wait two or three months! 
Lord bless me! I am sure it would put me quite out of patience. And 
though one would be very glad to do a kindness by poor Mr. Ferrars, I 
do think it is not worth while to wait two or three months for him. Sure, 
somebody else might be found that would do as well somebody that is 
in orders already." 

"My dear ma'am," said Elinor, "what can you be thinking of? Why, 
Colonel Brandon's only object is to be of use to Mr. Ferrars." 

"Lord bless you, my dear! Sure you do not mean to persuade me that 



174 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

the Colonel only marries you for the sake of giving ten guineas to Mr, 
Ferrars!" 

The deception could not continue after this ; and an explanation imme- 
diately took place, by which both gained considerable amusement for the 
moment, without any material loss of happiness to either, for Mrs. Jen- 
nings only exchanged one form of delight for another, and still without 
forfeiting her expectation of the first. 

"Aye, aye, the parsonage is but a small one," said she, after the firsl 
ebullition of surprise and satisfaction was over, "and very likely may be 
out of repair; but to hear a man apologising, as I thought, for a house 
that to my knowledge has five sitting-rooms on the ground-floor, and, I 
think the housekeeper told me, could make up fifteen beds! And to you 
too, that had been used to live in Barton Cottage ! It seemed quite ridicu- 
lous. But, my dear, we must touch up the Colonel to do something to 
the parsonage, and make it comfortable for them, before Lucy goes to it." 

"But Colonel Brandon does not seem to have any idea of the living's 
being enough to allow them to marry." 

"The Colonel is a ninny, my dear; because he has two thousand a year 
himself, he thinks that nobody else can marry ori less Take my word for 
it, that, if I am alive, I shall be paying a visit to Delaford parsonage before 
Michaelmas; and I am sure I shan't go if Lucy ain't there." 

Elinor was quite of her opinion, as to the probability of their not 
waiting for anything more. 



Chapter 41 

EDWARD having carried his thanks to Colonel Brandon, proceeded 
with his happiness to Lucy; and such was the excess of it by the time 
he reached Bartlett's Buildings, that she was able to assure Mrs. Jennings, 
who called on her again the next day with her congratulations, that she 
had never seen him in such spirits before in her life. 

Her own happiness, and her own spirits, were at least very certain ; and 
she joined Mrs. Jennings most heartily in her expectation of their being all 
comfortably together in Delaford parsonage before Michaelmas. So far 
was she, at the same time, from any backwardness to give Elinor that 
credit which Edward would give her, that she spoke of her friendship for 
them both with the most grateful warmth, was ready to own all their 
obligation to her, and openly declared that no exertion for their good on 
Miss Dashwood's part, either present or future, would ever surprise her, 
for she believed her capable of doing anything in the world for those she 
really valued. As for Colonel Brandon, she was not only ready to worship 
him as a saint, but was moreover truly anxious that he should be treated 
as one m all worldly concerns ; anxious that his tithes should be raised to 
the utmost; and secretly resolved to avail herself at Delaford as far as 
she possibly could, of his servants, his carriage, his cows, and his poultry. 



SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 175 

It was now above a week since John Dashwood had called in Berkeley 
Street, and as since that time no notice had been taken by them of his 
wife's indisposition, beyond one verbal inquiry, Elinor began to feel it 
necessary to pay her a visit. This was an obligation, however, which not 
only opposed her own inclination, but which had not the assistance of any 
encouragement from her companions. Marianne, not contented with 
absolutely refusing to go herself, was very urgent to prevent her sister's 
going at all ; and Mrs. Jennings, though her carriage was always at Elinor's 
service, so very much disliked Mrs. John Dashwood, that not even her 
curiosity to see how she looked after the late discovery, nor her strong 
desire to affront her by taking Edward's part, could overcome her un- 
willingness to be in her company again. The consequence was, that Elinor 
set out by herself to pay a visit, for which no one could really have less 
inclination, and to run the risk of a tete-a-tete with a woman whom neither 
of the others had so much reason to dislike. 

Mrs. Dashwood was denied; but before the carriage could turn from 
the house, her husband accidentally came out. He expressed great pleasure 
in meeting Elinor, told her that he had been just going to call in Berkeley 
Street, and assuring her that Fanny would be very glad to see her, invited 
her to come in. 

They walked upstairs into the drawing-room. Nobody was there. 

"Fanny is in her own room, I suppose," said he; "I will go to her 
presently, for I am sure she will not have the least objection in the world 
to seeing you very far from it indeed. Now especially there cannot be 
but however, you and Marianne were always great favourites. Why would 
not Marianne come?" 

Elinor made what excuse she could for her. 

"I am not sorry to see you alone," he replied, "for I have a good deal to 
say to you. This living of Colonel Brandon's can it be true? has he really 
given it to Edward? I heard it yesterday by chance, and was coming to 
you on purpose to inquire further about it." 

"It is perfectly true. Colonel Brandon has given the living of Delaford 
to Edward." 

"Really! Well, this is very astonishing! no relationship! no connection 
between them! and now that livings fetch such a price! what was the value 
of this?" 

"About two hundred a year." 

"Very well and for the next presentation to a living of that value 
supposing the late incumbent to have been old and sickly and likely to 
vacate it soon he might have got, I dare say fourteen hundred pounds. 
And how came he not to have settled that matter before this person's 
death? Now indeed it would be too late to sell it, but a man of Colonel 
Brandon's sense! I wonder he should be so improvident in a point of such 
common, such natural concern! Well, I am convinced that there is a vast 
deal of inconsistency in almost every human character. I suppose, however 
on recollection that the case may probably be this. Edward is only to 



17 6 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

hold the living till the person to whom the Colonel has really sold the 
presentation is old enough to take it. Aye, aye, that is the fact, depend 
upon it." 

Elinor contradicted it, however, very positively; and by relating that 
she had herself been employed in conveying the offer from Colonel Bran- 
don to Edward, and therefore must understand the terms on which it was 
given, obliged him to submit to her authority. 

"It is truly astonishing!" he cried, after hearing what she said, "what 
could be the Colonel's motive?" 

"A very simple one to be of use to Mr. Ferrars." 

"Well, well; whatever Colonel Brandon may be, Edward is a very lucky 
man! You will not mention the matter to Fanny, however; for though I 
have broke it to her, and she bears it vastly well, she will not like to hear 
it much talked of." 

Elinor had some difficulty here to refrain from observing that, she 
thought Fanny might have borne with composure an acquisition of wealth 
to her brother, by which neither she nor her child could be possibly 
impoverished. 

"Mrs. Ferrars," added he, lowering his voice to the tone becoming so 
important a subject, "knows nothing about it at present, and I believe it 
will be best to keep it entirely concealed from her as long as may be. 
When the marriage takes place, I fear she must hear of it all." 

"But why should such precaution be used? Though it is not to b< 
supposed that Mrs. Ferrars can have the smallest satisfaction in knowing 
that her son has money enough to live upon, for that must be quite out of 
the question ; yet why, after her late behaviour, is she supposed to feel at 
all? She has done with her son, she has cast him off for ever, and has made 
all those over whom she had any influence cast him off likewise. Surely, 
after doing so, she cannot be imagined liable to any impression of sorrow 
or of joy on his account ; she cannot be interested in anything that befalls 
him. She would not be so weak as to throw away the comfort of a child, 
and yet retain the anxiety of a parent!" 

"Ah! Elinor," said John, "your reasoning is very good, but it is founded 
on ignorance of human nature. When Edward's unhappy match takes 
place, depend upon it his mother will feel as much as if she had never 
discarded him; and therefore every circumstance that may accelerate that 
dreadful event must be concealed from her as much as possible. Mrs. 
Ferrars can never forget that Edward is her son." 

"You surprise me; I should think it must nearly have escaped her 
memory by this time." 

"You wrong her exceedingly. Mrs. Ferrars is one of the most affec- 
tionate mothers in the world." 
Elinor was silent. 

"We think now," said Mr. Dashwood, after a short pause, "of Robert's 
marrying Miss Morton." 



SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 177 

Elinor, smiling at the grave and decisive importance of her brother's 
tone, calmly replied: 

"The lady, I suppose, has no choice in the affair." 

"Choice! how do you mean?" 

"I only mean, that I suppose from your manner of speaking, it must be 
the same to Miss Morton whether she marry Edward or Robert." 

"Certainly, there can be no difference; for Robert will now to all intents 
and purposes be considered as the eldest son ; and as to anything else, they 
are both very agreeable young men I do not know that one is superior 
to the other." 

Elinor said no more, and John was also for a short time silent. His 
reflections ended thus: 

"Of one thing, my dear sister," kindly taking her hand and speaking ir. 
an awful whisper, "I may assure you: and I will do it, because I know it 
must gratify you. I have good reason to think indeed I have it from the 
best authority, or I should not repeat it, for otherwise it would be very 
wrong to say anything about it but I have it from the very best authority 
not that I ever precisely heard Mrs. Ferrars say it herself, but her 
daughter did, and I have it from her. That, in short, whatever objections 
there might be against a certain a certain connection you understand 
me it would have been far preferable to her, it would not have given her 
half the vexation that this does. I was exceedingly pleased to hear that 
Mrs. Ferrars considered it in that light a very gratifying circumstance 
you know, to us all. 'It would have been beyond comparison,' she said, 
'the least evil of the two, and she would be glad to compound now for 
nothing worse.' But, however, all that is quite out of the question not 
to be thought of or mentioned ; as to any attachment, you know it never 
could be all that is gone by. But I thought I would just tell you of this, 
because I knew how much it must please you. Not that you have any 
reason to regret, my dear Elinor. There is no doubt of your doing ex- 
ceedingly well quite as well, or better, perhaps, all things considered. 
Has Colonel Brandon been with you lately?" 

Elinor had heard enough, if not to gratify her vanity and raise her 
self-importance, to agitate her nerves and fill her mind; and she was 
therefore glad to be spared from the necessity of saying much in reply 
herself, and from the danger of hearing anything more from her brother, 
by the entrance of Mr. Robert Ferrars. After a few moments' chat, John 
Dashwood, recollecting that Fanny was yet uninformed of his sister being 
there, quitted the room in quest of her , and Elinor was left to improve her 
acquaintance with Robert, who, by the gay unconcern, the happy self- 
complacency of his manner while enjoying so unfair a division of his 
mother's love and liberality, to the prejudice of his banished brother, 
earned only by his own dissipated course of life, and that brother's 
integrity, was confirming her most unfavourable opinion of his head and 
heart. 

They had scarcely been two minutes by themselves before he began to 



178 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

speak of Edward; for he too had heard of the living, and was very in- 
quisitive on the subject. Elinor repeated the particulars of it, as she had 
given them to John, and their effect on Robert, though very different, was 
not less striking than it had been on him. He laughed most immoderately. 
The idea of Edward's being a clergyman, and living in a small parsonage 
house, diverted him beyond measure; and when to that was added the 
fanciful imagery of Edward reading prayers in a white surplice, and 
publishing the banns of marriage between John Smith and Mary Brown, 
he could conceive nothing more ridiculous. 

Elinor, while she waited in silence, and immovable gravity, the con- 
clusion of such folly, could not restrain her eyes from being fixed on him 
with a look that spoke all the contempt it excited. It was a look, however, 
very well bestowed, for it relieved her own feelings, and gave no intelli- 
gence to him. He was recalled from wit to wisdom, not by any reproof 
of hers, but by his own sensibility. 

"We may treat it as a joke," said he at last, recovering from the affected 
laugh which had considerably lengthened out the genuine gaiety of the 
moment "but, upon my soul, i is a most serious business. Poor Edward! 
he is ruined for ever. I am extremely sorry for it, for I know him to be a 
very good-hearted creature ; as well meaning a fellow, perhaps, as any in 
the world. You must not judge of him, Miss Dashwood, from your slight 
acquaintance. Poor Edward ! His manners are certainly not the happiest 
in nature. But we are not all born, you know, with the same powers the 
same address. Poor fellow! to see him in a circle of strangers! to be sure it 
was pitiable enough! but, upon my soul, I believe he has as good a heart 
as any in the kingdom ; and I declare and protest to you I never was so 
shocked in my life, as when it all burst forth. I could not believe it. My 
mother was the first person who told me of it, and I, feeling myself called 
on to act with resolution, immediately said to her, 'My dear madam, I do 
not know what you may intend to do on the occasion, but as for myself, I 
must say, that if Edward does marry this young woman, / never will see 
him again.' That was what I said immediately. I was most uncommonly 
shocked indeed! Poor Edward! he has done for himself completely! shut 
himself out for ever from all decent society! but as I directly said to my 
mother, I am not in the least surprised at it ; from his style of education 
it was always to be expected. My poor mother was half frantic." 

"Have you ever seen the lady?" 

"Yes, once; while she was staying in this house. I happened to drop in 
for ten minutes; and I saw quite enough of her. The merest awkward 
country girl, without style or elegance, and almost without beauty. I 
remember her perfectly. Just the kind of girl I should suppose likely to 
captivate poor Edward. I offered immediately as soon as my mother 
related the affair to me, to talk to him myself, and dissuade him from the 
match ; but it was too late then, I found, to do anything, for unluckily, 
I was not in the way at first, and knew nothing of it till after the breach 
had taken place, when it was not for me, you know, to interfere. But had 



SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 179 

I been informed of it a few hours earlier, I think it is most probable that 
something might have been hit on. I certainly should have represented it 
to Edward in a very strong light. 'My dear fellow,' I should have said, 
'consider what you are doing. You are making a most disgraceful connec- 
tion, and such a one as your family are unanimous in disapproving.' I 
cannot help thinking, in short, that means might have been found. But 
now it is all too late. He must be starved, you know; that is certain; 
absolutely starved." 

He had just settled this point with great composure, when the entrance 
of Mrs. John Dashwood put an end to the subject. But though she never 
spoke of it out of her own family, Elinor could see its influence on her 
mind, in the something like confusion of countenance with which she 
entered, and an attempt at cordiality in her behaviour to herself. She even 
proceeded so far as to be concerned to find that Elinor and her sister were 
so soon to leave town, as she had hoped to see more of them; an exertion 
in which her husband, who attended her into the room, and hung en- 
amoured over her accents, seemed to distinguish everything that was 
most affectionate and graceful. 



