- 
 
 ■ 
 
 , V. • 
 
 
 ... 
 
 . 
 
 . 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 .. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 — ,, v IfBRARV 
 
 Of fp? 
 
 • . ■ . / . OHIVFRSITY ;.c t,, 
 
 8 ^ 
 
 ■ 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 * 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
illustrated (Eatrtnet Edition 
 
 SENSE and SENSIBILITY 
 
 Volume II 
 
 By 
 
 Jane Austen 
 
 Boston 
 
 Dana Estes & Company 
 
 Publishers 
 
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 “ Hum,”— said Mrs. Ferrars—“ very pretty ” Frontispiece 
 
 He laughed most immoderately. 184 
 
 At her own particular request Colonel Brandon 
 
 was invited to visit her. 244 
 
 194710 
 
Sense and Sensibility 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 ^TF 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 take 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 
 
 [ 1 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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 daresay we shall have Sir 
 John and Lady Middleton in town by the end 
 of next week.” 
 
 “Aye, my dear, I’ll warrant you we do. Mary 
 always has her own way.” 
 
 “And 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 watch¬ 
 fulness to ascertain the fact. Whatever the truth 
 of it might be, and as 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 mildness of the weather, and 
 still happier in her expectation of a frost. 
 
 The morning was chiefly spent in leaving cards 
 at the houses of Mrs Jennings’s acquaintance to 
 inform them of her being in town; and 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 
 
 in 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 decided difference. I can hardly keep my hands 
 warm even in my muff. It was not so yesterday, 
 
 I think. The clouds seem parting, too, the sun 
 will be out in a moment, and we shall have a clear 
 afternoon.” 
 
 Elinor was alternately diverted and pained; 
 but Marianne persevered, and saw every night 
 in the brightness of the fire, and every morning 
 in the appearance of the atmosphere, the certain 
 symptoms of approaching frost. 
 
 The Miss Dashwoods had no greater reason to 
 be dissatisfied with Mrs Jennings’s style of liv¬ 
 ing and set of acquaintance than with her beha¬ 
 viour to themselves, which was invariably kind. 
 Everything in her household arrangements was 
 conducted on the most liberal plan, and except¬ 
 ing a few old city friends, whom, to Lady Mid¬ 
 dleton’s regret, she had never dropped, she visited 
 no one to whom an introduction could at all dis¬ 
 compose the feelings of her young companions.^ 
 Pleased to find herself more comfortably situ¬ 
 ated in that particular than she had expected, 
 Elinor was very willing to compound for the 
 want of much real enjoyment from any of their 
 evening parties, which, whether at home or 
 abroad, formed only for cards, could have little 
 to amuse her. 
 
 Colonel Brandon, who had a general invitation 
 to the house, was with them almost every day; he 
 
 [ 3 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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 strengthening regard. It grieved her to 
 see the earnestness with which he often watched 
 Marianne, and his spirits were certainly worse 
 than when at Barton. 
 
 About a week after their arrival, it became cer¬ 
 tain 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.” Elinor, rejoiced to be 
 assured of his being in London, now ventured to 
 say, “Depend upon it, he will call again to-mor¬ 
 row.” 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 ofElinor, 
 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 see¬ 
 ing 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; 
 [ 4 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 but a moment’s glance at her sister when they 
 returned was enough to inform her that Wil¬ 
 loughby 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 provok- 
 ing!” 
 
 “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 
 
 [ 5 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 being given her, she read it aloud. It was from 
 Lady Middleton, announcing their arrival in 
 Conduit-street the night before, and requesting 
 the company of her mother and cousins the fol¬ 
 lowing 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 materially altered by a change 
 of abode; for although scarcely settled in town, 
 Sir John had contrived to collect around him 
 nearly twenty young people, and to amuse them 
 with a ball. This was an affair, however, of 
 which Lady Middleton did not 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 grati¬ 
 fication of a few girls, to have it known that 
 Lady Middleton had given a small dance of eight 
 [ 6 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 or nine couple, with two violins, and a mere side¬ 
 board 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 communicate pleasure. After they had been 
 assembled about an hour, Mr Palmer sauntered 
 towards the Miss Dashwoods, to express his sur¬ 
 prise 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 dis¬ 
 course. 
 
 Never had Marianne been so unwilling to 
 dance in her life as she was that evening, and 
 
 [I] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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 exceed¬ 
 ingly 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, 
 [ 8 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 walked from one window to the other, or sat 
 down by the fire in melancholy meditation. Eli¬ 
 nor was very earnest in her application to her 
 mother, relating all that had passed, her suspicions 
 of Willoughby’s inconstancy, urging her by 
 every plea of duty and affection to demand from 
 Marianne an account of her real situation with 
 respect to him. 
 
 Her letter was scarcely finished, when a rap 
 foretold a visitor, and Colonel Brandon was an¬ 
 nounced. 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, impa¬ 
 tiently 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 agita¬ 
 tion, when he was to congratulate her on the 
 
 [9] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY, 
 
 acquisition of a brother? Elinor was not pre¬ 
 pared for such a question, and having no answer 
 ready, was obliged to adopt the simple and com¬ 
 mon expedient of asking what he meant? He 
 tried to smile as he replied, “Your sister’s engage¬ 
 ment to Mr Willoughby is very generally 
 known.” 
 
 “It cannot be generally known,” returned Eli¬ 
 nor, “for her own family do not know it.” 
 
 He looked surprised, and said, “I beg your 
 pardon, I am afraid my inqiury has been imperti¬ 
 nent; but I had not supposed any secrecy in¬ 
 tended, as they openly correspond, and their mar¬ 
 riage is universally talked of.” 
 
 “How can that be? By whom can you have 
 heard it mentioned?” 
 
 “By many—by some of whom you know noth¬ 
 ing, by others with whom you are most intimate 
 —Mrs Jennings, Mrs Palmer, and the Middle- 
 tons. 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 sup¬ 
 port 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 suc- 
 [ 10 ] . 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 ceeding.—Excuse me, Miss Dashwood. I believe 
 I have been wrong in saying so much, but I 
 hardly know what to do, and on your prudence 
 I have the strongest 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 any¬ 
 thing, 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 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 cen¬ 
 sure, she thought it most prudent and kind, after 
 some consideration, to say more than she really 
 knew or believed. She acknowledged, therefore, 
 that though she had never been informed by 
 themselves of the terms on which they stood with 
 each other, of their mutual affection she had no 
 doubt, and of their correspondence she was not 
 astonished to hear. 
 
 [11] 
 
SENSE AXD SENSIBILITY 
 
 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 con¬ 
 trary, 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 XXVIII 
 
 N OTHING 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 at¬ 
 tend Lady Middleton to a party, from which Mrs 
 Jennings was kept away by the indisposition of 
 her youngest daughter; and for this party, Mari¬ 
 anne, wholly dispirited, careless of her appear¬ 
 ance, and seeming equally indifferent whether 
 she went or staid, prepared, without one look of 
 
 [12] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 // 
 
 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 stir¬ 
 ring 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 desti¬ 
 nation, 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 curtesying to 
 the lady of the house, they were permitted to 
 mingle in the croud, and take their share of the 
 heat and inconvenience, to which their arrival 
 must necessarily add. After 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. - 
 
 They had not remained in this manner long, 
 before Elinor perceived Willoughby, standing 
 within a few yards of them, in earnest conversa- 
 
 [13] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 tion with a very fashionable-looking young 
 woman. She soon caught his eye, and he imme¬ 
 diately 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, to see whether it could be unob¬ 
 served by her. At that moment she first per¬ 
 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 f eel to everybody present. 
 Perhaps he has not observed you yet.” 
 
 This, however, was more than she could believe 
 herself, and to be composed at such a moment was 
 not only beyond the reach of Marianne, it was 
 beyond her wish. She sat in an agony of impa¬ 
 tience 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 aff ection, held out her hand to 
 him. He approached, and addressing himself 
 rather to Elinor than Marianne, as if wishing to 
 avoid her eye, and determined not to observe her 
 [ 14 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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 ex¬ 
 pressed. Her face was crimsoned over, and she 
 exclaimed in a voice of the greatest emotion, 
 “Good God! Willoughby, what is the meaning of 
 this? Have you not received my 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 Berke- 
 ley-street last Tuesday, and very much regretted 
 that I was not fortunate enough to find your¬ 
 selves 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, Wil¬ 
 loughby—for heaven’s sake, tell me, what is the 
 matter?” 
 