Chapter 42 

ONE other short call in Harley Street, in which Elinor received her 
brother's congratulations on their travelling so far towards Barton with- 
out any expense, and on Colonel Brandon's being to follow them to Cleve- 
land in a day or two, completed the intercourse of the brother and sisters 
in town ; and a faint invitation from Fanny, to come to Norland whenever 
it should happen to be in their way, which of all things was the most 
unlikely to occur, with a more warm, though less public assurance, from 
John to Elinor of the promptitude with which he should come to see her 
at Delaford, was all that foretold any meeting in the country. 

It amused her to observe that all her friends seemed determined to send 
her to Delaford ; a place in which, of all others, she would now least choose 
to visit or wish to reside ; for not only was it considered as her future home 
by her brother and Mrs. Jennings, but even Lucy, when they parted, gave 
her a pressing invitation to visit her there. 

Very early in April, and tolerably early in the day, the two parties from 
Hanover Square and Berkeley Street set out from their respective homes, 
to meet by appointment on the road. For the convenience of Charlotte and 
her child, they were to be more than two days on their journey, and Mr. 
Palmer, travelling more expeditiously with Colonel Brandon, was to join 
them at Cleveland soon after their arrival. 

Marianne, few as had been her hours of comfort in London, and eager 
as she had long been to quit it, could not, when it came to the point, bid 
adieu to the house in which she had for the last time enjoyed those hopes 
and that confidence in Willoughby, which were now extinguished for ever, 



i8o THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

without great pain. Nor could she leave the place in which Willoughby 
remained busy in new engagements, and new schemes, in which she could 
have no share, without shedding many tears. 

Elinor's satisfaction at the moment of removal was more positive. She 
had no such object for her lingering thoughts to fix on, she left no creature 
behind from whom it would give her a moment's regret to be divided for 
ever, she was pleased to be free herself from the persecution of Lucy's 
friendship, she was grateful for bringing her sister away unseen by Wil- 
loughby since his marriage, and she looked forward with hope to what 
a few months of tranquillity at Barton might do towards restoring Mari- 
anne's peace of mind, and confirming her own. 

Their journey was safely performed. The second day brought them into 
the cherished, or the prohibited, county of Somerset, for as such was it 
dwelt on by turns in Marianne's imagination ; and in the forenoon of the 
third they drove up to Cleveland. 

Cleveland was a spacious modern-built house, situated on a sloping 
lawn. It had no park, but the pleasure-grounds were tolerably extensive; 
and like every other place of the same degree of importance, it had its open 
shrubbery, and closer wood-walk ; a road of smooth gravel winding round 
a plantation, led to the front; the lawn was dotted over with timber; the 
house itself was under the guardianship of the fir, the mountain-ash, and 
the acacia, and a thick screen of them altogether, interspersed with tall 
Lombardy poplars, shut out the offices. 

Marianne entered the house with a heart swelling with emotion from 
the consciousness of being only eighty miles from Barton, and not thirty 
from Combe Magna; and before she had been five minutes within its 
walls, while the others were busily helping Charlotte show her child to the 
house-keeper, she quitted it again, stealing away through the winding 
shrubberies, now just beginning to be in beauty, to gain a distant eminence 
where from its Grecian temple, her eye, wandering over a wide tract of 
country to the south-east, could fondly rest on the farthest ridge of hills 
in the horizon, and fancy that from their summits Combe Magna might 
be seen. 

In such moments of precious, of invaluable miseBy, she rejoiced in tears 
of agony to be at Cleveland ; and as she returned by a different circuit to 
the house, feeling all the happy privilege of country liberty, of wandering 
from place to place in free and luxurious solitude, she resolved to spend 
almost every hour of every day while she remained with the Palmers, in 
the indulgence of such solitary rambles. 

She returned just in time to join the others as they quitted the house, on 
an excursion through its more immediate premises; and the rest of the 
morning was easily whiled away, in lounging round the kitchen garden, 
examining the bloom upon its walls, and listening to the gardener's 
lamentations upon blights, in dawdling through the greenhouse, where the 
loss of her favourite plants, unwarily exposed, and nipped by the lingering 
frost, raised the laughter of Charlotte, and in visiting her poultry-yard, 



SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 181 

where in the disappointed hopes of her dairy-maid, by hens forsaking their 
nests, or being stolen by a fox, or in the rapid decease of a promising young 
brood, she found fresh sources of merriment. 

The morning was fine and dry, and Marianne, in her plan of employ- 
ment abroad, had not calculated for any change of weather during their 
stay at Cleveland. With great surprise, therefore, did she find herself 
prevented by a settled rain from going out again after dinner. She had 
depended on a twilight walk to the Grecian temple, and perhaps all over 
the grounds, and an evening merely cold or damp would not have deterred 
her from it ; but a heavy and settled rain even she could not fancy dry or 
pleasant weather for walking. 

Their party was small, and the hours passed quietly away. Mrs. Palmer 
had her child, and Mrs. Jennings her carpet-work; they talked of the 
friends they had left behind, arranged Lady Middleton's engagements, 
and wondered whether Mr. Palmer and Colonel Brandon would get further 
than Reading that night. Elinor, however little concerned in it, joined in 
their discourse, and Marianne, who had the knack of finding her way 
in every house to the library, however it might be avoided by the family in 
general, soon procured herself a book. 

Nothing was wanting on Mrs. Palmer's side, that constant and friendly 
good humour could do, to make them feel themselves welcome. The 
openness and heartiness of her manner more than atoned for that want of 
recollection and elegance, which made her often deficient in the forms of 
politeness ; her kindness, recommended by so pretty a face, was engaging ; 
her folly, though evident, was not disgusting because it was not conceited ; 
and Elinor could have forgiven everything but her laugh. 

The two gentlemen arrived the next day to a very late dinner, affording 
a pleasant enlargement of the party, and a very welcome variety to their 
conversation, which a long morning of the same continued rain had re- 
duced very low. 

Elinor had seen so little of Mr. Palmer, and in that little had seen so 
much variety in his address to her sister and herself, that she knew not 
what to expect to find him in his own family. She found him, however, 
perfectly the gentleman in his behaviour to all his visitors, and only 
occasionally rude to his wife and her mother; she found him very capable 
of being a pleasant companion, and only prevented from being so always, 
by too great an aptitude to fancy himself as much superior to people in 
general, as he must feel himself to be to Mrs. Jennings and Charlotte. For 
the rest of his character and habits, they were marked, as far as Elinor 
could perceive, with no traits at all unusual in his sex and time of life. He 
was nice in his eating, uncertain in his hours; fond of his child, though 
affecting to slight it; and idled away the mornings at billiards, which 
ought to have been devoted to business. She liked him, however, upon the 
whole much better than she had expected, and in her heart was not sorry 
that she could like him no more; not sorry to be driven by the observation 
of his epicurism, h : ? selfishness, and his conceit, to rest with complacency 



i82 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

on the remembrance of Edward's generous temper, simple taste, and diffi- 
dent feelings. 

Of Edward, or at least of some of his concerns, she now received in- 
telligence from Colonel Brandon, who had been into Dorsetshire lately; 
and who, treating her at once as the disinterested friend of Mr. Ferrars, 
and the kind confidante of himself, talked, to her a great deal of the 
parsonage at Delaford, described its deficiencies, and told her what he 
meant to do himself towards removing them. His behaviour to her in this 
as well as in every other particular, his open pleasure in meeting hereafter 
an absence of only ten days, his readiness to converse with her, and his 
deference for her opinion, might very well justify Mrs. Jennings's per- 
suasion of his attachment, and would have been enough, perhaps, had not 
Elinor still, as from the first, believed Marianne his real favourite, to make 
her suspect it herself. But as it was, such a notion had scarcely ever 
entered her head, except by Mrs. Jennings's suggestion ; and she could not 
help believing herself the nicest observer of the two ; she watched his eyes, 
while Mrs. Jennings thought only of his behaviour ; and while his looks of 
anxious solicitude on Marianne's feeling in her head and throat the 
beginning of a heavy cold, because unexpressed by words, entirely escaped 
the latter lady's observation, she could discover in them the quick feelings 
and needless alarm of a lover. 

Two delightful twilight walks on the third and fourth evenings of her 
being there, not merely on the dry gravel of the shrubbery, but all over the 
grounds, and especially in the most distant parts of them, where there was 
something more of wildness than in the rest, where the trees were the 
oldest, and the grass was the longest and wettest, had assisted by the 
jtill greater imprudence of sitting in her wet shoes and stockings given 
Marianne a cold so violent, as, though for a day or two trifled with or 
denied, would force itself by increasing ailments on the concern of every- 
body, and the notice of herself. Prescriptions poured in from all quarters, 
and as usual were all declined. Though heavy and feverish, with a pain 
in her limbs, a cough and a sore throat, a good night's rest was to cure 
her entirely; and it was with difficulty that Elinor pervailed on her, 
when she went to bed, to try one or two of the simplest of the remedies. 



Chapter 43 

MARIANNE got up the next morning at her usual time ; to every inquiry 
replied that she was better, and tried to prove herself so, by engaging in 
her accustomary employments. But a day spent in sitting shivering over 
the fire with a book in her hand which she was unable to read, or in 
lying, weary and languid, on a sofa, did not speak much in favour of her 
amendment; and when, at last, she went early to bed, more and more 
indisposed, Colonel Brandon was only astonished at her sister's composure, 
who though attending and nursing her the whole day, against Marianne's 



SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 183 

inclination, and forcing proper medicines on her at night, trusted like 
Marianne to the certainty and efficacy of sleep, and felt no real alarm. 

A very restless and feverish night, however, disappointed the expecta- 
tion of both; and when Marianne, after persisting in rising, confessed 
herself unable to sit up, and returned voluntarily to her bed, Elinor was 
very ready to adopt Mrs. Jennings's advice, of sending for the Palmers' 
apothecary. 

He came, examined his patient, and though encouraging Miss Dashwood 
to expect that a very few days would restore her sister to health, yet by 
pronouncing her disorder to have a putrid tendency, and allowing the 
word "infection" to pass his lips, gave instant alarm to Mrs. Palmer on her 
baby's account. Mrs. Jennings, who had been inclined from the first to 
think Marianne's complaint more serious than Elinor, now looked very 
grave on Mr. Harris's report, and confirming Charlotte's fears and cau- 
tion, urged the necessity of her immediate removal with her infant ; and 
Mr. Palmer, though treating their apprehensions as idle, found the anxiety 
and importunity of his wife too great to be withstood. Her departure 
therefore was fixed on ; and within an hour after Mr. Harris's arrival, she 
set off, with her little boy and his nurse, for the house of a near relation of 
Mr. Palmer's, who lived a few miles on the other side of Bath ; whither her 
husband promised, at her earnest entreaty, to join her in a day or two ; 
and whither she was almost equally urgent with her mother to accompany 
her. Mrs. Jennings, however, with a kindness of heart which made Elinor 
really love her, declared her resolution of not stirring from Cleveland as 
long as Marianne remained ill, and of endeavouring, by her own atten- 
tive care, to supply to her the place of the mother she had taken her 
from; and Elinor found her on every occasion a most willing and active 
helpmate, desirous to share in all her fatigues, and often, by her better 
experience in nursing, of material use. 

Poor Marianne, languid and low from the nature of her malady, and 
feeling herself universally ill, could no longer hope that to-morrow would 
find her recovered; and the idea of what to-morrow would have produced, 
but for this unlucky illness, made every ailment more severe; for on that 
day they were to have begun their journey home, and, attended the whole 
way by a servant of Mrs. Jennings, were to have taken their mother by 
surprise on the following forenoon. The little that she said, was all in 
lamentation of this inevitable delay; though Elinor tried to raise her 
spirits, and make her believe, as she then really believed herself, that it 
would be a very short one. 

The next day produced little or no alteration in the state of the patient ; 
she certainly was not better, and except that there was no amendment, 
did not appear worse. Their party was now further reduced; for Mr. 
Palmer, though very unwilling to go, as well from real humanity and 
good-nature, as from a dislike of appearing to be frightened away by his 
wife, was persuaded at last by Colonel Brandon, to perform his promise of 
following her; and while he was preparing to go, Colonel Brandon him- 



184 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

self, with a much greater exertion, began to talk of going likewise. Here, 
however, the kindness of Mrs. Jennings interposed most acceptably; for to 
send the Colonel away while his love was in so much uneasiness on her 
sister's account, would be to deprive them both, she thought, of every 
comfort ; and therefore telling him at once that his stay at Cleveland was 
necessary to herself, that she should want him to play at piquet of an 
evening while Miss Dash wood was above with her sister, etc., she urged 
him so strongly to remain, that he, who was gratifying the first wish of his 
own heart by a compliance, could not long even affect to demur ; especially 
as Mrs. Jennings's entreaty was warmly seconded by Mr. Palmer, who 
seemed to feel a relief to himself in leaving behind him a person so well 
able to assist or advise Miss Dashwood in any emergence. 

Marianne was of course kept in ignorance of all these arrangements. She 
knew not that she had been the means of sending the owners of Cleveland 
away, in about seven days from the time of their arrival. It gave her no 
surprise that she saw nothing of Mrs. Palmer ; and as it gave her likewise 
no concern, she never mentioned her name. 

Two days passed away from the time of Mr. Palmer's departure, and 
her situation continued, with little variation, the same. Mr. Harris, who 
attended her every day, still talked boldly of a speedy recovery, and Miss 
Dashwood was equally sanguine; but the expectation of the others was 
by no means so cheerful. Mrs. Jennings had determined very early in the 
seizure that Marianne would never get over it, and Colonel Brandon, who 
was chiefly of use in listening to Mrs. Jennings's forebodings, was not in 
a state of mind to resist their influence. He tried to reason himself out of 
fears which the different judgment of the apothecary seemed to render 
absurd; but the many hours of each day in which he was left entirely 
alone were but too favourable for the admission of every melancholy idea, 
and he could not expel from his mind the persuasion that he should see 
Marianne no more. 

On the morning of the third day, however, the gloomy anticipations of 
both were almost done away; for when Mr. Harris arrived, he declared 
his patient materially better. Her pulse was much stronger and every 
symptom more favourable than on the preceding visit. Elinor, confirmed 
in every pleasant hope, was all cheerfulness ; rejoicing that in her letters 
to her mother, she had pursued her own judgment rather than her friend's, 
in making very light of the indisposition which delayed them at Cleveland, 
and almost fixing on the time when Marianne would be able to travel. 

But the day did not close so auspiciously as it began. Towards the 
evening Marianne became ill again, growing more heavy, restless, and 
uncomfortable than before. Her sister, however, still sanguine, was willing 
to attribute the change to nothing more than the fatigue of having sat up 
to have her bed made; and carefully administering the cordials prescribed, 
saw her with satisfaction sink at last into a slumber, from which she 
expected the most beneficial effects. Her sleep, though not so quiet as 
Elinor wished to see it, lasted a considerable time ; and anxious to observe 



SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 185 

the result of it herself, she resolved to sit with her durhig the whole of it. 
Mrs. Jennings, knowing nothing of any change in the patient, went un- 
usually early to bed ; her maid, who was one of the principal nurses, was 
recreating herself in the housekeeper's room, and Elinor remained alone 
with Marianne. 

The repose of the latter became more and more disturbed; and her 
sister, who watched with unremitting attention her continual change of 
posture, and heard the frequent but inarticulate sounds of complaint 
which passed her lips, was almost wishing to rouse her from so painful a 
slumber when Marianne, suddenly awakened by some accidental noise in 
the house, started hastily up, and, with feverish wildness, cried out: 

"Is mamma coming?" 

"Not yet," replied the other, concealing her terror, and assisting Mari- 
anne to lie down again; "but she will be here I hope, before long. It is a 
great way, you know, from hence to Barton." 

"But she must not go round by London," cried Marianne, in the same 
hurried manner. "I shall never see her, if she goes to London." 

Elinor perceived with alarm that she was not quite herself, and while 
attempting to soothe her, eagerly felt her pulse. It was lower and quicker 
than ever; and Marianne, still talking wildly of mamma, her alarm in- 
creased so rapidly, as to determine her on sending instantly for Mr. Harris, 
and dispatching a messenger to Barton for her mother. To consult with 
Colonel Brandon on the best means of effecting the latter, was a thought 
which immediately followed the resolution of its performance; and as 
soon as she had rung up the maid to take her place by her sister, she 
hastened down to the drawing-room, where she knew he was generally to 
be found at a much later hour than at present. 

It was no time for hesitation. Her fears and her difficulties were im- 
mediately before him. Her fears, he had no courage, no confidence to 
attempt the removal of; he listened to them in silent despondence; but 
her difficulties were instantly obviated, for with a readiness that seemed to 
speak the occasion and the service pre-arranged in his mind, he offered 
himself as the messenger who should fetch Mrs. Dashwood. Elinor made 
no resistance that was not easily overcome. She thanked him with a brief, 
though fervent gratitude, and while he went to hurry off his servant with 
a message to Mr. Harris, and an order for post-horses directly, she wrote 
a few lines to her mother. 

The comfort of such a friend at that moment as Colonel Brandon of 
such a companion for her mother, how gratefully was it felt ! a companion 
whose judgment would guide, whose attendance must relieve, and whose 
friendship might soothe her! as far as the shock of such a summons could 
be lessened to her, his presence, his manners, his assistance, would lessen it. 

He, meanwhile, whatever he might feel, acted with all the firmness of a 
collected mind, made every necessary arrangement with the utmost dis- 
patch, and calculated with exactness the time in which she might look 
for his return. Not a moment was lost in delay of any kind. The horses 



i86 THEWORKSOFJANEAUSTEN 

arrived, even before they were expected, and Colonel Brandon only press- 
ing her hand with a look of solemnity, and a few words spoken too low 
to reach her ear, hurried into the carriage. It was then about twelve 
o'clock, and she returned to her sister's apartment to wait for the arrival 
of the apothecary, and to watch by her the rest of the night. It was a night 
of almost equal suffering to both. Hour after hour passed away in sleepless 
pain and delirium on Marianne's side, and in the most cruel anxiety on 
Elinor's, before Mr. Harris appeared. Her apprehensions once raised, paid 
by their excess for all her former security, and the servant who sat up 
with her, for she would not allow Mrs. Jennings to be called, only tortured 
her more, by hints of what her mistress had always thought. 

Marianne's ideas were still, at intervals, fixed incoherently on her 
mother, and whenever she mentioned her name, it gave a pang to the 
heart of poor Elinor, who, reproaching herself for having trifled with so 
many days of illness, and wretched for some immediate relief, fancied that 
all relief might soon be in vain, that everything had been delayed too long, 
and pictured to herself her suffering mother, arriving too late to see this 
darling child, or to see her rational. 

She was on the point of sending again for Mr. Harris, or if he could not 
come, for some other advice, when the former but not till after five 
o'clock arrived. His opinion, however, made some little amends for his 
delay, for though acknowledging a very unexpected and unpleasant altera- 
tion in his patient, he would not allow the danger to be material, and 
talked of the relief which a fresh mode of treatment must procure, with a 
confidence which, in a lesser degree, was communicated to Elinor. He 
promised to call again, in the course of three or four hours, and left both 
the patient and her anxious attendant more composed than he had found 
them. 

With strong concern, and with many reproaches for not being called to 
their aid, did Mrs. Jennings hear in the morning of what had passed. Her 
former apprehensions, now with greater reason restored, left her no doubt 
of the event ; and though trying to speak comfort to Elinor, her conviction 
of her sister's danger would not allow her to offer the comfort of hope. 
Her heart was really grieved. The rapid decay, the early death of a girl 
so young, so lovely as Marianne, must have struck a less interested person 
with concern. On Mrs. Jennings's compassion she had other claims. She 
had been for three months her companion, was still under her care, and 
she was known to have been greatly injured, and long unhappy. The 
distress of her sister too, particularly a favourite, was before her; and as 
for their mother, when Mrs. Jennings considered that Marianne might 
probably be to her what Charlotte was to herself, her sympathy in her 
sufferings was very sincere. 

Mr. Harris was punctual in his second visit; but he came to be dis- 
appointed in his hopes of what the last would produce. His medicines had 
failed ; the fever was unabated ; and Marianne only more quiet no more 
herself remained in a heavy stupor. Elinor catching all, and more than 



SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 187 

all, his fears in a moment, proposed to call in further advice. But he judged 
it unnecessary; he had still something more to try, some fresh application, 
of whose success he was almost as confident as the last, and his visit 
concluded with encouraging assurances which reached the ear, but could 
not enter the heart of Miss Dashwood. She was calm, except when she 
thought of her mother, but she was almost hopeless; and in this state she 
continued till noon, scarcely stirring from her sister's bed, her thoughts 
wandering from one image of grief, one suffering friend to another, and 
her spirits oppressed to the utmost by the conversation of Mrs. Jennings, 
who scrupled not to attribute the severity and danger of this attack to the 
many weeks of previous indisposition which Marianne's disappointment 
had brought on. Elinor felt all the reasonableness of the idea, and it gave 
fresh misery to her reflections. 

About noon, however, she began but with a caution, a dread of some 
disappointment which for some time kept her silent, even to her friend 
to fancy, to hope she could perceive a slight amendment in her sister's 
pulse ; she waited, watched, examined it again and again ; and at last, with 
an agitation more difficult to bury under exterior calmness than all her 
foregoing distress, ventured to communicate her hopes. Mrs. Jennings, 
though forced on examination to acknowledge a temporary revival, tried 
to keep her young friend from indulging a thought of its continuance ; and 
Elinor, conning over every injunction of distrust, told herself likewise not 
to hope. But it was too late. Hope had already entered; and feeling all its 
anxious flutter, s^ie bent over her sister to watch she hardly knew for 
what. Half an hour passed away, and the favourable symptom yet blessed 
her. Others even arose to confirm it. Her breath, her skin, her lips, all 
flattered Elinor with signs of amendment, and Marianne fixed her eyes on 
her with a rational though languid gaze. Anxiety and hope now oppressed 
her in equal degrees, and left her no moment of tranquillity till the arrival 
of Mr. Harris at four o'clock ; when his assurances, his felicitations on a 
recovery in her sister even surpassing his expectation, gave her confidence, 
comfort, and tears of joy. 

Marianne was in every respect materially better, and he declared her 
entirely out of danger. Mrs. Jennings, perhaps satisfied with the partial 
justification of her forebodings, which had been found in their late alarm, 
allowed herself to trust in his judgment, and admitted with unfeigned joy, 
and soon with unequivocal cheerfulness, the probability of an entire re- 
covery. 

Elinor could not be cheerful. Her joy was of a different kind, and led 
to anything rather than to gaiety. Marianne restored to life, health, 
friends, and to her doting mother, was an idea to fill her heart with 
sensations of exquisite comfort, and expand it in fervent gratitude; but it 
led to no outward demonstrations of joy, no words, no smiles. All within 
Elinor's breast was satisfaction, silent and strong. 

She continued by the side of her sister with little intermission the whole 
afternoon, calming every fear, satisfying every inquiry of her enfeebled 



i88 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

spirits, supplying every succour, and watching almost every look and 
every breath. The possibility of a relapse would, of course, in some 
moments, occur to remind her of what anxiety was but when she saw on 
her frequent and minute examination, that every symptom of recovery 
continued, and saw Marianne at six o'clock, sink into a quiet, steady, and 
to all appearance comfortable sleep, she silenced every doubt. 

The time was now drawing on when Colonel Brandon might be expected 
back. At ten o'clock, she trusted, or at least not much later, her mother 
would be relieved from the dreadful suspense in which she must now be 
travelling towards them. The Colonel too ! perhaps scarcely less an object 
of pity! Oh! how slow was the progress of time which yet kept them in 
ignorance ! 

At seven o'clock, leaving Marianne still sweetly asleep, she joined Mrs. 
Jennings in the drawing-room to tea. Of breakfast she had been kept by 
her fears, and of dinner by their sudden reverse, from eating much ; and 
the present refreshment, therefore, with such feelings of content as she 
brought to it, was particularly welcome. Mrs. Jennings would have per- 
suaded her at its conclusion to take some rest before her mother's arrival, 
and allow her to take her place by Marianne ; but Elinor had no sense of 
fatigue, no capability of sleep at that moment about her, and she was 
not to be kept away from her sister an unnecessary instant. Mrs. Jennings 
therefore attending her upstairs into the sick chamber, to satisfy herself 
that all continued right, left her there again to her charge and her thoughts, 
and retired to her own room to write letters and sleep. 

The night was cold and stormy. The wind roared round the house, and 
the rain beat against the windows; but Elinor, all happiness within, 
regarded it not. Marianne slept through every blast, and the travellers 
they had a rich reward in store, for every present inconvenience. 

The clock struck eight. Had it been ten, Elinor would have been con- 
vinced that at that moment she heard a carriage driving up to the house ; 
and so strong was the persuasion that she did, in spite of the almost 
impossibility of their being already come, that she moved into the ad- 
joining dressing-closet and opened a window-shutter, to be satisfied of the 
truth. She instantly saw that her ears had not deceived her. The flaring 
lamps of a carriage were immediately in view. By their uncertain light 
she thought she could discern it to be drawn by four horses; and this, 
while it told the excess of her poor mother's alarm, gave some explanation 
to such unexpected rapidity. 

Never in her life had Elinor found it so difficult to be calm, as at that 
moment. The knowledge of what her mother must be feeling as the car- 
riage stopped at the door, of her doubt her dread perhaps her despair! 
and of what she had to teli ! with such knowledge it was impossible to be 
calm. All that remained to be done was to be speedy ; and therefore stay- 
ing only till she could leave Mrs. Jennings's maid with her sister, she 
hurried downstairs. 

The bustle in the vestibule, as she passed along an inner lobby, assured 



SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 189 

her that they were already in the house. She rushed forwards towards the 
drawing-room she entered it, and saw only Willoughby. 

Chapter 44 

ELINOR, starting back with a look of horror at the sight of him, obeyed 
the first impulse of her heart in turning instantly to quit the room, and 
her hand was already on the lock, when its action was suspended by his 
hastily advancing, and saying, in a voice rather of command than suppli- 
cation : 

"Miss Dashwood, for half an hour for ten minutes I entreat you to 
stay." 

"No, sir," she replied with firmness, "I shall not stay. Your business 
cannot be with me. The servants, I suppose, forgot to tell you that Mr. 
Palmer was not in the house." 

"Had they told me," he cried with vehemence, "that Mr. Palmer and 
all his relations were at the devil, it would not have turned me from the 
door. My business is with you, and only you." 

"With me!" in the utmost amazement "well, sir be quick and if 
you can less violent." 

"Sit down, and I will be both." 

She hesitated; she knew not what to do. The possibility of Colonel 
Brandon's arriving and finding him there, came across her. But she had 
promised to hear him, and her curiosity no less than her honour was 
engaged. After a moment's recollection, therefore, concluding that pru- 
dence required dispatch, and that her acquiescence would best promote it, 
she walked silently towards the table and sat down. He took the opposite 
chair, and for half a minute not a word was said by either. 

"Pray be quick, sir," said Elinor impatiently. "I have no time to spare." 

He was sitting in an attitude of deep meditation, and seemed not to 
hear her. 

"Your sister," said he, with abruptness, a moment afterwards "is out 
of danger. I heard it from the servant. God be praised! But is it true! is 
it really true?" 

Elinor would not speak. He repeated the inquiry with yet greater 
eagerness. 

"For God's sake tell me, is she out of clanger, or is she not?" 

"We hope she is." 

He rose up, and walked across the room. 

"Had I known as much half an hour ago But since I am here"- 
speaking with a forced vivacity as he returned to his seat "what does it 
signify? For once, Miss Dashwood it will be the last time, perhaps let 
us be cheerful together. I am in a fine mood for gaiety. Tell me honestly" 
a deeper glow overspreading his cheeks "do you think me most a 
knave or a fool?" 



190 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

Elinor looked at him with greater astonishment than ever. She began 
to think that he must be in liquor ; the strangeness of such a visit, and of 
such manners, seemed no otherwise intelligible; and with this impression, 
she immediately rose, saying: 

"Mr. Willoughby, I advise you at present to return to Combe. I am not 
at leisure to remain with you longer. Whatever your business may be with 
me, it will be better recollected and explained to-morrow." 