 He made no reply; his complexion changed 
 
 [ 15 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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 neces¬ 
 sity 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 good as to send to me,” 
 turned hastily away with a slight bow and joined 
 his friend. 
 
 Marianne, now looking dreadfully white, and 
 unable to stand, sunk into her chair, and Elinor, 
 expecting every moment to see her faint, tried to 
 screen her from the observation of others, while 
 reviving her with 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 
 [ 16 ] 
 
SEXSE AXD SEXSIBILITY 
 
 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 impossi¬ 
 bility 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 a middle of a rub¬ 
 ber, on being informed that Marianne was un¬ 
 well, 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 
 during their return to Berkeley-street. [Mari¬ 
 anne 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 
 
 2 * [M] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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, with¬ 
 out any design that would bear investigation. 
 Absence might have weakened his regard, and 
 convenience might have determined him to over¬ 
 come it, but that such a regard had formerly 
 existed she could not bring herself to doubt. 
 
 As for Marianne, on the pangs which so un¬ 
 happy 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 sepa¬ 
 ration from Willoughby—in an immediate and 
 irreconcileable rupture with him. 
 
 [ 18 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 B EFORE 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 writ¬ 
 ing as fast as a continual flow of tears would 
 permit her. In this situation, Elinor, roused 
 from sleep by her agitation and sobs, first per¬ 
 ceived 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 at- 
 
 [ 19 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 tention in her power; and she would have tried to 
 soothe and tranquillize 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 
 breakfast 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 endeavour¬ 
 ing to engage Mrs Jennings’s notice entirely to 
 herself. 
 
 As this was a favourite meal with Mrs Jen¬ 
 nings, it lasted a considerable time, and they were 
 just setting themselves, after it, round the com¬ 
 mon 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 imme¬ 
 diately such a sickness at heart as made her hardly 
 able to hold up her head, and sat in such a gen- 
 [ 20 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 eral tremour 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 accord¬ 
 ingly, 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 
 disappeared, 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 
 
 [ 21 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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 Devon¬ 
 shire 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 
 yourself, you think nobody else has any senses; 
 but it is no such thing, I can tell you, for it has 
 been known all over the town this ever so long. 
 I tell 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 be¬ 
 lieve 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 affection- 
 [ 22 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 ately 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 hand¬ 
 kerchief, almost screamed with agony. Elinor, 
 who knew that such grief, shocking as it was to 
 witness it, must have its course, watched by her till 
 this excess of suffering had somewhat spent 
 itself, and then 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 
 
 [ 23 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 your whole family is very sincere; but if I have 
 been so unfortunate as to give rise to a belief of 
 more than I felt, or meant to express, I shall 
 reproach myself for not having been more 
 guarded in my professions of that esteem. That 
 I should ever have meant more, you will allow to 
 be impossible, when you understand that my 
 affections have been long engaged elsewhere, and 
 it will not be many weeks, I believe, before this 
 engagement is fulfilled. It is with great regret 
 that I obey your commands of returning the let¬ 
 ters 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 Willoughby. 
 
 With what indignation such a letter as this 
 must be read by Miss Dashwood, may be imag¬ 
 ined. 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 Wil¬ 
 loughby capable of departing so far from the 
 appearance of every honourable and delicate 
 feeling—so far from the common decorum of a 
 [ 24 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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 villany. 
 
 She paused over it for some time with indignant 
 astonishment; then read it again and again; but 
 every perusal only served to increase her abhor¬ 
 rence 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 depravity of that mind which 
 could dictate it, and, probably, on the very dif¬ 
 ferent mind of a very different person, who had 
 no other connection whatever with the aff air 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 
 
 [ 25 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 a carriage drive up to the door, she went to the 
 window to see who could be coming so unreason¬ 
 ably early, she was all astonishment to perceive 
 Mrs Jennings’s chariot, which she knew had not 
 been ordered till one. Determined not to quit 
 Marianne, though hopeless of contributing., at 
 present, to her ease, she hurried away to excuse 
 herself from attending Mrs Jennings, on account 
 of her sister being indisposed. Mrs Jennings, 
 with a thoroughly good-humoured concern for 
 its cause, admitted the excuse most readily, and 
 Elinor, after seeing her safe off, returned to 
 Marianne, whom she found attempting to rise 
 from the bed, and whom she reached just in time 
 to prevent her from falling on the floor, faint 
 and giddy from a long want of proper rest and 
 food; for it was many days since she had any 
 appetite, and many nights since she had really 
 slept; and now, when her mind was no longer 
 supported by the fever of suspense, the conse¬ 
 quence of all this was felt in an aching head, a 
 weakened stomach, and general nervous faint¬ 
 ness. 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.” 
 
 [ 26 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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.” 
 
 “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 sol¬ 
 emnly. 
 
 “No, no, no,” cried Marianne wildly; “he loves 
 you, and only you. You can have no grief.” 
 
 [ 27 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 “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 suf¬ 
 fered if the discovery of his character had been 
 delayed to a later period—if your engagement 
 had been carried on for months and months, as it 
 might have been, before he chose to put an end 
 to it. Every additional day of unhappy confi¬ 
 dence, on your side, would have made the blow 
 more dreadful.” 
 
 “Engagement!” cried Marianne, “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 
 
 [ 28 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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 
 eff ect— 
 
 “Berkeley Street, January . 
 
 “How surprised you will be, Willoughby, on 
 receiving this! and I think you will feel some¬ 
 thing 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 hav¬ 
 ing missed you the day before yesterday, nor my 
 astonishment at not having received any answer 
 to a note which I sent you above a week ago. I 
 have been expecting to hear from you, and still 
 more to see you, every hour of the day. Pray 
 call again as soon as possible, and explain the 
 reason of my having expected this in vain. You 
 had better come earlier another time, because we 
 are generally out by one. We were last night at 
 
 [ 29 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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 expla¬ 
 nation of it. I was prepared to meet you with 
 the pleasure which our separation naturally pro¬ 
 duced, with the familiarity 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 behaviour, I am perfectly ready 
 to hear your justification of it. You have per¬ 
 haps been misinformed, or purposely deceived, 
 in something concerning me, which may have 
 lowered me in your opinion. Tell me what it is, 
 explain the grounds on which you acted, and I 
 shall be satisfied in being able to satisfy you. It 
 would grieve me indeed to be obliged to think ill 
 [ 30 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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 de¬ 
 ceive, let it be told as soon as possible. My feel¬ 
 ings are at present in a state of dreadful inde¬ 
 cision; 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 confi¬ 
 dence, could have been so answered, Elinor, for 
 Willoughby’s sake, would have been unwilling to 
 believe. But her condemnation of him did not 
 blind her to the impropriety of their having been 
 written at all; and she was silently grieving over 
 the imprudence which had hazarded such unso¬ 
 licited proofs of tenderness, not warranted by 
 anything preceding, and most severely con¬ 
 demned by the event, when Marianne, perceiving 
 that she had finished the letters, observed to her 
 that they contained nothing but what any one 
 would have written in the same situation. 
 
 “I felt myself,” she added, “to be as solemnly 
 engaged to him as if the strictest legal covenant 
 had bound us to each other.” 
 
 “I can believe it,” said Elinor; “but unfortu¬ 
 nately, he did not feel the same.” 
 
 [31] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 “He did feel the same, Elinor—for weeks and 
 
 weeks he felt it. I know he did. Whatever may 
 
 «/ 
 
 have changed him now (and nothing but the 
 blackest art employed against me can have done 
 it), I was once as dear to him as my own soul 
 could wish. This lock of hair, which now he can 
 so readily give up, was begged of me with the 
 most earnest supplication. Had you seen his 
 look, his manner, had you heard his voice at that 
 moment! Have you forgot the last evening of 
 our being together at Barton? The morning that 
 we parted too? When he told me that it might 
 be many weeks before we met again—his distress 
 —can I ever forget his distress!” 
 
 For a moment or two she could say no more; 
 but when this emotion had passed away, she 
 added, in a firmer tone— 
 
 “Elinor, I have been cruelly used, but not by 
 Willoughby.” 
 
 “Dearest Marianne, who but himself? By 
 whom can he have been instigated?” 
 