"I understand you," he replied with an expressive smile, and a voice 
perfectly calm. "Yes, I am very drunk. A pint of porter with my cold beef 
at Marlborough was enough to overset me." 

"At Marlborough!" cried Elinor, more and more at a loss to under- 
stand what he would be at. 

"Yes I left London this morning at eight o'clock, and the only ten 
minutes I have spent out of my chaise since that time procured me a 
nuncheon * at Marlborough." 

The steadiness of his manner, and the intelligence of his eye as he spoke, 
convincing Elinor, that whatever other unpardonable folly might bring 
him to Cleveland, he was not brought there by intoxication, she said, 
after a moment's recollection: 

"Mr. Willoughby, you ought to feel, and I certainly do that after what 
has passed your coming here in this manner, and forcing yourself upon 
my notice, requires a very particular excuse. What is it that you mean 
by it?" 

"I mean," said he, with serious energy, "if I can, to make you hate me 
one degree less than you do now. I mean to offer some kind of explanation, 
some kind of apology, for the past to open my whole heart to you, and 
by convincing you, that though I have been always a blockhead, I have 
not been always a rascal to obtain something like forgiveness from 
Ma from your sister." 

"Is this the real reason of your coming?" 

"Upon my soul it is;" was his answer, with a warmth which brought all 
the former Willoughby to her remembrance, and in spite of herself made 
her think him sincere. 

"If that is all, you may be satisfied already, for Marianne does she 
has long forgiven you." 

"Has she! " he cried, in the same eager tone. "Then she has forgiven me 
before she ought to have done it. But she shall forgive me again, and on 
more reasonable grounds. Now, will you listen to me?" 

Elinor bowed her assent. 

"I do not know," said he, after a pause of expectation on her side, and 
thoughtfulness on his own, "how you may have accounted for my be- 
haviour to your sister, or what diabolical motive you may have imputed 
to me. Perhaps you will hardly think the better of me; it is worth the 
trial, however, and you shall hear everything. When I first became inti- 

* A piece of victuals eaten between meals Johnson's Dictionary. 



SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 191 

mate in your family, I had no other intention, no other view in the 
acquaintance than to pass my time pleasantly while I was obliged to 
remain in Devonshire, more pleasantly than I had ever done before. Youi 
sister's lovely-person and interesting manners could not but please me; 
and her behaviour to me, almost from the first, was of a kind - It is 
astonishing, when I reflect on what it was, and what she was, that my 
heart should have been so insensible! But at first, I must confess, my 
vanity only was elevated by it. Careless of her happiness, thinking only 
of my own amusement, giving way to feelings which I had always been 
too much in the habit of indulging, I endeavoured by every means in my 
power, to make myself pleasing to her, without any design of returning 
her affection." 

Miss Dashwood at this point, turning her eyes on him with the most 
angry contempt, stopped him, by saying: 

"It is hardly worth while, Mr. Willoughby, for you to relate, or for me 
to listen any longer. Such a beginning as this cannot be followed by 
anything. Do not let me be pained by hearing anything more on the 
subject." 

"I insist on your hearing the whole of it," he replied. "My fortune was 
never large, and I had always been expensive, always in the habit of 
associating with people of better income than myself. Every year since 
my coming of age, or even before, I believe, had added to my debts ; and 
though the death of my old cousin, Mrs. Smith, was to set me free, yet 
that event being uncertain, and possibly far distant, it had been for some 
time my intention to re-establish my circumstances by marrying a woman 
of fortune. To attach myself to your sister, therefore, was not a thing 
to be thought of; and, with a meanness, selfishness, cruelty which no 
indignant, no contemptuous look, even of yours, Miss Dashwood, can 
ever reprobate too much I was acting in this manner, trying to engage 
her regard, without a thought of returning it. But one thing may be said 
for me, even in that horrid state of selfish vanity, I did not know the 
extent of the injury I meditated, because I did not then know what it was 
to love. But have I ever known it? Well may it be doubted; for, had I 
really loved could I have sacrificed my feelings to vanity, to avarice? or, 
what is more, could I have sacrificed hers? But I have done it. To avoid 
a comparative poverty, which her affection and her society would have 
deprived of all its horrors, I have by raising myself to affluence lost every- 
thing that could make it a blessing." 

"You did then," said Elinor, a little softened, "believe yourself at one 
time attached to her." 

"To have resisted such attractions, to have withstood such tenderness! 
Is there a man on earth who could have done it! Yes, I found myself, by 
insensible degrees, sincerely fond of her; and the happiest hours of my 
life were what I spent with her, when I felt my intentions were strictly 
honourable, and my feelings blameless. Even then, however, when fully 
determined on paying my addresses to her, I allowed myself most im- 



i 9 2 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

properly to put off, from day to day, the moment of doing it, from an 
unwillingness to enter into an engagement while my circumstances were 
so greatly embarrassed. I will not reason here nor will I stop for you to 
expatiate on the absurdity, and the worse than absurdity, of scrupling to 
engage my faith where my honour was already bound. The event has 
proved that I was a cunning fool, providing with great circumspection for 
a possible opportunity of making myself contemptible and wretched for 
ever. At last, however, my resolution was taken, and I had determined, as 
soon as I could engage her alone, to justify the attentions I had so in- 
variably paid her, and openly assure her of an affection which I had al- 
ready taken such pains to display. But in the interim in the interim of 
the very few hours that were to pass, before I could have an opportunity 
of speaking with her in private a circumstance occurred an unlucky 
circumstance, to ruin all my resolution, and with it all my comfort. A 
discovery took place" here he hesitated and looked down. "Mrs. Smith 
had somehow or other been informed, I imagine by some distant relation, 
whose interest it was to deprive me of her favour, of an affair, a connec- 
tion but I need not explain myself further," he added, looking at her 
with a heightened colour and an inquiring eye, "your particular intimacy 
you have probably heard the whole story long ago." 

"I have," returned Elinor, colouring likewise, and hardening her heart 
anew against any compassion for him, "I have heard it all. And how you 
will explain away any part of your guilt in that dreadful business, I 
confess is beyond my comprehension." 

"Remember," cried Willoughby, "from whom you received the account. 
Could it be an impartial one? I acknowledge that her situation and her 
character ought to have been respected by me. I do not mean to justify 
myself, but at the same time cannot leave you to suppose that I have 
nothing to urge, that because she was injured, she was irreproachable ; and 
because / was a libertine, she must be a saint. If the violence of .her pas- 
sions, the weakness of her understanding I do not mean, however, to 
defend myself. Her affection for me deserved better treatment, and I 
often, with great self-reproach, recall the tenderness which, for a very 
short time, had the power of creating any return. I wish I heartily wish 
it had never been. But I have injured more than myself; and I have in- 
jured one whose affection for me (may I say it?) was scarcely less warm 
than hers, and whose mind Oh! how infinitely superior! " 

"Your indifference, however, towards that unfortunate girl I must say 
it, unpleasant to me as the discussion of such a subject may well be your 
indifference is no apology for your cruel neglect of her. Do not think 
yourself excused by any weakness, any natural defect of understanding 
on her side, in the wanton cruelty so evident on yours. You must have 
known, that while you were enjoying yourself in Devonshire, pursuing 
fresh schemes, always gay, always happy, she was reduced to the ex- 
tremest indigence." 

"But, upon my soul, I did not know it," he warmly replied; "I did not 



SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 193 

recollect that I had omitted to give her my direction ; and common-sense 
might have told her how to find it out." 

"Well, sir, and what said Mrs. Smith?" 

"She taxed me with the offence, at once, and my confusion may be 
guessed. The purity of her life, the formality of her notions, her ignorance 
of the world everything was against me. The matter itself I could not 
deny, and vain was every endeavour to soften it. She was previously 
disposed, I believe, to doubt the morality of my conduct in general, and 
was moreover discontented with the very little attention, the very little 
portion of my time that I had bestowed on her, in my present visit. In 
short, it ended in a total breach. By one measure I might have saved 
myself. In the height of her morality, good woman ! she offered to forgive 
the past if I would marry Eliza. That could not be and I was formally 
dismissed from her favour and her house. The night following this affair I 
was to go the next morning was spent by me in deliberating on what my 
future conduct should be. The struggle was great but it ended too soon. 
My affection for Marianne, my thorough conviction of her attachment to 
me it was all insufficient to outweigh that dread of poverty, or get the 
better of those false ideas of the necessity of riches, which I was naturally 
inclined to feel, and expensive society had increased. I had reason to 
believe myself secure of my present wife, if 1 choose to address her, and 1 
persuaded myself to think that nothing else in common prudence re- 
mained for me to do. An heavy scene however awaited me, before I could 
leave Devonshire ; I was engaged to dine with you on that very day, some 
apology was therefore necessary for my breaking the engagement. But 
whether I should write this apology, or deliver it in person, was a point of 
long debate. To see Marianne, I felt would be dreadful, and I even 
doubted whether I could see her again, and keep to my resolution. In that 
point, however, I undervalued my own magnanimity, as the event de- 
clared ; for I went, I saw her, and saw her miserable, and left her miser- 
able and left her, hoping never to see her again." 

"Why did you call, Mr. Willoughby?" said Elinor, reproachfully; "a 
note would have answered every purpose. Why was it necessary to call?" 

"It was necessary to my own pride. I could not bear to leave the 
country in a manner that might lead you, or the rest of the neighbour- 
hood, to suspect any part of what had really passed between Mrs. Smith 
and myself, and I resolved therefore on calling at the cottage, in my way 
to Honiton. The sight of your dear sister, however, was really dreadful ; 
and to heighten the matter, I found her alone. You were all gone, I do not 
know where. I had left her only the evening before, so fully, so firmly 
resolved within myself on doing right! A few hours were to have engaged 
her to me for ever; and I remember how happy, how gay were my spirits, 
as I walked from the cottage to Allenham, satisfied with myself, delighted 
with everybody! But in this, our last interview of friendship, I approached 
her with a sense of guilt that almost took from me the power of dis- 
sembling. Her sorrow, her disappointment, her deep regret, when I told 



194 THEWORKSOFJANEAUSTEN % 

her that I was obliged to leave Devonshire so immediately I never shall 
forget it; united, too, with such reliance, such confidence in me! O God! 
what an hard-hearted rascal I was! " 

They were both silent for a few moments. Elinor first spoke. 

"Did you tell her that you should soon return?" 

"I do not know what I told her," he replied, impatiently; "less than was 
due to the past, beyond a doubt, and in all likelihood much more than was 
justified by the future. I cannot think of it it won't do. Then came your 
dear mother to torture me further, with all her kindness and confidence. 
Thank heaven! it did torture me. I was miserable. Miss Dashwood, you 
cannot have an idea of the comfort it gives me to look back on my own 
misery. I owe such a grudge to myself for the stupid, rascally folly of my 
own heart, that all my past sufferings under it are only triumph and 
exultation to me now. Well, I went, left all that I loved, and went to those 
to whom, at best, I was only indifferent. My journey to town travelling 
with my own horses, and therefore so tediously no creature to speak to 
my own reflections so cheerful when I looked forward everything so 
inviting! when I looked back at Barton, the picture so soothing! oh! it was 
a blessed journey." 

He stopped. 

"Well, sir," said Elinor, who, though pitying him, grew impatient for 
his departure, "and this is all?" 

"All! no have you forgot what passed in town? That infamous letter! 
Did she show it you?" 

"Yes, I saw every note that passed." 

"When the first of hers reached me (as it immediately did, for I was in 
town the whole time), what I felt is in the common phrase, not to be 
expressed ; in a more simple one perhaps too simple to raise any emotion 
my feelings were very, very painful. Every line, every word was in the 
hackneyed metaphor which their dear writer were she here, would forbid, 
a dagger to my heart. To know that Marianne was in town was, in the 
same language a thunderbolt. Thunderbolts and daggers! what a re- 
proof would she have given me! her taste, her opinions I believe they 
are better known to me than my own, and I am sure they are dreaded." 

Elinor's heart, which had undergone many changes in the course of this 
extraordinary conversation, was now softened again; yet she felt it her 
duty to check such ideas in her companion as the last. 

"This is not right, Mr. Willoughby. Remember that you are married. 
Relate only what in your conscience you think necessary for me to hear." 

"Marianne's note, by assuring me that I was still as dear to her as in 
former days that in spite of the many, many weeks we had been sep- 
arated, she was as constant in her own feelings and as full of faith in the 
constancy of mine as ever, awakened all my remorse. I say awakened, 
because time and London, business and dissipation had in some manner 
quieted it, and I had been growing a fine hardened villain, fancying 
myself indifferent to her, and choosing to fancy that she too must have 



SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 195 

become indifferent to me; talking to myself of our past attachments as a 
mere idle, trifling business, shrugging up my shoulders in proof of its 
being so, and silencing every reproach, overcoming every scruple, by 
secretly saying now and then, 'I shall be heartily glad to hear she is well 
married.' But this note made me know myself better. I felt that she was 
infinitely dearer to me than any other woman in the world, and that I was 
using her infamously. But everything was then just settled between Miss 
Grey and me. To retreat was impossible. All that I had to do, was to avoid 
you both. I sent no answer to Marianne, intending by that means to pre- 
serve myself from her further notice; and for some time I was even 
determined not to call in Berkeley Street: but at last, judging it wiser 
to affect the air of a cool, common acquaintance than anything else, I 
watched you all safely out of the house one morning and left my name." 

"Watched us out of the house!" 