 “By all the world, rather than by his own heart. 
 I could rather believe every creature of my 
 acquaintance leagued together to ruin me in his 
 opinion, than believe his nature capable of such 
 cruelty. This woman of whom he writes—who¬ 
 ever she be—or any one, in short, but your own 
 dear self, mama, and Edward, may have been so 
 barbarous to belie me. Beyond you three, is there 
 [ 32 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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 tri¬ 
 umph, my dear sister, by seeing how nobly the 
 consciousness of your own innocence and good 
 intentions supports your spirits. It is a reason¬ 
 able and laudable pride which resists such malev¬ 
 olence.” 
 
 “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 morti¬ 
 fication—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 em¬ 
 ployed in walking thoughtfully from the fire 
 to the window, from the window to the fire, with¬ 
 out knowing that she received warmth from one, 
 or discerning objects through the other; and 
 
 [ 33 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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, Willoughby, 
 could this be yours! Cruel, cruel—nothing can 
 acquit you. Elinor, nothing can. Whatever he 
 might have heard against me—ought he not to 
 have suspended his belief? ought he not to have 
 told me of it, to have given me the power of 
 clearing myself? ‘The lock of hair’ (repeating 
 it from the letter), ‘which you so obligingly be¬ 
 stowed on me’—that is unpardonable. Wil¬ 
 loughby, where was your heart, when you wrote 
 those words ? Oh, barbarously insolent!—Elinor, 
 can he be justified?” 
 
 “No, Marianne, in no possible way.” 
 
 “And yet this woman—who knows what her 
 art may have been—how long it may have been 
 premeditated, and how deeply contrived by her! 
 —Who is she?—Who can she be?—Whom did I 
 ever hear him talk of as young and attractive 
 among his f emale acquaintance ? Oh! no one, no 
 one—he talked to me only of myself.” 
 
 Another pause ensued; Marianne was greatly 
 agitated, and it ended thus— 
 
 “Elinor, I must go home. I must go and com- 
 f ort mama. Cannot we be gone to-morrow ?” 
 “To-morrow, Marianne!” 
 
 [ 34 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 “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 grow¬ 
 ing more and more hysterical, her sister could 
 with difficulty keep her on the bed at all, and for 
 some time was fearful of being constrained to 
 call for assistance. Some lavender drops, how¬ 
 ever, which she was at length persuaded to take, 
 were of use; and from that time till Mrs Jennings 
 returned, she continued on the bed quiet and 
 motionless. 
 
 [ 35 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 CHAPTER XXX 
 
 M RS 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 Dash wood? Poor thing! she 
 looks very bad. No wonder. Aye, it is but too 
 true. He is to be married very soon—a good- 
 for-nothing fellow! I have no patience with him. 
 Mrs Taylor told me of it half an hour ago, and 
 she was told it by a particular friend of Miss 
 Grey herself, else I am sure I should not have 
 believed it; and I was almost ready to sink as it 
 was. Well, said I, all I can say is, that if it is 
 true, he has used a young lady of my acquaint¬ 
 ance 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 Mari¬ 
 anne ; he is not the only young man in the world 
 [ 36 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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 coming 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, deter¬ 
 mined 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 gov¬ 
 erned for a moment by such a motive, though 
 believing it hardly possible that she could sit out 
 the dinner, said no more; and adjusting her dress 
 for her as well as she could while Marianne still 
 remained on the bed, was ready to assist her into 
 the dining-room as soon as they were summoned 
 to it. 
 
 When there, though looking most wretchedly, 
 she ate more and was calmer than her sister had 
 expected. Had she tried to speak, or had she 
 been conscious of half Mrs Jennings’s well-meant 
 but ill-judged attentions to her, this calmness 
 could not have been maintained; but not a syl¬ 
 lable escaped her lips, and the abstraction of her 
 thoughts preserved her in ignorance of every¬ 
 thing that was passing before her. 
 
 [ 37 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 Elinor, who did justice to Mrs Jennings’s kind¬ 
 ness, though its effusions were often distressing, 
 and sometimes almost ridiculous, made her those 
 acknowledgments, and returned her those civili¬ 
 ties, 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 countenance of her 
 sister, seen a check to all mirth, she could have 
 been entertained by Mrs Jennings’s endeavours 
 to cure a disappointment in love, by a variety of 
 sweetmeats and olives, and a good fire. As soon, 
 however, as the consciousness of all this was 
 forced by continual repetition on Marianne, she 
 could stay no longer. With an hasty exclamation 
 of misery, and a sign to her sister not to follow 
 her, she directly got up and hurried out of the 
 room. 
 
 “Poor soul!” cried Mrs Jennings, as soon as 
 she was gone, “how it grieves me to see her! And 
 I declare if she is not gone away without finishing 
 her wine! And the dried cherries too! Lord! 
 
 [ 38 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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 to me, that a man should use such a pretty 
 girl so ill! But when there is plenty of money on 
 one side, and next to none on the other, Lord 
 bless you! they care no more about such 
 things!—” 
 
 “The lady then—Miss Grey I think you called 
 her—is very rich?” 
 
 “Fifty thousand pounds, my dear. Did you 
 ever see her? a smart, stilish girl, they say, but not 
 handsome. I remember her aunt very well, 
 Biddy Henshawe; she married a very wealthy 
 man. But the family are all rich together. Fifty 
 thousand pounds! and by all accounts it won’t 
 come before it’s wanted; for they say he is all to 
 pieces. No wonder! dashing about with his cur¬ 
 ricle 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 prom¬ 
 ises marriage, he has no business to fly off from 
 his word only because he grows poor, and a richer 
 girl is ready to take 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 
 
 [ 39 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 pleasure can ever be given up by the young men 
 of this age.” 
 
 “Do you know what kind of a girl Miss Grey 
 is? Is she said to be amiable?” 
 
 “I never heard any harm of her; indeed, I 
 hardly ever heard her mentioned; except that Mrs 
 Taylor did say this morning that one day Miss 
 Walker hinted to her, that she believed Mr and 
 Mrs Ellison would not be sorry to have Miss 
 Grey married, for she and Mrs Ellison could 
 never agree.” 
 
 “And who are the Ellisons?” 
 
 “Her guardians, my dear. But now she is of 
 age and may choose for herself; and a pretty 
 choice she has made!—What now,” after pausing 
 a moment—“your poor sister 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 unneces¬ 
 sary. 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 
 [ 40 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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 fin¬ 
 ished it. Poor soul! I am sure if I had had a 
 notion of it, I would not have joked her about it 
 for all my money. But then, you know, how 
 should I guess such a thing? I made sure of its 
 being nothing but a common love-letter, and you 
 know young people like to be laughed at about 
 them. Lord! how concerned Sir John and my 
 daughters will be when they hear it! If I had had 
 my senses about me, I might have called in Con¬ 
 duit-street in my way home, and told them of it. 
 But I shall see them to-morrow.” 
 
 “It would be unnecessary, I am sure, for you 
 to caution Mrs Palmer and Sir John against ever 
 naming Mr Willoughby, or making the slightest 
 allusion to what has passed, before my sister. 
 Their own good-nature must point out to them 
 the real cruelty of appearing to know 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 
 
 [ 41 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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 re¬ 
 quired of her for Willoughby’s; since, though 
 Marianne might lose much, he could gain very 
 little by the enforcement of the real truth. After 
 a short silence on both sides, Mrs Jennings, with 
 all her natural hilarity, burst forth again— 
 “Well, my dear, ’tis a true saying about an ill 
 wind, for it will be all the better for Colonel 
 Brandon. He will have her at last; aye, that he 
 [ 42 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 will. Mind me, now, if they an’t married by Mid¬ 
 summer. Lord! how he’ll chuckle over this news! 
 I hope he will come 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 con¬ 
 veniences; quite shut in with great garden walls 
 that are covered with the best fruit-trees in the 
 country; and such a mulberry tree in one corner! 
 
 Lord! how Charlotte and I did stuff the only 
 
 %/ 
 
 time we were there! Then, there is a dovecote, 
 some delightful stewponds, and a very pretty 
 canal; and everything, in short, that one could 
 wish for: and, moreover, it is close to the church, 
 and only a quarter of a mile from the turnpike- 
 road, so ’tis never dull, for if you only go and sit 
 up in an old yew arbour behind the house, you 
 may see all the carriages that pass along. Oh! 
 ’tis a nice place! A butcher hard by in the vil¬ 
 lage, 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 
 
 [ 43 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 shoulder of mutton, you know, drives another 
 down. If we can but put Willoughby out of her 
 headr 
 
 “Aye, if we can but do that, ma’am,” said 
 Elinor, “we shall do very well with or without 
 Colonel Brandon.” And then rising, she went 
 away to join Marianne, whom she found, as she 
 expected, in her own room, leaning, in silent 
 misery, over the small remains of a fire which, 
 till Elinor’s entrance, had been her only light. 
 