"Even so. You would be surprised to hear how often I watched you, 
how often I was on the point of falling in with you. I have entered many a 
shop to avoid your sight, as the carriage drove by. Lodging as I did in 
Bond Street there was hardly a day in which I did not catch a glimpse of 
one or other of you ; and nothing but the most constant watchfulness on 
my side, a most invariably prevailing desire to keep out of your sight, 
could have separated us so long. I avoided the Middletons as much as 
possible, as well as everybody else who was likely to prove an acquaintance 
in common. Not aware of their being in town, however, I blundered on 
Sir John, I believe, the first day of his coming, and the day after I called 
at Mrs. Jennings's. He asked me to a party, a dance at his house in the 
evening. Had he not told me as an inducement that you and your sister 
were to be there, I should have felt it too certain a thing to trust myself 
near him. The next morning brought another short note from Marianne 
still affectionate, open, artless, confiding everything that could make 
my conduct most hateful. I could not answer it. I tried, but could not 
frame a sentence. But I thought of her, I believe, every moment of the 
day. If you can pity me, Miss Dashwood, pity my situation as it was then. 
With my head and heart full of your sister, I was forced to play the happy 
lover to another woman! Those three or four weeks were worse than all. 
Well, at last, as I need not tell you, you were forced on me: and what a 
sweet figure I cut! What an evening of agony it was! Marianne, beautiful 
as an angel, on one side, calling me Willoughby in such a tone! O God! 
Holding out her hand to me, asking me for an explanation with those 
bewitching eyes fixed in such speaking solicitude on my face! And Sophia, 
jealous as the devil, on the other hand, looking all that was well, it does 
not signify; it is over now. Such an evening! I ran away from you all as 
soon as I could, but not before I had seen Marianne's sweet face as white 
as death. That was the last, last look I ever had of her the last manner 
in which she appeared to me. It was a horrid sight! Yet when I thought 
of her to-day as really dying, it was a kind of comfort to me to imagine 
that I knew exactly how she would appear to those who saw her last in 



i 9 6 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

this world. She was before me, constantly before me, as I travelled, in the 
same look and hue." 

A short pause of mutual thoughtfulness succeeded. Willoughby, first 
rousing himself, broke it thu?: 

"Well, let me make haste and be gone. Your sister is certainly better, 
certainly out of danger?" 

"We are assured of it." 

"Your poor mother too! doting on Marianne." 

"But the letter, Mr. Willoughby, your own letter; have you anything 
to say about that?" 

"Yes, yes, that in particular. Your sister wrote to me again, you know, 
the very next morning. You saw what she said. I was breakfasting at the 
Ellisons' ; and her letter, with some others, was brought to me there from 
my lodgings. It happened to catch Sophia's eye before it caught mine; 
and its size, the elegance of the paper, the handwriting, altogether imme- 
diately gave her a suspicion. Some vague report had reached her before 
of my attachment to some young lady in Devonshire, and what had passed 
within her observation the preceding evening had marked who the young 
lady was, and made her more jealous than ever. Affecting that air of 
playfulness, therefore, which is delightful in a woman one loves, she 
opened the letter directly, and read its contents. She was well paid for 
her impudence. She read what made her wretched. Her wretchedness I 
could have borne, but her passion her malice at all events it must be 
appeased. And in short, what do you think of my wife's style of letter- 
writing? Delicate, tender, truly feminine was it not?" 

"Your wife! The letter was in your own handwriting." 

"Yes, but I had only the credit of servilely copying such sentences as 
I was ashamed to put my name to. The original was all her own, her own 
happy thoughts and gentle diction. But what could I do? We were 
engaged, everything in preparation, the day almost fixed but I am 
talking like a fool. Preparation! Day! In honest words, her money was 
necessary to me, and in a situation like mine anything was to be done 
to prevent a rupture. And after all, what did it signify to my character 
in the opinion of Marianne and her friends, in what language my answer 
was couched? It must have been only to one end. My business was to 
declare myself a scoundrel, and whether I did it with a bow or a bluster 
was of little importance. 'I am ruined for ever in their opinion,' said I to 
myself; 'I am shut out for ever from their society; they already think me 
an unprincipled fellow, this letter will only make them think me a black- 
guard one.' Such were my reasonings as, in a sort of desperate careless- 
ness, I copied my wife's words, and parted with the last relics of Mari- 
anne. Her three notes unluckily they were all in my pocket-book, or I 
should have denied their existence, and hoarded them for ever; I was 
forced to put them up, and could not even kiss them. And the lock of hair 
that, too, I had always carried about me in the same pocket-book, which 



SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 197 

was now searched by Madam with the most ingratiating virulence the 
dear lock all, every memento was torn from me." 

"You are very wrong, Mr. Willoughby, very blameable," said Elinor, 
while her voice, in spite of herself, betrayed her compassionate emotion ; 
"you ought not to speak in this way, either of Mrs. Willoughby or my 
sister. You have made your own choice. It was not forced on you. Your 
. wife has a claim to your politeness, to your respect, at least. She must 
be attached to you, or she would not have married you. To treat her with 
unkindness, to speak of her slightingly, is no atonement to Marianne, nor 
can I suppose it a relief to your own conscience." 

"Do not talk to me of my wife," said he, with a heavy sigh. "She does 
not deserve your compassion. She knew I had no regard for her when we 
married. Well, married we were, and came down to Combe Magna to be 
happy, and afterwards returned to town to be gay. And, now do you pity 
me, Miss Dash wood? Or have I said all this to no purpose? Am I be it 
only one degree am I less guilty in your opinion than I was before? My 
intentions were not always wrong. Have I explained away any part of 
my guilt?" 

"Yes, you have certainly removed something a little. You have proved 
yourself, on the whole, less faulty than I had believed you. You have 
proved your heart less wicked, much less wicked. But I hardly know 
the misery that you have inflicted I hardly know what could have made 
it worse." 

"Will you repeat to your sister, when she is recovered, what I have 
been telling you? Let me be a little lightened, too, in her opinion as well 
as in yours. You tell me that she has forgiven me already. Let me be able 
to fancy that a better knowledge of my heart, and of my present feelings, 
will draw from her a more spontaneous, more natural, more gentle, less 
dignified forgiveness. Tell her of my misery and my penitence, tell her 
that my heart was never inconstant to her, and if you will, that at this 
moment she is dearer to me than ever." 

"I will tell her all that is necessary to what may comparatively be called 
your justification. But you have not explained to me the particular reason 
of your coming now, nor how you heard of her illness." 

"Last night, in Drury Lane lobby, I ran against Sir John Middleton, 
and when he saw who I was (for the first time these two months) he spoke 
to me. That he had cut me ever since my marriage, I had seen without 
surprise or resentment. Now, however, his good-natured, honest, stupid 
soul, full of indignation against me, and concern for your sister, could not 
resist the temptation of telling me what he knew ought to, though prob- 
ably he did not think it would, vex me horribly. As bluntly as he could 
speak it, therefore, he told me that Marianne Dashwood was dying of a 
putrid fever at Cleveland a letter that morning received from Mrs. Jen- 
nings declared her danger most imminent the Palmers all gone off in a 
fright, etc. I was too much shocked to be able to pass myself off as in- 
sensible, even to the undiscerning Sir John. His heart was softened in 



I 9 8 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

seeing mine suffer; and so much of his ill-will was done away, that when 
we parted, he almost shook me by the hand, while he reminded me of an 
old promise about a pointer puppy. What I felt on hearing that your 
sister was dying and dying, too, believing me the greatest villain upon 
earth, scorning, hating me in her latest moments for how could I tell 
what horrid projects might not have been imputed? One person I was 
sure would represent me as capable of anything. What I felt was dread- 
ful! My resolution was soon made, and at eight o'clock this morning I 
was in my carriage. Now you know all." 

Elinor made no answer. Her thoughts were silently fixed on the irrep- 
arable injury which too early an independence and its consequent habits 
of idleness, dissipation, and luxury, had made in the mind, the character, 
the happiness, of a man who, to every advantage of person and talents, 
united a disposition naturally open and honest, and a feeling, affectionate 
temper. The world had made him extravagant and vain; extravagance 
and vanity had made him cold-hearted and selfish. Vanity, while seeking 
its own guilty triumph at the expense of another, had involved him in a 
real attachment, which extravagance, or at least its offspring necessity, 
had required to be sacrificed. Each faulty propensity, in leading him to 
evil, had led him likewise to punishment. The attachment from which 
against honour, against feeling, against every better interest he had out- 
wardly torn himself, now, when no longer allowable, governed every 
thought; and the connection, for the sake of which he had, with little 
scruple, left her sister to misery, was likely to prove a source of unhappi- 
ness to himself of a far more incurable nature. From a reverie of this kind 
she was recalled at the end of some minutes by Willoughby, who, rousing 
himself from a reverie at least equally painful, started up in preparation 
forgoing, and said: 

"There is no use in staying here; I must be off." 

"Are you going back to town?" 

"No, to Combe Magna. I have business there ; from thence to town in 
a day of two. Good-bye." 

He held out his hand. She could not refuse to give him hers ; he pressed 
it with affection. 

"And you do think something better of me than you did?" said he, 
letting it fall, and leaning against the mantelpiece, as if forgetting he was 
to go. 

Elinor assured him that she did ; that she forgave, pitied him, wished 
him well was even interested in his happiness and added some gentle 
counsel as to the behaviour most likely to promote it. His answer was not 
very encouraging. 

"As to that," said he, "I must rub through the world as well as I can. 
Domestic happiness is out of the question. If, however, I am allowed to 
think that you and yours feel an interest in my fate and actions, it may 
be the means it may put me on my guard at least, it may be something 



SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 199 

to live for. Marianne, to be sure, is lost to me for ever. Were I even, by 
any blessed chance, at liberty again " 

Elinor stopped him with a reproof. 

"Well," he replied, "once more good-bye. I shall now go away and live 
in dread of one event." 

"What do you mean?" 

"Your sister's marriage." 

"You are very wrong. She can never be more lost to you than she is 
now." 

"But she will be gained by some one else. And if that some one should 
be the very he whom, of all others, I could least bear - But I will not 
stay to rob myself of all your compassionate goodwill, by showing that 
where I have most injured I can least forgive. Good-bye; God bless you! " 

And with these words, he almost ran out of the room. 



Chapter 45 

ELINOR, for some time after he left her, for some time even after the 
sound of his carriage had died away, remained too much oppressed by a 
crowd of ideas, widely differing in themselves, but of which sadness was 
the general result, to think even of her sister. 

Willoughby he whom only half-an-hour ago she had abhorred as the 
most worthless of men Willoughby, in spite of all his faults, excited a 
degree of commiseration for the sufferings produced by them, which made 
her think of him as now separated for ever from her family with a tender- 
ness, a regret, rather in proportion, as she soon acknowledged within 
herself, to his wishes than to his merits. She felt that his influence over her 
mind was heightened by circumstances which ought not in reason to have 
weight; by that person of uncommon attraction that open, affectionate, 
and lively manner which it was no merit to possess ; and by that still ar- 
dent love for Marianne, which it was not even innocent to indulge. But 
she felt that it was so, long, long before she could feel his influence less. 

When at last she returned to the unconscious Marianne, she found her 
just awaking, refreshed by so long and sweet a sleep to the extent of 
her hopes. Elinor's heart was full. The past, the present, the future 
Willoughby's visit, Marianne's safety, and her mother's expected arrival, 
threw her altogether into an agitation of spirits which kept off every indi- 
cation of fatigue, and made her only fearful of betraying herself to her 
sister. Short was the time, however, in which that fear could affect her, 
for within half-an-hour after Willoughby's leaving the house, she was 
again called downstairs by the sound of another carriage. Eager to save 
her mother from every unnecessary moment's horrible suspense, she ran 
immediately into the hall, and reached the outward door just in time to 
receive and support her as she entered it. 

Mrs. Dashwood, whose terror as they drew near the house had produced 



200 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

almost the conviction of Marianne's being no more, had no voice to in- 
quire after her, no voice even for Elinor; but she, waiting neither for 
salutation nor inquiry, instantly gave the joyful relief; and her mother, 
catching it with all her usual warmth, was in a moment as much overcome 
by her happiness as she had been before by her fears. She was supported 
into the drawing-room between her daughter and her friend; and there, 
shedding tears of joy, though still unable to speak, embraced Elinor again 
and again, turning from her at intervals to press Colonel Brandon's hand, 
with a look which spoke at once her gratitude, and her conviction of his 
sharing with herself in the bliss of the moment. He shared it, however, 
in a silence even greater than her own. 

As soon as Mrs. Dashwood had recovered herself, to see Marianne was 
her first desire; and in two minutes she was with her beloved child, 
rendered dearer to her than ever by absence, unhappiness and danger. 
Elinor's delight, as she saw what each felt in the meeting, was only checked 
by an apprehension of its robbing Marianne of further sleep; but Mrs. 
Dashwood could be calm, could be even prudent, when the life of a child 
was at stake, and Marianne, satisfied in knowing her mother was near 
her, and conscious of being too weak for conversation, submitted readily 
to the silence and quiet prescribed by every nurse around her. Mrs. 
Dashwood would sit up with her all night, and Elinor, in compliance with 
her mother's entreaty, went to bed. But the rest, which one night entirely 
sleepless and many hours of the most wearying anxiety seemed to make 
requisite, was kept ioff by irritation of spirits. Willoughby, "poor Wil- 
loughby," as she now allowed herself to call him, was constantly in her 
thoughts; she would not but have heard his vindication for the world, 
and now blamed, now acquitted herself, for having judged him so harshly 
before. But her promise of relating it to her sister was invariably painful. 
She dreaded the performance of it, dreaded what its effect on Marianne 
might be; doubted whether, after such an explanation, she could ever be 
happy with another, and for a moment, wished Willoughby a widower ; 
then remembering Colonel Brandon, reproved herself, felt that to his 
sufferings and his constancy, far more than to his rival's, the reward of 
her sister was due, and wished anything rather than Mrs. Willoughby's 
death. 

The shock of Colonel Brandon's errand at Barton had been much 
softened to Mrs. Dashwood by her own previous alarm ; for so great was 
her uneasiness about Marianne, that she had already determined to set 
out for Cleveland on that very day, without waiting for any further intelli- 
gence, and had so far settled her journey before his arrival, that the 
Careys were then expected every moment to fetch Margaret away, as her 
mother was unwilling to take her where there might be infection. 