 “You had better leave me,” was all the notice 
 that her sister received from her. 
 
 “I will leave you,” said Elinor, “if you will go 
 to bed.” But this, from the momentary perverse¬ 
 ness of impatient suffering, she at first refused 
 to do. Her sister’s earnest, though gentle per¬ 
 suasion, however, soon softened her to compli¬ 
 ance, 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 re¬ 
 paired, 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 Con¬ 
 stants 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, 
 [ 44 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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 complaints for which it was 
 recommended, “how good you are! But I have 
 just left Marianne in bed, and, I hope, almost 
 asleep; and as I think nothing will be of so much 
 service to her as rest, if you will give me leave, I 
 will drink the wine myself.” 
 
 Mrs Jennings, though regretting that she had 
 not been five minutes earlier, was satisfied with 
 the compromise; and Elinor, as she swallowed the 
 chief of it, reflected that, though its good effects 
 on a cholicky gout were at present of little impor¬ 
 tance to her, its healing powers on a disappointed 
 heart might be as reasonably tried on herself as 
 on her sister. 
 
 Colonel Brandon came in while the party were 
 at tea, and by his manner of looking round the 
 room for Marianne, Elinor immediately fancied 
 that he neither expected nor wished to see her 
 there, and, in short, that he was already aware of 
 what occasioned her absence. Mrs Jennings was 
 not struck by the same thought; for, soon after 
 his entrance, she walked across the room to the 
 tea-table where Elinor presided, and whispered 
 —“The Colonel looks as grave as ever, you see. 
 He knows nothing of it; do tell him, my dear.” 
 
 He shortly afterwards drew a chair close to 
 
 I [ 45 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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 I had reason to 
 think—in short, that a man, whom I knew to be 
 engaged—but how shall I tell you? If you know 
 it already, as surely you must, I may be spared.” 
 
 “You mean,” answered Elinor with forced 
 calmness, “Mr Willoughby’s marriage with Miss 
 Grey. Yes, we do know it all. This seems to 
 have been a day of general elucidation, for this 
 very morning first unfolded it to us. Mr Wil¬ 
 loughby is unfathomable! Where did you hear 
 it?” 
 
 “In a stationer’s shop in Pall Mall, where I 
 had business. Two ladies were waiting for their 
 carriage, and one of them was giving the other 
 an account of the intended match, in a voice so 
 little attempting concealment, that it was impos¬ 
 sible for me not to hear all. The name of Wil¬ 
 loughby, John Willoughby, frequently repeated, 
 first caught my attention, and what followed was 
 [ 46 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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 staid 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, “And 
 your sister—how did she—” 
 
 “Her suff erings 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 I am almost 
 convinced that he never was really attached to 
 her. He has been very deceitful! and, in some 
 
 [ 47 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 points, there seems a hardness of heart about 
 him.” 
 
 “Ah!” said Colonel Brandon, “there is, indeed! 
 But your sister does not—I think you said so— 
 she does not consider it quite as you do?” 
 
 “You know her disposition, and may 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 arrange¬ 
 ment 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 Dash- 
 wood’s communication, in such an instantaneous 
 gaiety on Colonel Brandon’s side as might have 
 become a man in the bloom of youth, of hope and 
 happiness, saw him, with amazement, remain the 
 whole evening more serious and thoughtful than 
 usual. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI 
 
 F ROM a night of more sleep than she had 
 expected, Marianne awoke the next morn¬ 
 ing to the same consciousness of misery 
 in which she had closed her eyes. 
 
 Elinor encouraged her as much as possible to 
 £ [ 48 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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 
 affectionate counsel on Elinor’s side, the same 
 impetuous feelings and varying opinions on 
 Marianne’s, as before. Sometimes she could 
 believe Willoughby to be as unfortunate and as 
 innocent as herself, and at others, lost every con¬ 
 solation in the impossibility of acquitting him. 
 At one moment she was absolutely indiff erent 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 sensi- 
 
 [ 49 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 bility, and the graces of a polished manner. Like 
 half the rest of the world, if more than half there 
 be that are clever and good, Marianne, with excel¬ 
 lent abilities and an excellent disposition, was 
 neither reasonable nor candid. She expected 
 from other people the same opinions and feelings 
 as her own, and she judged of their motives by 
 the immediate effect of their actions on herself. 
 Thus a circumstance occurred, while the sisters 
 were together in their own room after breakfast, 
 which sunk the heart of Mrs Jennings still lower 
 in her estimation; because, through her own weak¬ 
 ness, it chanced to prove a source of fresh pain 
 to herself, though Mrs Jennings was governed in 
 it by an impulse of the utmost good-will. 
 
 With a letter in her outstretched hand, and 
 countenance gaily smiling, from the persuasion 
 of bringing comfort, she entered their room, say¬ 
 ing— 
 
 “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 Wil¬ 
 loughby, full of tenderness and contrition, ex¬ 
 planatory of all that had passed, satisfactory, 
 convincing; and instantly followed by Wil¬ 
 loughby 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 
 [ 50 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 one moment was destroyed by the next. The 
 handwriting of her mother, never till then unwel¬ 
 come, was before her; and, in the acuteness of the 
 disappointment which followed such an extasy of 
 more than hope, she felt as if, till that instant, she 
 had never suffered. 
 
 The cruelty of Mrs Jennings no language, 
 within her reach in her moments of happiest elo¬ 
 quence, could have expressed; and now she could 
 reproach her only by the tears which streamed 
 from her eyes with passionate violence—a 
 reproach, however, so entirely lost on its object, 
 that after many expressions of pity, she with¬ 
 drew, 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 constancy, had only been roused by Elinor’s 
 application, to intreat from Marianne greater 
 openness towards them both, and this, with such 
 tenderness towards her, such affection for Wil¬ 
 loughby, and such a conviction of their future 
 happiness in each other, that she wept with agony 
 through the whole of it. 
 
 All her impatience to be at home again now 
 returned; her mother was dearer to her than ever 
 —dearer through the very excess of her mistaken 
 confidence in Willoughby, and she was wildly 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 urgent to be gone. Elinor, unable herself to de¬ 
 termine 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 attend¬ 
 ance, 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 perceiv¬ 
 ing 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 intreat her directions for the future; while 
 Marianne, who came into the drawing-room on 
 Mrs Jennings’s going away, remained fixed at 
 the table where Elinor wrote, watching the ad¬ 
 vancement of her pen, grieving over her for the 
 hardship of such a task, and grieving still more 
 fondly over its effect on her mother. 
 
 In this manner they had continued about a 
 quarter of an hour, when Marianne, whose nerves 
 could not then bear any sudden noise, was startled 
 by a rap at the door. 
 
 “Who can this be?” cried Elinor. “So early 
 too! I thought we had been safe.” 
 
 [ 52 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 Marianne moved to the window. 
 
 “It is Colonel Brandon!” said she, with vexa¬ 
 tion. “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 con¬ 
 vinced that solicitude for Marianne brought him 
 thither, and who saw that solicitude in his dis¬ 
 turbed and melancholy look, and in his anxious 
 though brief inquiry after her, could not forgive 
 her sister for esteeming him so lightly. 
 
 “I met Mrs Jennings in Bond Street,” said he, 
 after the first salutation, “and she encouraged me 
 to come on; and I was the more easily encour¬ 
 aged, because I thought it probable that I might 
 find you alone, which I was very desirous of 
 doing. My object—my wish—my sole wish in 
 desiring it—I hope, I believe it is—is to be a 
 means of giving comfort—no, I must not say 
 comfort—not present comfort—but conviction, 
 lasting conviction to your sister’s mind. My 
 regard for her, for yourself, for your mother— 
 will you allow me to prove it by relating some cir- 
 
 [ 53 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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 
 shewn Marianne. My gratitude will be insured 
 immediately by any information tending to that 
 end, and hers must be gained by it in time. Pray, 
 pray, let me hear it.” 
 
 “You shall; and, to be brief, when I quitted 
 Barton last October— but this will give you no 
 idea. I must go farther back. You will find me 
 a very awkward narrator, Miss Dash wood; I 
 hardly know where to begin. A short account of 
 myself, I believe, will be necessary, and it shall 
 be a short one. On such a subject,” sighing heav¬ 
 ily, “I can have little temptation to be diffuse.” 
 
 He stopt a moment for recollection, and then, 
 with another sigh, went on. 
 
 “You have probably entirely forgotten a con¬ 
 versation— (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 
 [ 54 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 lady I had once known, as resembling in some 
 measure, your sister Marianne.” 
 
 “Indeed,” answered Elinor, “I have not for¬ 
 gotten it.” He looked pleased by this remem¬ 
 brance, 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 unfortu¬ 
 nate. At seventeen she was lost to me for ever. 
 She was married—married against her inclina¬ 
 tion 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 
 
 [551 
 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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 situa¬ 
 tion, for she experienced great unkindness, over¬ 
 came all her resolution, and though she had prom¬ 
 ised me that nothing—but how blindly I relate! 
 I have never told you how this was brought on. 
 We were within a few hours of eloping together 
 for Scotland. The treachery, or the folly, of my 
 cousin’s maid betrayed us. I was banished to 
 the house of a relation far distant, and she was 
 allowed no liberty, no society, no amusement, till 
 my father’s point was gained. I had depended 
 on her fortitude too far, and the blow was a 
 severe one—but had her marriage been happy, 
 so young as I then was, a few months must have 
 reconciled me to it, or at least I should not have 
 now to lament it. This, however, was not the 
 case. My brother had no regard for her; his 
 pleasures were not what they ought to have been, 
 and from the first he treated her unkindly. The 
 consequence of this, upon a mind so young, so 
 lively, so inexperienced as Mrs Brandon’s, was 
 but too natural. She resigned herself at first to 
 all the misery of her situation; and happy had it 
 been if she had not lived to overcome those 
 regrets which the remembrance of me occasioned. 
 But can we wonder that with such a husband to 
 provoke inconstancy, and without a friend to 
 [ 56 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 advise or restrain her (for my father lived only 
 a few months after their marriage, and I was 
 with my regiment in the East Indies), she should 
 fall ? Had I remained in England, perhaps—but 
 I meant to promote the happiness of both by 
 removing from her for years, and for that pur¬ 
 pose 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. Eli¬ 
 nor, aff ected 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 mel¬ 
 ancholy. 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 ade- 
 
 . ' [ 57 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 quate to her fortune, nor sufficient for her com¬ 
 fortable 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 imme¬ 
 diate 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 suf¬ 
 fering 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 doated. What I endured 
 in so beholding her—but I have no right to wound 
 your feelings by attempting to describe it—I 
 have pained you too much already. That she 
 was, to all appearance, in the last stage of a con¬ 
 sumption, 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 attend¬ 
 ants; I visited her every day during the rest of 
 [ 58 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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 Dash wood—a subject such as this—un¬ 
 touched for fourteen years—it is dangerous to 
 handle it at all! I will be more collected—more 
 concise. She left to my care her only little child, 
 a little girl, the offspring of her first guilty con¬ 
 nection, 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 
 
 [ 59 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 brother (which happened about five years ago, 
 and which left me the possession of the family 
 property), she frequently visited me at Dela- 
 ford. 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 four¬ 
 teenth 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 sud¬ 
 denly disappeared. I had allowed her (impru¬ 
 dently, as it has since turned out), at her earnest 
 desire, to go to Bath with one of her young 
 friends, who was attending her father there for 
 his health. I knew him to be a very good sort of 
 man, and I thought well of his daughter—better 
 than she deserved, for, with a most obstinate and 
 ill-judged secrecy, she would tell nothing, would 
 give no clue, though she certainly knew all. He, 
 her father, a well-meaning, but not a quick- 
 sighted man, could really, I believe, give no infor¬ 
 mation; 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 
 [ 60 ] . . 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 convinced himself, of his daughter’s being en¬ 
 tirely unconcerned in the business. In short, I 
 could learn nothing but that she was gone; all the 
 rest, for eight long months, was left to con¬ 
 jecture. What I thought, what I feared, may be 
 imagined; and what I suffered too/’ 
 
 “Good heavens!” cried Elinor, “could it be! 
 could Willoughby—” 
 
 “The first news that reached me of her,” he 
 continued, “came in a letter from herself last 
 October. It was forwarded to me from Dela- 
 ford, 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 off ense 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 credit¬ 
 able home, no help, no friends, ignorant of his 
 address! He had left her, promising to return; 
 he neither returned, nor wrote, nor relieved her.” 
 
 [ 61 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 “This is beyond everything!” 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 de¬ 
 ceived; to see your sister—but what could I do? 
 I had no hope of interfering with success; and 
 sometimes I thought your sister’s influence might 
 yet reclaim him. But now, after such dishonour¬ 
 able 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 
 [ 62 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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 eff ect; but had I not seriously and 
 from my heart believed it might be of service, 
 might lessen her regrets, I would not have suf¬ 
 fered 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 grate¬ 
 ful earnestness; attended too with the assurance 
 of her expecting material advantage to Marianne, 
 from the communication of what had passed. 
 
 “I have been more pained,” said she, “by her 
 endeavours to acquit him than by all the rest; for 
 it irritates her mind more than the most perfect 
 conviction of his unworthiness can do. Now, 
 though at first she will suffer much, I am sure 
 she will soon become easier. Have you,” she con¬ 
 tinued, after a short silence, “ever seen Mr Wil¬ 
 loughby 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— 
 
 [ 63 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 “What! have you met him to—” 
 
 “I could meet him in no other way. Eliza had 
 confessed to me, though most reluctantly, the 
 name of her lover; and when he returned to town, 
 which was within a fortnight after myself, we 
 met by appointment, he to defend, I to punish 
 his conduct. We returned unwounded, and the 
 meeting, therefore, never got abroad.” 
 
 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. 
 
 [ 64 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII 
 
 W HEN the particulars of this conversa¬ 
 tion were repeated by Miss Dash wood 
 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 shew by her tears that she felt it 
 to be impossible. But though this behaviour 
 assured Elinor that the conviction of his guilt 
 was carried home to her mind; though she saw 
 with satisfaction the effect of it, in her no longer 
 avoiding Colonel Brandon when he called, in her 
 speaking to him, even voluntarily speaking, with 
 a kind of compassionate respect, and though she 
 saw her spirits less violently irritated than before; 
 she did not see her less wretched. Her mind did 
 become settled, but it was settled in a gloomy 
 dejection. She felt the loss of Willoughby’s 
 character yet more heavily than she had felt the 
 loss of his heart; his seduction and desertion of 
 Miss Williams, the misery of that poor girl, and 
 the doubt of what his designs might once have 
 been on herself, preyed altogether so much on her 
 
 [ 05 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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 Mari¬ 
 anne’s, and an indignation even greater than 
 Elinor’s. Long letters from her, quickly suc¬ 
 ceeding each other, arrived to tell all that she 
 suffered and thought; to express her anxious 
 solicitude for Marianne, and entreat she would 
 bear up with fortitude under this misfortune. 
 Bad indeed must the nature of Marianne’s afflic¬ 
 tion be, when her mother could talk of fortitude! 
 mortifying and humiliating must be the origin of 
 those regrets, which she could wish her not to 
 indulge! 
 
 Against the interest of her own individual com¬ 
 fort, Mrs Dashwood 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 recom- 
 [ 66 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 mended 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 pro¬ 
 cured 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 acquaint¬ 
 ance 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 Lon¬ 
 don than even in the retirement of Barton, 
 where it might force him before her while paying 
 that visit at Allenham on his marriage, which 
 Mrs Dash wood, from foreseeing at first as a 
 probable event, had brought herself to expect as 
 a certain one. 
 
 She had yet another reason for wishing her 
 children to remain where they were; a letter from 
 her son-in-law had told her that he and his wife 
 were to be in town before the middle of Febru- 
 
 [ 67 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 ary, 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 there¬ 
 fore without opposition, though it proved per¬ 
 fectly different from what she wished and ex¬ 
 pected, though she felt it to be entirely wrong, 
 formed on mistaken grounds, and that by requir¬ 
 ing her longer continuance in London it deprived 
 her of the only possible alleviation of her wretch¬ 
 edness, the personal sympathy of her mother, 
 and doomed her to such society and such scenes 
 as must prevent her ever knowing a moment’s 
 rest. 
 
 But it was a matter of great consolation to her, 
 that what brought evil to herself would bring 
 good to her sister; and Elinor, on the other hand, 
 suspecting that it would not be in her power 
 to avoid Edward entirely, comforted herself by 
 thinking, that though their longer stay would 
 therefore militate against her own happiness, it 
 would be better for Marianne than an immediate 
 return into Devonshire. 
 