Marianne continued to mend every day, and the brilliant cheerfulness 
of Mrs. Dashwood's looks and spirits proved her to be, as she repeatedly 
declared herself, one of the happiest women in the world. Elinor could not 
hear the declaration, nor witness its proofs, without sometimes wondering 



SENSEANDSENSIBILITY 201 

whether her mother ever recollected Edward. But Mrs. Dashwood, trust- 
ing to the temperate account of her own disappointment which Elinor had 
sent her, was led away by the exuberance of her joy to think only of what 
would increase it. Marianne was restored to her from a danger in which, 
as she now began to feel, her own mistaken judgment in encouraging the 
unfortunate attachment to Willoughby had contributed to place her : and 
in her recovery she had yet another source of joy unthought of by Elinor. 
It was thus imparted to her, as soon as any opportunity of private con- 
ference between them occurred. 

"At last we are alone. My Elinor, you do not yet know all my happiness. 
Colonel Brandon loves Marianne; he has told me so himself." 

Her daughter, feeling by turns both pleased and pained, surprised and 
not surprised, was all silent attention. 

"You are never like me, dear Elinor, or I should wonder at your com- 
posure now. Had I sat down to wish for any possible good to my family, 
I should have fixed on Colonel Brandon's marrying one of you as the 
object most desirable. And I believe Marianne will be the most happy 
with him of the two." 

Elinor was half inclined to ask her reason for thinking so, because 
satisfied that none founded on an impartial consideration of their age, 
characters or feelings, could be given; but her mother must always be 
carried away by her imagination on any interesting subject, and therefore, 
instead of an inquiry, she passed it off with a smile. 

"He opened his whole heart to me yesterday as we travelled. It came 
out quite unawares, quite undesignedly. I, you may well believe, could 
talk of nothing but my child ; he could not conceal his distress ; I saw that 
it equalled my own, and he, perhaps, thinking that mere friendship, as the 
world now goes, would not justify so warm a sympathy or rather not 
thinking at all, I suppose giving way to irresistible feelings, made me 
acquainted with his earnest, tender, constant affection for Marianne. He 
has loved her, my Elinor, ever since the first moment of seeing her." 

Here, however, Elinor perceived, not the language, not the professions 
of Colonel Brandon, but the natural embellishments of her mother's active 
fancy, which fashioned everything delightful to her, as it chose. 

"His regard for her, infinitely surpassing anything that Willoughby 
ever felt or feigned, as much more warm, as more sincere or constant 
whichever we are to call it has subsisted through all the knowledge of 
dear Marianne's unhappy prepossession for that worthless young man! 
and without selfishness without encouraging a hope! could he have 
seen her happy with another? Such a noble mind! Such openness, such 
sincerity! No one can be deceived in him" 

"Colonel Brandon's character," said Elinor, "as an excellent man, is 
well established." 

" I know it is," replied her mother seriously, "or after such a warning, 
/ should be the last to encourage such affection, or even to be pleased by 



202 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

it. But his coming for me as he did, with such active, such ready friend- 
ship, is enough to prove him one of the worthiest of men." 

"His character, however," answered Elinor, "does not rest on one act 
of kindness, to which his affection for Marianne, were humanity out of the 
case, would have prompted him. To Mrs. Jennings, to the Middletons, he 
has been long and intimately known; they equally love and respect him; 
and even my knowledge of him, though lately acquired, is very consider- 
able; and so highly do / value and esteem him, that if Marianne can be 
happy with him, I shall be as ready as yourself to think our connection 
the greatest blessing to us in the world. What answer did you give him? 
Did you allow him to hope?" 

"Oh! my love, I could not then talk of hope to him or to myself. 
Marianne might at that moment be dying. But he did not ask for hope 
or encouragement. His was an involuntary confidence, an irrepressible 
effusion to a soothing friend not an application to a parent. Yet after 
a time I did say, for at first I was quite overcome, that if she lived, as I 
trusted she might, my greatest happiness would lie in promoting their 
marriage; and since our arrival, since our delightful security, I have re- 
peated it to him more fully, have given him every encouragement in my 
power. Time, a very little time, I tell him, will do everything ; Marianne's 
heart is not to be wasted for ever on such a man as Willoughby. His own 
merits must soon secure it." 

"To judge from the Colonel's spirits, however, you have not yet made 
him equally sanguine." 

"No. He thinks Marianne's affection too deeply rooted for any change 
in it under a great length of time ; and even supposing her heart again free, 
is too diffident of himself to believe, that with such a difference of age and 
disposition, he could ever attach her. There, however, he is quite mistaken. 
His age is only so much beyond hers as to be an advantage, as to make 
his character and principles fixed; and his disposition, I am well con- 
vinced, is exactly the very one to make your sister happy. And his person, 
his manners too, are all in his favour. My partiality does not blind me ; he 
certainly is not so handsome as Willoughby; but, at the same time, there 
is something much more pleasing in his countenance. There was always a 
something, if you remember, in Willoughby's eyes at times, which I did 
not like." 

Elinor could not remember it ; but her mother, without waiting for her 
assent, continued: 

"And his manners, the Colonel's manners, are not only more pleasing 
to me than Willoughby's ever were, but they are of a kind I well know to 
be more solidly attaching to Marianne. Their gentleness, their genuine 
attention to other people, and their manly unstudied simplicity, is much 
more accordant with her real disposition, than the liveliness, often arti- 
ficial, and often ill-timed, of the other. I am very sure myself, that had 
Willoughby turned out as really amiable as he has proved himself the 



SENSEANDSENSIBILITY 203 

contrary, Marianne would yet never have been so happy with him, as 
she will be with Colonel Brandon." 

She paused. Her daughter could not quite agree with her, but her 
dissent was not heard, and therefore gave no offence. 

"At Delaford, she will be within an easy distance of me," added Mrs. 
Dashwood, "even if I remain at Barton; and in all probability, for I hear 
it is a large village indeed, there certainly must be some small house or 
cottage close by, that would suit us quite as well as our present situation." 

Poor Elinor! Here was a new scheme for getting her to Delaford! But 
her spirit was stubborn. 

"His fortune too! for at my time of life, you know, everybody cares 
about that; and though I neither know, nor desire to know, what it really 
is, I am sure it must be a good one." 

Here they were interrupted by the -entrance of a third person, and 
Elinor withdrew to think it all over in private, to wish success to her 
friend, and yet, in wishing it, to feel a pang for Willoughby. 



Chapter 46 

MARIANNE'S illness, though weakening in its kind, had not been long 
enough to make her recovery slow; and with youth, natural strength, and 
her mother's presence in aid, it proceeded so smoothly as to enable her to 
remove, within four days after the arrival of the latter, into Mrs. Palmer's 
dressing-room. When there, at her own particular request, for she was 
impatient to pour forth her thanks to him for fetching her mother, Colonel 
Brandon was invited to visit her. 

His emotion in entering the room, in seeing her altered looks, and in 
receiving the pale hand which she immediately held out to him, was such 
as in Elinor's conjecture must arise from something more than his affec- 
tion for Marianne, or the consciousness of its being known to others ; and 
she soon discovered in his melancholy eye and varying complexion as he 
looked at her sister, the probable recurrence of many past scenes of misery 
to his mind, brought back by that resemblance between Marianne and 
Eliza already acknowledged, and now strengthened by the hollow eye, 
the sickly skin, the posture of reclining weakness, and the warm acknowl- 
edgment of peculiar obligation. 

Mrs. Dashwood, not less watchful of what passed than her daughter, 
but with a mind very differently influenced, and therefore watching to 
very different effect, saw nothing in the Colonel's behaviour but what 
arose from the most simple and self-evident sensations, while in the 
actions and words of Marianne she persuaded herself, to think that some- 
thing more than gratitude already dawned. 

At the end of another day or two, Marianne growing visibly stronger 
every twelve hours, Mrs. Dashwood, urged equally by her own and her 
daughter's wishes, began to talk of removing to Barton. On her measures 



204 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

depended those of her two friends; Mrs. Jennings could not quit Cleve- 
land during the Dashwoods' stay, and Colonel Brandon was soon brought 
by their united request to consider his own abode there as equally deter- 
minate, if not equally indispensable. At his and Mrs. Jennings's united 
request in return, Mrs. Dashwood was prevailed on to accept the use of 
his carriage on her journey back, for the better accommodation of her 
sick child ; and the Colonel, at the joint invitation of Mrs. Dashwood and 
Mrs. Jennings, whose active good nature made her friendly and hospitable 
for other people as well as herself, engaged with pleasure to redeem it by 
a visit at the cottage, in the course of a few weeks. 

The day of separation and departure arrived ; and Marianne, after tak- 
ing so particular and lengthened a leave of Mrs. Jennings one so ear- 
nestly grateful, so full of respect and kind wishes as seemed due to her 
own heart from a secret acknowledgment of past inattention and bid- 
ding Colonel Brandon farewell with the cordiality of a friend, was care- 
fully assisted by him into the carriage, of which he seemed anxious that 
she should engross at least half. Mrs. Dashwood and Elinor then followed, 
and the others were left by themselves, to talk of the travellers, and feel 
their own dullness, till Mrs. Jennings was summoned to her chaise to 
take comfort in the gossip of her maid for the loss of her two young com- 
panions ; and Colonel Brandon immediately afterwards took his solitary 
way to Delaford. 

The Dashwoods were two days on the road, and Marianne bore her 
journey on both without essential fatigue. Everything that the most 
zealous affection, the most solicitous care, could do to render her com- 
fortable, was the office of each watchful companion, and each found their 
reward in her bodily ease and her calmness of spirits. To Elinor, the 
observation of the latter was particularly grateful. She, who had seen hei 
week after week so constantly suffering, oppressed by anguish of heart 
which she had neither courage to speak of, nor fortitude to conceal, now 
saw, with a joy which no other could equally share, an apparent compo- 
sure of mind, which in being the result as she trusted of serious reflection, 
must eventually lead her to contentment and cheerfulness. 

As they approached Barton, indeed, and entered on scenes of which 
every field and every tree brought some peculiar, some painful recollec- 
tion, she grew silent and thoughtful, and turning away her face from their 
notice, sat earnestly gazing through the window. But here, Elinor could 
neither wonder nor blame ; and when she saw, as she assisted Marianne 
from the carriage, that she had been crying, she saw only an emotion too 
natural in itself to raise anything less tender than pity, and in its un- 
obtrusiveness entitled to praise. In the whole of her subsequent manner, 
she traced the direction of a mind awakened to reasonable exertion ; for 
no sooner had they entered their common sitting-room than Marianne 
turned her eyes around it with a look of resolute firmness, as if determined 
at once to accustom herself to the sight of every object with which the 
remembrance of Willoughby could be connected. She said little, but every 



SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 



205 



sentence aimed at cheerfulness, and though a sigh sometimes escaped her, 
it never passed away without the atonement of a smile. After dinner, she 
would try her pianoforte. She went to it ; but the music on which her eye 
first rested was an opera, procured for her by Willoughby, containing 
some of their favourite duets, and bearing on its outward leaf her own 
name in his handwriting. That would not do. She shook her head, put the 
music aside, and, after running over the keys for a minute, complained of 
feebleness in her fingers, and closed the instrument again; declaring, how- 
ever, with firmness as she did so, that she should in future practise much. 

The next morning produced no abatement in these happy symptoms. 
On the contrary with a mind and body alike strengthened by rest, she 
looked and spoke with more genuine spirit, anticipating the pleasure of 
Margaret's return, and talking of the dear family party which would then 
be restored, of their mutual pursuits and cheerful society as the only 
happiness worth a wish. 

"When the weather is settled, and I have recovered my strength," said 
she, "we will take long walks together every day. We will walk to the 
farm at the edge of the down, and see how the children go on ; we will walk 
to Sir John's new plantation at Barton Cross, and the Abbeyland; and 
we will often go to the old ruins of the Priory, and try to trace its founda- 
tions as far as we are told they once reached. I know we shall be happy. 
I know the summer will pass happily away. I mean never to be later in 
rising than six, and from that time till dinner I shall divide every moment 
between music and reading. I have formed my plan, and am determined 
to enter on a course of serious study. Our own library is too well known to 
me to be resorted to for anything beyond mere amusement. But there are 
many works well worth reading at the Park; and there are others of more 
modern production which I know I can borrow of Colonel Brandon. By 
reading only six hours a day, I shall gain in the course of a twelvemonth 
a great deal of instruction which I now feel myself to want." 

Elinor honoured her for a plan which originated so nobly as this; 
though smiling to see the same eager fancy which had been leading her to 
the extreme of languid indolence and selfish repining, now at work in in- 
troducing excess into a scheme of such rational employment and virtuous 
self-control. Her smile, however, changed to a sigh when she remembered 
that her promise to Willoughby was yet unfulfilled, and feared she had 
that to communicate which might again unsettle the mind of Marianne, 
and ruin at least for a time this fair prospect of busy tranquillity. Willing 
therefore to delay the evil hour, she resolved to wait till her sister's health 
were more secure, before she appointed it. But the resolution was made 
only to be broken. 

Marianne had been two or three days at home, before the weather was 
fine enough for an invalid like herself to venture out. But at last a soft, 
genial morning appeared such as might tempt the daughter's wishes and 
the mother's confidence; and Marianne, leaning on Elinor's arm, was 



206 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

authorised to walk as long as she could without fatigue, in the lane before 
the house. 

The sisters set out at a pace slow as the feebleness of Marianne in an 
exercise hitherto untried since her illness required ; and they had advanced 
only so far beyond the house as to admit a full view of the hill, the im- 
portant hill behind, when, pausing with her eyes turned towards it, 
Marianne calmly said : 

"There, exactly there" pointing with one hand "on that projecting 
mound there I fell; and there I first saw Willoughby." 

Her voice sunk with the word, but presently reviving, she added: 

"I am thankful to find that I can look with so little pain on the spot! 
Shall we ever talk on that subject, Elinor?" Hesitatingly it was said. "Or 
 
piness of the Dashwoods was such so great as promised them all the 
satisfaction of a sleepless night. Mrs. Dashwood, too happy to be com- 
fortable, knew not how to love Edward nor praise Elinor enough how to 
be enough thankful for his release without wounding his delicacy, nor 
how at once to give them leisure for unrestrained conversation together, 
and yet enjoy, as she wished, the sight and society of both. 

Marianne could speak her happiness only by tears. Comparisons would 
occur, regrets would arise ; and her joy, though sincere as her love for hei 
sister, was of a kind to give her neither spirits nor language. 