 Her carefulness in guarding her sister from 
 ever hearing Willoughby’s name mentioned, was 
 not thrown away. Marianne, though without 
 knowing it herself, reaped all its advantage; for 
 neither Mrs Jennings, nor Sir John, nor even 
 Mrs Palmer herself, ever spoke of him before 
 [ 68 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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 Eng¬ 
 land! 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 men¬ 
 tion his name again, and she should tell every¬ 
 body she saw, how good-for-nothing he was.” 
 
 The rest of Mrs Palmer’s sympathy was shewn 
 
 [ 69 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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 Mid¬ 
 dleton on the occasion was a happy relief to Eli¬ 
 nor’s spirits, oppressed as they often were by 
 the clamorous kindness of the others. It was a 
 great comfort to her to be sure of exciting no 
 interest in one person at least among their circle 
 of friends; a great comfort to know that there 
 was one who would meet her without feeling any 
 curiosity after particulars, or any anxiety for her 
 sister’s health. 
 
 Every qualification is raised at times, by the 
 circumstances of the moment, to more than its 
 real value; and she was sometimes worried down 
 by officious condolence to rate good-breeding as 
 more indispensable to comfort than good-nature. 
 
 Lady Middleton expressed her sense of the 
 affair about once every day, or twice, if the sub¬ 
 ject occurred very often, by saying, “It is very 
 shocking indeed!” and by the means of this con¬ 
 tinual though gentle vent, was able not only to 
 see the Miss Dash woods from the first without 
 the smallest emotion, but very soon to see them 
 [TO] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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 Willoughby 
 would at once be a woman of elegance and for¬ 
 tune, to leave her card with her as soon as she 
 married. 
 
 Colonel Brandon’s delicate unobtrusive inqui¬ 
 ries were never unwelcome to Miss Dash wood. 
 He had abundantly earned the privilege of inti¬ 
 mate discussion of her sister’s disappointment, by 
 the friendly zeal with which he had endeavoured 
 to soften it, and they always conversed with con¬ 
 fidence. His chief reward for the painful exer¬ 
 tion of disclosing past sorrows and present 
 humiliations, was given in the pitying eye with 
 which Marianne sometimes observed him, and the 
 gentleness of her voice whenever (though it did 
 not often happen) she was obliged, or could 
 oblige herself to speak to him. These assured 
 him that his exertion had produced an increase of 
 good-will towards himself, and these gave Elinor 
 hopes of its being farther augmented hereafter; 
 but Mrs Jennings, who knew nothing of all this 
 —who knew only that the Colonel continued as 
 grave as ever, and that she could never prevail on 
 
 [W] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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 the 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, 
 [ 72 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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 Build¬ 
 ings, Holborn, presented themselves again before 
 their more grand relations in Conduit and Berke- 
 ley-street, and were welcomed by them all with 
 great cordiality. 
 
 Elinor only was sorry to see them. Their pres¬ 
 ence 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 I 
 always thought I should . I was almost sure you 
 would not leave London yet awhile; though you 
 told me, you know, at Barton, that you should 
 not stay above a month. But I thought, at the 
 time, that you would most likely change your 
 mind when it came to the point. It would have 
 been such a great pity to have went away before 
 your brother and sister came. And now, to be 
 sure, you will be in no hurry to be gone. I am 
 amazingly glad you did not keep to your word.” 
 
 Elinor perfectly understood her, and was 
 forced to use all her self-command to make it 
 appear that she did not. 
 
 [ 73 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 “Well, my dear,” said Mrs Jennings, “and how 
 did you travel?” 
 
 “Not in the stage, I assure you,” replied Miss 
 Steele, with quick exultation; “we came post all 
 the way, and had a very smart beau to attend us. 
 Dr Davies was coming to town, and so we 
 thought we’d join him in a post-chaise; and he 
 behaved very genteelly, and paid ten or twelve 
 shillings more than we did.” 
 
 “Oh, oh!” cried Mrs Jennings, “very pretty, 
 indeed! and the doctor is a single man, I warrant 
 you.” 
 
 “There now,” said Miss Steele, affectedly sim¬ 
 pering; “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. 
 
 [W] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 “I suppose you will go and stay with your 
 brother and sister, Miss Dashwood, when they 
 come to town,” said Lucy, returning, after a ces¬ 
 sation of hostile hints, to the charge. 
 
 “No, I do not think we shall.” 
 
 “Oh, yes, I dare say you will.” 
 
 Elinor would not humour her by farther oppo¬ 
 sition. 
 
 “What a charming thing it is that Mrs Dash- 
 wood can spare you both for so long a time 
 together!” 
 
 “Long a time, indeed!” interposed Mrs Jen¬ 
 nings. “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 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 pro¬ 
 posal. “Her sister was perhaps laid down upon 
 the bed, or in her dressing-gown, and therefore 
 not able to come to them.” 
 
 [ 75 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 “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 repri¬ 
 mand, which now, as on many occasions, though 
 it did not give much sweetness to the manners of 
 one sister, was of advantage in governing those 
 of the other. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII 
 
 A FTER 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 car¬ 
 rying 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 for them. 
 
 On ascending the stairs, the Miss Dashwoods 
 
 [* 6 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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 
 quickest succession; one gentleman only was 
 standing there, and it is probable that Elinor was 
 not without hope of exciting his politeness to a 
 quicker 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 tooth¬ 
 pick-case for himself, and till its size, shape, and 
 ornaments were determined—all of which, after 
 examining and debating for a quarter of an hour 
 over every toothpick-case in the shop, were finally 
 arranged by his own inventive fancy,—he had no 
 leisure to bestow any other attention on the two 
 ladies, than what was comprised in three or four 
 very broad stares; a kind of notice which served 
 to imprint on Elinor the remembrance of a per¬ 
 son and face of strong, natural, sterling insignifi¬ 
 cance, though adorned in the first style of fashion. 
 
 Marianne was spared from the troublesome 
 feelings of contempt and resentment, on this 
 impertinent examination of their features, and 
 on the puppyism of his manner in deciding on 
 all the different horrors of the different tooth- 
 pick-cases presented to his inspection, by remain¬ 
 ing unconscious of it all; for she was as well 
 
 m 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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 bed-room. 
 
 At last the affair was decided. The ivory, the 
 gold, and the pearls, all received their appoint¬ 
 ment, 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 an happy air of real 
 conceit and aff ected 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 yester¬ 
 day,” said he, “but it was impossible, for we were 
 obliged to take Harry to see the wild beasts at 
 [W] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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 shew 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 accommo¬ 
 dation that can serve to make your situation 
 pleasant, might be reasonably expected. And so 
 you are most comfortably settled in your little 
 cottage, and want for nothing. Edward brought 
 us a most charming account of the place; the 
 most complete thing of its kind, he said, that ever 
 was, and you all seemed to enjoy it beyond any- 
 
 [ 79 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 thing. It was a great satisfaction to us to hear 
 it, I assure you.” 
 
 Elinor did feel a little ashamed of her brother; 
 and was not sorry to be spared the necessity of 
 answering him, by the arrival of Mrs Jennings’s 
 servant, who came to tell her that his mistress 
 waited for them at the door. 
 
 Mr Dashwood attended them down stairs, was 
 introduced to Mrs Jennings at the door of her 
 carriage, and repeating his hope of being able to 
 call on them the next day, took leave. 
 
 His visit was duly paid. He came with a pre¬ 
 tence at an apology from their sister-in-law, for 
 not coming too; “but she was so much engaged 
 with her mother, that really she’had no leisure for 
 going 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 Jen¬ 
 nings, 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 
 [ 80 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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 Dorset¬ 
 shire.” 
 
 “I am glad of it. He seems a most gentleman¬ 
 like man, and I think, Elinor, I may congratulate 
 you on the prospect of a very respectable estab¬ 
 lishment in life.” 
 
 “Me, brother—what do you mean?” 
 
 “He likes you. I observed him narrowly, and 
 am convinced of it. What is the amount of his 
 fortune?” 
 
 “I believe about two thousand a-year.” 
 
 “Two thousand a-year;” and then working 
 himself up to a pitch of enthusiastic generosity, 
 he added: 
 
 “Elinor, I wish with all my heart it were twice 
 as much, for your sake.” 
 
 “Indeed I believe you,” replied Elinor, “but I 
 am very sure that Colonel Brandon has not the 
 smallest wish of marrying me .” 
 
 “You are mistaken, Elinor; you are very much 
 mistaken. A very little trouble on your side 
 secures him. Perhaps just at present he may 
 be undecided; the smallness of your fortune may 
 
 [ 81 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 make him hang back; his friends may all advise 
 him against it. But some of those little atten¬ 
 tions 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 civil¬ 
 ity shall be wanting on my part, to make him 
 pleased with you and your family. It is a match 
 that must give universal satisfaction. In short, 
 it is a kind of thing that”—lowering his voice to 
 an important whisper—“will be exceedingly wel¬ 
 come to all parties .” Recollecting himself, how¬ 
 ever, he added, “That is, I mean to say—your 
 friends are all truly anxious to see you well set¬ 
 tled, Fanny particularly, for she has your inter¬ 
 est 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 pleas¬ 
 ure, 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.” 
 
 [ 82 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 “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 
 thousand a-year is a great deal for a mother to 
 give away, to make over for ever; but Mrs Fer¬ 
 rars has a noble spirit. To give you another in¬ 
 stance of her liberality:—The other day, as soon 
 as we came to town, aware that money could not 
 be very plenty with us just now, she put bank¬ 
 notes into Fanny’s hands to the amount of two 
 hundred pounds. And extremely acceptable it is, 
 for we must live at a great expense while we are 
 here.” 
 
 He paused for her assent and compassion; and 
 she forced herself to say— 
 
 “Your expenses both in town and country must 
 certainly be considerable, but your income is a 
 large one.” 
 
 “Not so large, I dare say, as many people sup¬ 
 pose. I do not mean to complain, however; it 
 is undoubtedly a comfortable one, and, I hope, 
 
 [ 83 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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, for more than I gave: but 
 with regard to the purchase-money, I might have 
 been very unfortunate indeed; for the stocks were 
 at that time so low, that if I had not happened 
 to have the necessary sum in my banker’s hands, 
 I must have sold out to very great loss.” 
 
 Elinor could only smile. 
 
 “Other great and inevitable expenses too we 
 have had on first coming to Norland. Our re¬ 
 spected 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 undoubted right to dispose of his own 
 [ 84 ] 
 
 *— <?** .... • 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY* 
 
 property as he chose. But, in consequence of it, 
 we have been obliged to make large purchases of 
 linen, china, &c., to supply the place of what was 
 taken away. You may guess, after all these ex¬ 
 penses, 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 her¬ 
 self, 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 earrings for each of his sisters, in his next 
 
 [ 85 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 visit at Gray’s, his thoughts took a cheerfuller 
 turn, and he began to congratulate Elinor on 
 having such a friend as Mrs Jennings. 
 
 “She seems a most valuable woman indeed. 
 Her house, her style of living, all bespeak an 
 exceeding good income, and it is an acquaintance 
 that has not only been of great use to you hith¬ 
 erto, but in the end may prove materially advan¬ 
 tageous. 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 mar¬ 
 ried, and therefore I cannot perceive the necessity 
 of her remembering them farther. Whereas, in 
 my opinion, by her taking so much notice of you, 
 and treating you in this kind of way, she has 
 given you a sort of claim on her future considera¬ 
 tion, which a conscientious woman would not dis- 
 [ 86 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 regard. Nothing can be kinder than her beha¬ 
 viour; 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.” 
 
 “Why to be sure,” said he, seeming to recollect 
 himself, “people have little, have very little in 
 their power. But, my dear Elinor, what is the 
 matter with Marianne?—she looks very unwell, 
 has lost her colour, and is grown quite thin. Is 
 she ill?” 
 
 “She is not well, she has had a nervous com¬ 
 plaint on her for several weeks.” 
 
 “I am sorry for that. At her time of life, any¬ 
 thing of an illness destroys the bloom for ever! 
 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 exceedingly fond of you —but 
 so it happened to strike her. She will be mis¬ 
 taken, 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. Dorset¬ 
 shire! I know very little of Dorsetshire, but, my 
 
 [ 87 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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 compunc¬ 
 tion enough for having done nothing for his sis¬ 
 ters 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 Mid¬ 
 dleton 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 Middle- 
 ton 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 sis- 
 [ 88 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 ter. “Lady Middleton is really a most elegant 
 woman! such a woman as I am sure Fanny will 
 be glad to know. And Mrs Jennings too, an 
 exceeding well-behaved woman, though not so 
 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 Fer- 
 rars were both strongly prepossessed that neither 
 she nor her daughters were such kind of women 
 as Fanny would like to associate with. But now 
 I can carry her a most satisfactory account of 
 both.” 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV 
 
 M RS JOHN DASHWOOD had so much 
 confidence in her husband’s judgment, 
 that she waited the very next day both 
 on Mrs Jennings and her daughter; and her con¬ 
 fidence was rewarded by finding even the former, 
 even the woman with whom her sisters were stay¬ 
 ing, by no means unworthy her notice; and as 
 for Lady Middleton, she found her one of the 
 most charming women in the world! 
 
 Lady Middleton was equally pleased with Mrs 
 
 [ 89 ] . 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 Dashwood. There was a kind of cold-hearted 
 selfishness on both sides, which mutually attracted 
 them; and they sympathised with each other in an 
 insipid propriety of demeanour, and a general 
 want of understanding. 
 
 The same manners, however, which recom¬ 
 mended 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 un¬ 
 cordial address, who met her husband’s sisters 
 without any aff ection, and almost without having 
 anything to say to them; for of the quarter of an 
 hour bestowed on Berkeley-street, she sat at least 
 seven minutes and a half in silence. 
 
 Elinor wanted very much to know, though she 
 did not chuse 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 Mor¬ 
 ton was resolved on, or till her husband’s expecta¬ 
 tions on Colonel Brandon were answered; because 
 she believed them still so very much attached to 
 each other, that they could not be too sedulously 
 divided in word and deed on every occasion. The 
 intelligence, however, which she would not give, 
 soon flowed from another quarter. Lucy came 
 very shortly to claim Elinor’s compassion on 
 being unable to see Edward, though he had ar- 
 [ 90 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 rived in town with Mr and Mrs Dashwood. He 
 dared not come to Bartlett’s Buildings for fear 
 of detection, and though their mutual impatience 
 to meet was not to be told, they could do nothing 
 at present but write. 
 
 Edward assured them himself of his being in 
 town, within a very short time, by twice calling 
 in Berkeley-street. Twice was his card found on 
 the table, when they returned from their morn¬ 
 ing’s engagements. Elinor was pleased that he 
 had called, and still more pleased that she had 
 missed him. 
 
 The Dash woods were so prodigiously delighted 
 with the Middletons that though not much in the 
 habit of giving anything, they determined to give 
 them a dinner, and soon after their acquaintance 
 began, invited them to dine in Harley-street, 
 where they had taken a very good house for three 
 months. Their sisters and Mrs Jennings were 
 invited likewise, and John Dashwood was careful 
 to secure Colonel Brandon, who, always glad to 
 be where the Miss Dashwoods were, received his 
 eager civilities with some surprise, but much more 
 pleasure. They were to meet Mrs Ferrars; but 
 Elinor could not learn whether her sons were to 
 be of the party. The expectation of seeing her , 
 however, was enough to make her interested in 
 the engagement; for though she could now meet 
 Edward’s mother without that strong anxiety 
 
 [ 91 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 which had once promised to attend such an intro*' 
 duction, though she could now see her with per¬ 
 fect indifference, as to her opinion of herself, her 
 desire of being in company with Mrs Ferrars, her 
 curiosity to know what she was like, was as lively 
 as ever. 
 
 The interest with which she thus anticipated 
 the party, was soon afterwards increased, more 
 powerfully than pleasantly, by her hearing that 
 the Miss Steeles were also to be at it. 
 
 So well had they recommended themselves to 
 Lady Middleton, so agreeable had their assidui¬ 
 ties made them to her, that though Lucy was cer¬ 
 tainly not elegant, and her sister not even gen¬ 
 teel, 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’ invita¬ 
 tion was known, that their visit should begin a 
 few days before the party took place. 
 
 Their claims to the notice of Mrs John Dash- 
 wood, as the nieces of the gentleman who for 
 many years had had the care of her brother, 
 might not have done much, however, towards pro¬ 
 curing them seats at her table; but as Lady Mid¬ 
 dleton’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 char¬ 
 acters and her own difficulties, and to have an 
 [ 92 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 opportunity of endeavouring to please them, had 
 seldom been happier in her life than she was on 
 receiving Mrs John Dashwood’s card. 
 