But Elinor, how are her feelings to be described? From the moment of 
learning that Lucy was married to another, that Edward was free, to the 
moment of his justifying the hopes which had so instantly followed, she 
was everything by turns but tranquil. But when the second moment had 
passed when she found every doubt, every solicitude removed com- 
pared her situation with what so lately it had been saw him honourably 
released from his former engagement saw him instantly profiting by the 
release, to address herself and declare an affection as tender, as constant 
as she had ever supposed it to be she was oppressed, she was overcome 
by her own felicity; and happily disposed as is the human mind to be 
easily familiarised with any change for the better, it required several 
hours to give sedateness to her spirits, or any degree of tranquillity to her 
heart. 

Edward was now fixed at the cottage at least for a week ; for whatever 
other claims might be made on him, it was impossible that less than a 
week should be given up to the enjoyment of Elinor's company, or suffice 
to say half that was to be said of the past, the present, and the future; for 
though a very few hours spent in the hard labour of incessant talking wilJ 
dispatch more subjects than can really be in common between any two 
rational creatures, yet with lovers it. is different. Between them no subject 
is finished, no communication is even made, till it has been made at least 
twenty times over. 

Lucy's marriage, the unceasing and reasonable wonder among them all, 
formed of course one of the earliest discussions of the lovers; and Elinor's 
particular knowledge of each party made it appear to her, in every view, 
as one of the most extraordinary and unaccountable circumstances she 



2i8 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

had ever heard. How they could oe thrown together, and by what attrac 
tion Robert could be drawn on to marry a girl of whose beauty she had 
herself heard him speak without any admiration a girl, too, already 
engaged to his brother, and on whose account that brother had been 
thrown off by his family it was beyond her comprehension to make out. 
To her own heart it was a delightful affair, to her imagination it was even 
a ridiculous one; but to her reason, her judgment, it was completely a 
puzzle. 

Edward could only attempt an explanation by supposing that perhaps 
at first accidentally meeting, the vanity of the one had been so worked on 
by the flattery of the other, as to lead by degrees to all the rest. Elinor 
remembered what Robert had told her in Harley Street, of his opinion of 
what his own mediation in his brother's affairs might have done, if applied 
to in time. She repeated it to Edward. 

"That was exactly like Robert," was his immediate observation. "And 
that" he presently added, "might perhaps be in his head when the ac- 
quaintance between them first began. And Lucy perhaps at first might 
think only of procuring his good offices in my favour. Other designs might 
afterwards arise." 

How long it had been carrying on between them, however, he was 
equally at a loss with herself to make out; for at Oxford, where he had 
remained by choice ever since his quitting London, he had had no means 
of hearing of her but from herself, and her letters to the very last were 
neither less frequent nor less affectionate than usual. Not the smallest 
suspicion, therefore, had ever occurred to prepare him for what followed ; 
and when at last it burst on him in a letter from Lucy herself, he had been 
for some time, he believed, half stupefied between the wonder, the horror, 
and the joy, of such a deliverance. He put the letter into Elinor's hands : 

"DEAR SIR, Being very sure I have long lost your affections, I have 
thought myself at liberty to bestow my own on another, and have no 
doubt of being as happy with him as I once used to think I might be with 
you ; but I scorn to accept a hand while the heart was another's. Sincerely 
wish you happy in your choice, and it shall not be my fault if we are not 
always good friends, as our near relationship now makes proper. I can 
safely say I owe you no ill-will, and am sure you will be too generous to do 
us any ill offices. Your brother has gained my affections entirely, and as 
we could not live without one another, we are just returned from the altar, 
and are now on our way to Dawlish for a few weeks, which place your dear 
brother has great curiosity to see, but thought I would first trouble you 
with these few lines, and shall always remain, Your sincere well-wisher, 
friend, and sister, 

"Lucy FERRARS. 

"I have burnt all your letters, and will return your picture the first 
opportunity. Please to destroy my scrawls; but the ring, with my hair, 
you are very welcome to keep." 



SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 219 

Elinor read and returned it without any comment. 

"I will not ask your opinion of it as a composition," said Edward. "For 
worlds would not I have had a letter of hers seen by you in former days. 
In a sister it is bad enough, but in a wife! How I have blushed over the 
pages of her writing! and I believe I may say that since the first half-year 
of our foolish business this is the only letter I ever received from her, 
of which the substance made me any amends for the defect of the style." 

"However it may have come about," said Elinor, after a pause, "they 
are certainly married. And your mother has brought on herself a most 
appropriate punishment. The independence she settled on Robert, 
through resentment against you, has put it in his power to make his own 
choice; and she has actually been bribing one son with a thousand a year 
to do the very deed which she disinherited the other for intending to do. 
She will hardly be less hurt, I suppose, by Robert's marrying Lucy than 
she would have been by your marrying her." 

"She will be more hurt by it, for Robert always was her favourite. She 
will be more hurt by it, and on the same principle will forgive him much 
sooner." 

In what state the affair stood at present between them Edward knew 
not, for no communication with any of his family had yet been attempted 
by him. He had quitted Oxford within four-and-twenty hours after Lucy's 
letter arrived, and with only one object before him, the nearest road to 
Barton, had had no leisure to form any scheme of conduct with which that 
road did not hold the most intimate connection. He could do nothing till 
he were assured of his fate with Miss Dashwood ; and by his rapidity in 
seeking that fate, it is to be supposed, in spite of the jealousy with which he 
had once thought of Colonel Brandon in spite of the modesty with 
which he rated his own deserts, and the politeness with which he talked 
of his doubts, he did not, upon the whole, expect a very cruel reception. 
It was his business, however, to say that he did, and he said it very 
prettily. What he might say on the subject a twelvemonth after, must 
be referred to the imagination of husbands and wives. 

That Lucy had certainly meant to deceive, to go off with a flourish of 
malice against him in her message by Thomas was perfectly clear to Eli- 
nor; and Edward himself, now thoroughly enlightened on her character, 
had no scruple in believing her capable of the utmost meanness of wanton 
ill-nature. Though his eyes had been long opened, even before his ac- 
quaintance with Elinor began, to her ignorance and a want of liberality in 
some of her opinions, they had been equally imputed by him to her want 
of education; and till her last letter reached him he had always believed 
her to be a well-disposed, good-hearted girl, and thoroughly attached to 
himself. Nothing but such a persuasion could have prevented his putting 
an end to an engagement which, long before the discoverey of it laid him 
open to his mother's anger, had been a continual source of disquiet and 
regret to him, 

"I thought it my duty," said he, "independent of my feelings, to give 



220 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

her the option of continuing the engagement or not, when I was renounced 
by my mother, and stood to all appearance without a friend in the world to 
assist me. In such a situation as that, where there seemed nothing to 
tempt the avarice or the vanity of any living creature, how could I sup- 
pose, when she so earnestly, so warmly insisted on sharing my fate, what- 
ever it might be, that anything but the most disinterested affection was 
her inducement? And even now, I cannot comprehend on what motive 
she acted, or what fancied advantage it could be to her, to be fettered to 
a man for whom she had not the smallest regard, and who had only two 
thousand pounds in the world. She could not foresee that Colonel Brandon 
would give me a living." 

"No, but she might suppose that something would occur in your favour ; 
that your own family might in time relent. And at any rate, she lost 
nothing by continuing the engagement, for she has proved that it fettered 
neither her inclination nor her actions. The connection was certainly a 
respectable one, and probably gained her consideration among her 
friends; and if nothing more advantageous occurred, it would be better 
for her to marry you than be single." 

Edward was of course immediately convinced that nothing could have 
been more natural than Lucy's conduct, nor more self-evident than the 
motive of it. 

Elinor scolded him, harshly as ladies always scold the imprudence 
which compliments themselves, for having spent so much time with them 
at Norland, when he must have felt his own inconstancy. 

"Your behaviour was certainly very wrong," said she, "because to 
say nothing of my own conviction our relations were all led away by it 
to fancy and expect what, as you were then situated, could never be." 

He could only plead an ignorance of his own heart, and a mistaken 
confidence in the force of his engagement. 

"I was simple enough to think that, because my faith was plighted to 
another, there could be no danger in my being with you; and that the 
consciousness of my engagement was to keep my heart as safe and sacred 
as my honour. I felt that I admired you, but I told myself it was only 
friendship; and till I began to make comparisons between yourself and 
Lucy, I did not know how far I was got. After that, I suppose, I was 
wrong in remaining so much in Sussex, and the arguments with which 
I reconciled myself to the expediency of it were no better than these: 
The danger is my own ; I am doing no injury to anybody but myself." 

Elinor smiled and shook her head. 

Edward heard with pleasure of Colonel Brandon's being expected at the 
cottage, as he really wished not only to be better acquainted with him, but 
to have an opportunity of convincing him that he no longer resented his 
giving him the living of Delaford "Which at present," said he, "after 
thanks so ungraciously delivered as mine were on the occasion he must 
think I have never forgiven him for offering." 

Now he felt astonished himself that he had never yet been to the place. 



SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 221 

But so little interest had he taken in the matter, that he owed all his 
knowledge of the house, garden, and glebe, extent of the parish, condition 
of the land, and rate of the tithes, to Elinor herself, who had heard so 
much of it from Colonel Brandon, and heard it with so much attention 
as to be entirely mistress of the subject. 

One question after this only remained undecided between them, one 
difficulty only was to be overcome. They were brought together by mutual 
affection, with the warmest approbation of their real friends ; their inti- 
mate knowledge of each other seemed to make their happiness certain 
- and they only wanted something to live upon. Edward had two thou- 
sand pounds, and Elinor one, which, with Delaford living, was all that 
they could call their own; for it was impossible that Mrs. Dashwood 
should advance anything, and they were neither of them quite enough 
in love to think that three hundred and fifty pounds a year would supply 
them with the comforts of life. 

Edward was not entirely without hopes of some favourable change in 
his mother towards him; and on that he rested for the residue of their 
income. But Elinor had no such dependence; for, since Edward would 
still be unable to marry Miss Morton, and his choosing herself had been 
spoken of in Mrs. Ferrars's flattering language as only a lesser evil than 
his choosing Lucy Steele, she feared that Robert's offence would serve no 
other purpose than to enrich Fanny. 

About four days after Edward's arrival, Colonel Brandon appeared, to 
complete Mrs. Dashwood's satisfaction, and to give her the dignity of 
having, for the first time since her living at Barton, more company with 
her than her house would hold. Edward was allowed to retain the privi- 
lege of first-comer, and Colonel Brandon therefore walked every night to 
his old quarters at the Park; from whence he usually returned in the 
morning, early enough to interrupt the lovers' first tete-h-tete before 
breakfast. 

A three weeks' residence at Delaford, where, in his evening hours at 
least, he had little to do but to calculate the disproportion between thirty- 
six and seventeen, brought him to Barton in a temper of mind which 
needed all the improvement in Marianne's looks, all the kindness of her 
welcome, and all the encouragement of her mother's language, to make it 
cheerful. Among such friends, however, and such flattery, he did revive. 
No rumour of Lucy's marriage had yet reached him; he knew nothing 
of what had passed, and the first hours of his visit were consequently 
spent in hearing and in wondering. Everything was explained to him by 
Mrs. Dashwood, and he found fresh reason to rejoice in what he had done 
for Mr. Ferrars, since eventually it promoted the interest of Elinor. 

It would be needless to say that the gentlemen advanced in the good 
opinion of each other as they advanced in each other's acquaintance, for 
it could not be otherwise. Their resemblance in good principles and good 
sense, in disposition and manner of thinking, would probably have been 
sufficient to unite them in friendship, without any other attraction ; but 



222 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

their being in love with two sisters, and two sisters fond of each other, 
made that mutual regard inevitable and immediate, which might other- 
wise have waited the effect of time and judgment. 

The letters from town, which a few days before would have made every 
nerve in Elinor's body thrill with transport, now arrived to be read with 
less emotion than mirth. Mrs. Jennings wrote to tell the wonderful tale, 
to vent her honest indignation against the jilting girl, and pour forth her 
compassion towards poor Mr. Edward, who, she was sure, had quite doted 
upon the worthless hussy, and was now, by all accounts, almost broken- 
hearted, at Oxford. "I do think," she continued, "nothing was ever carried 
on so sly ; for it was but two days before Lucy called and sat a couple of 
hours with me. Not a soul suspected anything of the matter, not even 
Nancy, who, poor soul ! came crying to me the day after, in a great fright 
for fear of Mrs. Ferrars, as well as not knowing how to get to Plymouth ; 
for Lucy, it seems, borrowed all her money before she went off to be mar- 
ried, on purpose, we suppose, to make a show with, and poor Nancy had 
not seven shillings in the world ; so I was very glad to give her five guineas, 
to take her down to Exeter, where she thinks of staying three or four 
weeks with Mrs. Burgess, in hopes, as I tell her, to fall in with the Doctor 
again. And I must say that Lucy's crossness not to take her along with 
them in the chaise, is worse than all. Poor Mr. Edward! I cannot get him 
out of my head, but you must send for him to Barton, and Miss Marianne 
must try to comfort him." 

Mr. Dashwood's strains were more solemn. Mrs. Ferrars was the most 
unfortunate of women poor Fanny had suffered agonies of sensibility 
and he considered the existence of each, under such a blow, with grateful 
wonder. Robert's offence was unpardonable, but Lucy's was infinitely 
worse. Neither of them was ever again to be mentioned to Mrs. Ferrars ; 
and, even if she might hereafter be induced to forgive her son, his wife 
should never be acknowledged as her daughter, nor be permitted to appear 
in her presence. The secrecy with which everything had been carried on 
between them was rationally treated as enormously heightening the 
crime, because had any suspicion of it occurred to the others, proper 
measures would have been taken to prevent the marriage ; and he called 
on Elinor to join with him in regretting that Lucy's engagement with 
Edward had not rather been fulfilled, than that she should thus be the 
means of spreading misery further in the family. He thus continued: 

"Mrs. Ferrars has never yet mentioned Edward's name, which does not 
surprise us: but, to our great astonishment, not a line has been received 
from him on the occasion. Perhaps, however, he is kept silent by his fear 
of offending, and I shall therefore give him a hint, by a line to Oxford, 
that his sister and I both think a letter of proper submission from him, ad- 
dressed perhaps to Fanny, and by her shown to her mother, might not be 
taken amiss ; for we all know the tenderness of Mrs. Ferrars's heart, and 
that she wishes for nothing so much as to be on good terms with her 
children." 



SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 223 

This paragraph was of some importance to the prospects and conduct 
of Edward. It determined him to attempt a reconciliation, though not 
exactly in the manner pointed out by their brother and sister. 

"A letter of proper submission!" repeated he; "would they have me 
beg my mother's pardon for Robert's ingratitude to her, and breach of 
honour to me? I can make no submission I am grown neither humble 
nor penitent by what has passed. I am grown very happy, but that would 
not interest. I know of no submission that is proper for me to make." 

"You may certainly ask to be forgiven," said Elinor, "because you have 
offended ; and I should think you might now venture so far as to profess 
some concern for having ever formed the engagement which drew on you 
your mother's anger." 

He agreed that he might. 

"And when she has forgiven you, perhaps a little humility may be 
convenient while acknowledging a second engagement, almost as impru- 
dent in her eyes as the first." 

He had nothing to urge against it, but still resisted the idea of a letter of 
proper submission ; and therefore to make it easier to him, as he declared a 
much greater willingness to make mean concessions by word of mouth 
than on paper, it was resolved that, instead of writing Fanny, he should 
go to London, and personally intreat her good offices in his favour. "And 
if they really do interest themselves," said Marianne, in her new charac- 
ter of candour, "in bringing about a reconciliation, I shall think that even 
John and Fanny are not entirely without merit." 

After a visit on Colonel Brandon's side of only three or four days, the 
two gentlemen quitted Barton together. They were to go immediately to 
Delaford, that Edward might have some personal knowledge of his future 
home, and assist his patron and friend in deciding on what improvements 
were needed to it ; and from thence, after staying a couple of nights he was 
to proceed on his journey to town. 



Chapter 50 

AFTER a proper resistance on the part of Mrs. Ferrars, just so violent 
and so steady as to preserve her from that reproach which she always 
seemed fearful of incurring, the reproach of being too amiable, Edward 
was admitted to her presence, and pronounced to be again her son. 

Her family had of late been exceedingly fluctuating. For many years of 
her life she had had two sons; but the crime and annihilation of Edward, 
a few weeks ago, had robbed her of one; the similar annihilation of Robert 
had left her for a fortnight without any ; and now, by the resuscitation of 
Edward, she had one again. 

In spite of his being allowed once more to live, however, he did not feel 
the continuance of his existence secure, till he had revealed his present 
engagement; for the publication of that circumstance, he feared might 



224 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

give a sudden turn to his constitution, and carry him off as rapidly as 
before. With apprehensive caution therefore it was revealed, and he was 
listened to with unexpected calmness. Mrs. Ferrars at first reasonably 
endeavoured to dissuade him from marrying Miss Dashwood, by every 
argument in her power; told him, that in Miss Morton he would have a 
woman of higher rank and larger fortune ; and enforced the assertion by 
observing that Miss Morton was the daughter of a nobleman with thirty 
thousand pounds, while Miss Dashwood was only the daughter of a pri- 
vate gentleman, with no more than three; but when she found that, 
though perfectly admitting the truth of her representation, he was by no 
means inclined to be guided by it, she judged it wisest, from the experi- 
ence of the past, to submit and therefore, after such an ungracious delay 
as she owed to her own dignity, and as served to prevert every suspicion 
of good-will, she issued her decree of consent to the marriage of Edward 
and Elinor. 

What she would engage to do towards augmenting their income was 
next to be considered: and here it plainly appeared, that though Edward 
was now her only son, he was by no means her eldest ; for while Robert 
was inevitably endowed with a thousand pounds a year, not the smallest 
objection was made against Edward's taking orders for the sake of two 
hundred and fifty at the utmost; nor was anything promised either for 
the present or in future, beyond the ten thousand pounds, which had been 
given with Fanny. 

It was as much, however, as was desired, and more than was expected, 
by Edward and Elinor ; and Mrs. Ferrars herself, by her shuffling excuses, 
seemed the only person surprised at her not giving more. 

With an income quite sufficient to their wants thus secured to them, 
they had nothing to wait for after Edward was in possession of the living, 
but the readiness of the house, to which Colonel Brandon, with an eager 
desire for the accommodation of Elinor, was making considerable im- 
provements ; and after waiting some time for their completion after ex- 
periencing, as usual, a thousand disappointments and delays, from the 
unaccountable dilatoriness of the workmen, Elinor, as usual, broke 
through the first positive resolution of not marrying till everything was 
ready, and the ceremony took place in Barton church early in the autumn. 

The first month after their marriage was spent with their friend at the 
mansion-house, from whence they could superintend the progress of the 
parsonage, and direct everything as they liked on the spot ; could choose 
papers, project shrubberies, and invent a sweep. Mrs. Jennings's prophe- 
cies, though rather jumbled together, were chiefly fulfilled; for she was 
able to visit Edward and his wife in their parsonage by Michaelmas, and 
she found in Elinor and her husband, as she really believed, one of the 
happiest couples in the world. They had in fact nothing to wish for, but 
the marriage of Colonel Brandon and Marianne, and rather better pas- 
turage for their cows. 

They were visited on their first settling by almost all their relations and 



SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 225 

friends. Mrs. Ferrars came to inspect the happiness which she was almost 
ashamed of having authorised, and even the Dashwoods were at the ex- 
pense of a journey from Sussex to do them honour. 

"I will not say that I am disappointed, my dear sister," said John, as 
they were walking together one morning before the gates of Delaford 
House "that would be saying too much, for certainly you have been one 
of the most fortunate young women in the world, as it is. But, I confess, it 
would give me great pleasure to call Colonel Brandon brother. His prop- 
erty here, his place, his house, everything in such respectable and excel- 
lent condition ! and his woods ! I have not seen such timber anywhere in 
Dorsetshire as there is now standing in Delaford hangar! And though, 
perhaps, Marianne may not seem exactly the person to attract him, yet I 
think it would altogether be advisable for you to have them now fre- 
quently staying with you, for as Colonel Brandon seems a great deal at 
home, nobody can tell what may happen for, when people are much 
thrown together, and see little of anybody else and it will always be in 
your power to set her off to advantage, and so forth ; in short, you may 
as well give her a chance. You understand me." 

But though Mrs. Ferrars did come to see them, and always treated them 
with the make-believe of decent affection, they were never insulted by her 
real favour and preference. That was due to the folly of Robert, and the 
cunning of his wife ; and it was earned by them before many months had 
passed away. The selfish sagacity of the latter, which had at first drawn 
Robert into the scrape, was the principal instrument of his deliverance 
from it, for her respectful humility, assiduous attentions, and endless 
flatteries, as soon as the smallest opening was given for their exercise, 
reconciled Mrs. Ferrars to his choice, and re-established him completely 
in her favour. 

The whole of Lucy's behaviour in the affair, and the prosperity which 
crowned it, therefore, may be held forth as a most encouraging instance 
of what an earnest, an unceasing attention to self-interest, however its 
progress may be apparently obstructed, will do in securing every advan- 
tage of fortune, with no other sacrifice than that of time and conscience. 
When Robert first sought her acquaintance, and privately visited her in 
Bartlett's Buildings, it was only with the view imputed to him by his 
brother. He merely meant to persuade her to give up the engagement; 
and as there could be nothing to overcome but the affection of both, he 
naturally expected that one or two interviews would settle the matter. In 
that point, however, and that only, he erred; for though Lucy soon gave 
him hopes that his eloquence would convince her in time, another visit, 
another conversation, was always wanted to produce this conviction. 
Some doubts always lingered in her mind when they parted, which could 
only be removed by another half-hour's discourse with himself. His at- 
tendance was by this means secured, and the rest followed in course. 
Instead of talking of Edward, they came gradually to talk only of Robert, 
a subject on which he had always more to say than on any other, and in 



226 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

which she soon betrayed an interest even equal to his own ; and in short, it 
became speedily evident to both, that he had entirely supplanted his 
brother. He was proud of his conquest, proud of tricking Edward, and 
very proud of marrying privately without his mother's consent. What 
immediately followed is known. They passed some months in great hap- 
piness at Dawlish ; for she had many relations and old acquaintances to 
cut and he drew several plans for magnificent cottages ; and from thence 
returning to town, procured the forgiveness of Mrs. Ferrars, by the simple 
expedient of asking it, which, at Lucy's instigation, was adopted. The for- 
giveness at first, indeed, as was reasonable, comprehended only Robert; 
and Lucy, who had owed his mother no duty, and therefore could have 
transgressed none, still remained some weeks longer unpardoned. But 
perseverance in humility of conduct, and messages, in self-condemnation 
for Robert's offence, and gratitude for the unkindness she was treated 
with, procured her in time the haughty notice which overcame her by its 
graciousness, and led soon afterwards, by rapid degrees, to the highest 
state of affection and influence. Lucy became as necessary to Mrs. Ferrars, 
as either Robert or Fanny ; and while Edward was never cordially forgiven 
for having once intended to marry her, and Elinor, though superior to her 
in fortune and birth, was spoken of as an intruder, she was in everything 
considered, and always openly acknowledged, to be a favourite child. 
They settled in town, received very liberal assistance from Mrs. Ferrars, 
were on the best of terms imaginable with the Dashwoods, and setting 
aside the jealousies and ill-will continually subsisting between Fanny and 
Lucy, in which their husbands of course took a part, as well as the frequent 
domestic disagreements between Robert and Lucy themselves, nothing 
could exceed the harmony in which they all lived together. 

What Edward had done to forfeit the right of eldest son, might have 
puzzled many people to find out ; and what Robert had done to succeed to 
it, might have puzzled them still more. It was an arrangement, however, 
justified in its effects, if not in its cause; for nothing ever appeared in 
Robert's style of living, or of talking, to give a suspicion of his regretting 
the extent of his income, as either leaving his brother too little, or bringing 
himself too much; and if Edward might be judged from the ready dis- 
charge of his duties in every particular, from an increasing attachment to 
his wife and his home, and from the regular cheerfulness of his spirits, he 
might be supposed no less contented with his lot, no less free from every 
wish of an exchange. 

Elinor's marriage divided her as little from her family as could well be 
contrived, without rendering the cottage at Barton entirely useless, for her 
mother and sisters spent much more than half their time with her. Mrs. 
Dashwood was acting on motives of policy as well as pleasure in the 
frequency of her visits at Delaf ord : for her wish of bringing Marianne and 
Colonel Brandon together was hardly less earnest, though rather more 
liberal, than what John had expressed. It was now her darling object. 
Precious as was the company of her daughter to her, she desired nothing so 



S E N S E A N D S E X S I B I L I T Y 227 

much as to give up its constant enjoyment to her valued friend ; and to see 
Marianne settled at the mansion-house was equally the wish of Edward 
and Elinor. They each felt his sorrows and their own obligations, and 
Marianne, by general consent, was to be the reward of all. 

With such a confederacy against her with a knowledge so intimate of 
his goodness with a conviction of his fond attachment to herself, which 
at last, though long after it was observable to everybody else, burst on 
her what could she do ? 

Marianne Dashwood was born to an extraordinary fate. She was born 
to discover the falsehood of her own opinions, and to counteract, by her 
conduct, her most favourite maxims. She was born to overcome an affec- 
tion formed so late in life as at seventeen, and with no sentiment superior 
to strong esteem and lively friendship, voluntarily to give her hand to 
another! and that other, a man who had suffered no less than herself 
under the event of a former attachment, whom, two years before, she 
had considered too old to be married, and who still sought the constitu- 
tional safeguard of a flannel waistcoat. 

But so it was. Instead of falling a sacrifice to an irresistible passion, as 
once she had fondly flattered herself with expecting, instead of remaining 
even for ever with her mother, and finding her only pleasures in retirement 
and study, as afterwards in her more calm and sober judgment she had 
determined on, she found herself, at nineteen, submitting to new attach- 
ments, entering on new duties, placed in a new home, a wife, the mistress 
of a family, and the patroness of a village. 

Colonel Brandon was now as happy as all those who best loved him 
believed he deserved to be ; in Marianne he was consoled for every past 
affliction ; her regard and her society restored his mined to animation, and 
his spirits to cheerfulness : and that Marianne found her own happiness in 
forming his, was equally the persuasion and delight of each observing 
friend. Marianne could never love by halves; and her whole heart became 
in time, as much devoted to her husband, as it had once been to 
Willoughby. 

Willoughby could not hear of her marriage without a pang; and his 
punishment was soon afterwards complete in the voluntary forgiveness of 
Mrs. Smith, who, by stating his marriage with a woman of character, as the 
source of her clemency, gave him reason for believing, that had he behaved 
with honour towards Marianne, he might at once have been happy and 
rich. That his repentance of misconduct, which thus brought its own 
punishment, was sincere, need not be doubted ; nor that he long thought 
of Colonel Brandon with envy, and of Marianne with regret. But that 
he was for ever inconsolable that he fled from society, or contracted an 
habitual gloom of temper, or died of a broken heart, must not be depended 
on for he did neither. He lived to exert, and frequently to enjoy himself. 
His wife was not always out of humour, nor his home always uncomfort- 
able! and in his breed of horses and dogs, and in sporting of every kind, he 
found no inconsiderable degree of domestic felicity. 



228 THE WORKS OF JANE AUSTEN 

For Marianne, however in spite of his incivility in surviving her 
loss he always retained that decided regard which interested him in 
everything that befell her, and made her his secret standard of perfection 
in woman ; and many a rising beauty would be slighted by him in after 
days as bearing no comparison with Mrs. Brandon. 

Mrs. Dash wood was prudent enough to remain at the cottage, without 
attempting a removal to Delaford ; and fortunately for Sir John and Mrs. 
Jennings, when Marianne was taken from them, Margaret had reached an 
age highly suitable for dancing, and not very ineligible for being supposed 
to have a lover. 

Between Barton and Delaford, there was that constant communication 
which strong family affection would naturally dictate; and among the 
merits and the happiness of Elinor and Marianne, let it not be ranked as 
the least considerable, that though sisters, and living almost within sight 
of each other, they could live without disagreement between themselves, 
or producing coolness between their husbands. 



FINIS