 On Elinor its effect was very different. She 
 began immediately to determine that Edward, 
 who lived with his mother, must be asked, as his 
 mother was, to a party given by his sister; and to 
 see him for the first time, after all that [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 dis¬ 
 appointment when she told her that Edward cer¬ 
 tainly would not be in Harley-street on Tuesday, 
 and even hoped to be carrying the pain still 
 farther by 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 intro¬ 
 duce 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 Mid¬ 
 dletons arrived so directly after Mrs Jennings, 
 that they all followed the servant at the same 
 time—“There is nobody here but you, that can 
 
 [ 93 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 f eel for me. I declare I can hardly stand. Good 
 gracious!—In a moment I shall see the person 
 that all my happiness depends on—that is to be 
 my mother!”— 
 
 Elinor could have given her immediate relief 
 by suggesting the possibility of its being Miss 
 Morton’s mother, rather than her own, whom they 
 were about to behold; but instead of doing that, 
 she assured her, and with great sincerity, that she 
 did pity her,—to the utter amazement of Lucy, 
 who, though really uncomfortable herself, hoped 
 at least to be an object of irrepressible envy to 
 Elinor. 
 
 Mrs Ferrars was a little, thin woman, upright, 
 even to formality, in her figure, and serious, even 
 to sourness, in her aspect. Her complexion was 
 sallow: and her features small, without beauty, 
 and naturally without expression: but a lucky 
 contraction of the brow had rescued her coun¬ 
 tenance 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, un¬ 
 like 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 
 [ 94 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 hurt her exceedingly; but it was not in Mrs Fer- 
 rars’s power to distress her by it now; and the dif¬ 
 ference 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 de¬ 
 spising them all four. 
 
 Lucy was all exultation on being so honourably 
 distinguished; and Miss Steele wanted only to be 
 teazed about Dr Davi[e]s to be perfectly happy. 
 
 The dinner was a grand one, the servants were 
 numerous, and everything bespoke the Mistress’s 
 inclination for shew, 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 
 
 [«] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 that indigence which he had tried to infer from it; 
 no poverty of any kind, except of conversation, 
 appeared—but there the deficiency was consider¬ 
 able. John Dash wood had not much to say for 
 himself that was worth hearing, and his wife had 
 still less. But there was no peculiar disgrace in 
 this, for it was very much the case with the chief 
 of their visitors, who almost all laboured under 
 one or other of these disqualifications 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 evi¬ 
 dent, for the gentlemen had supplied the dis¬ 
 course 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 coff ee came in, which was the compara¬ 
 tive heights of Harry Dashwood, and Lady Mid¬ 
 dleton’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 meas¬ 
 uring them at once; but as Harry only was pres¬ 
 ent, 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. 
 
 [ 96 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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 sup¬ 
 port 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 differ¬ 
 ence 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 Fer- 
 rars, and Fanny still more, did not see the neces¬ 
 sity of enforcing it by any farther 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 
 Dash wood on his following the other gentlemen 
 into the room, were officiously handed by him to 
 Colonel Brandon for his admiration. 
 
 [ 97 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 “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 general reckoned to draw 
 extremely well.” 
 
 The Colonel, though disclaiming all preten¬ 
 sions 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 Mid¬ 
 dleton’s approbation, Fanny presented them to 
 her mother, considerately informing her at the 
 same time that they were done by Miss Dash- 
 wood. 
 
 “Hum”—said Mrs Ferrars—“very pretty,”— 
 and without regarding them at all, returned them 
 to her daughter. 
 
 Perhaps Fanny thought for a moment that her 
 mother had been quite rude enough,—for, col¬ 
 ouring 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, 
 
 [ 98 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 “Do you not think they are something in Miss 
 Morton’s style of painting, ma’am? She does 
 paint most delightfully. How beautifully her 
 last landscape is done!” 
 
 “Beautifully indeed. But she does 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 prin¬ 
 cipally meant by it, provoked her immediately to 
 say with warmth, 
 
 “This is admiration of a very particular kind! 
 What is Miss Morton to us? Who knows or who 
 cares for her? It is Elinor of whom we think 
 and speak.” 
 
 And so saying, she took the screens out of her 
 sister-in-law’s hands to admire them herself as 
 they ought to be admired. 
 
 Mrs Ferrars looked exceedingly angry, and 
 drawing herself up more stiffly than ever, pro¬ 
 nounced 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 
 
 [ 99 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 in it; the affectionate heart which could not bear 
 to see a sister slighted in the smallest point. 
 
 Marianne’s feelings did not stop here. The 
 cold insolence of Mrs Ferrars’s general behaviour 
 to her sister, seemed, to her, to foretel such diffi¬ 
 culties and distresses to Elinor, as her own 
 wounded heart taught her to think of with horror; 
 and urged by a strong impulse of affectionate 
 sensibility, she moved, after a moment, to her 
 sister’s chair, and putting one arm round her neck, 
 and one cheek close to hers, said in a low, but 
 eager voice: 
 
 “Dear, dear Elinor, don’t mind them. Don’t 
 let them make you unhappy.” 
 
 She could say no more; her spirits were quite 
 overcome, and hiding her face on Elinor’s shoul¬ 
 der, she burst into tears. Everybody’s attention 
 was called, and almost everybody was concerned. 
 Colonel Brandon rose up and went to them with¬ 
 out knowing what he did. Mrs Jennings, with 
 a very intelligent “Ah! poor dear,” immediately 
 gave her her salts; and Sir John felt so desper¬ 
 ately enraged against the author of this nervous 
 distress, that he instantly changed his seat to one 
 close by Lucy Steele, and gave her, in a whisper, 
 a brief account of the whole shocking affair. 
 
 In a few minutes, however, Marianne was re¬ 
 covered enough to put an end to the bustle, and 
 sit down among the rest; though her spirits re- 
 [ 100 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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 Eli¬ 
 nor’s constitution; and one must allow that there 
 is something very trying to a young woman who 
 has been a beauty, in the loss of her personal 
 attractions. You would not think it perhaps, but 
 Marianne was remarkably handsome a few 
 months ago—quite as handsome as Elinor. Now 
 you see it is all gone.” 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV 
 
 E LINOR’S curiosity to see Mrs Ferrars was 
 satisfied. She had found in her every¬ 
 thing that could tend to make a farther 
 connection between the f amilies undesirable. She 
 had seen enough of her pride, her meanness, and 
 her determined prejudice against herself, to 
 comprehend all the difficulties that must have per¬ 
 plexed the engagement, and retarded the mar¬ 
 riage of Edward and herself, had he been other¬ 
 wise free; and she had seen almost enough to be 
 thankful for her own sake, that one greater 
 
 [ 101 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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 deter¬ 
 mined, 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 Fer- 
 rars; 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 pref¬ 
 erence 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 Mid¬ 
 dleton 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. 
 
 4 ‘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 
 [ 102 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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 behaviour as really should 
 seem to say, she had quite took a fancy to me. 
 Now was not it so? You saw it all; and was not 
 you quite struck with it?” 
 
 “She was certainly very civil to you.” 
 
 “Civil!—Did you see nothing but only civility? 
 I saw a vast deal more—such kindness as fell to 
 the share of nobody but me! No pride, no 
 hauteur, and your sister just the same—all sweet¬ 
 ness 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 en¬ 
 gagement,” said she, “nothing could be more flat¬ 
 tering 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 diffi¬ 
 culties at all, to what I used to think. Mrs Fer- 
 
 [ 103 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 rars is a charming woman, and so is your sister. 
 They are both delightful women indeed!—I 
 wonder I should never hear you say how agree¬ 
 able Mrs Dash wood was !” 
 
 To this Elinor had no answer to make, and did 
 not attempt any. 
 
 “Are you ill, Miss Dash wood?—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 sat¬ 
 isfy Lucy, for she directly replied: 
 
 “Indeed I am perfectly convinced of your re¬ 
 gard 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 Middle¬ 
 ton’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 charm- 
 [ 104 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 ing women!—I am sure if ever you tell your sis¬ 
 ter what I think of her, you cannot speak too 
 high.” 
 
 But Elinor would not give her any encourage¬ 
 ment 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 the door’s being thrown 
 open, the servant’s announcing Mr Ferrars, and 
 Edward’s immediately walking in. 
 
 It was a very awkward moment; and the coun¬ 
 tenance of each shewed that it was so. They all 
 looked exceedingly foolish; and Edward seemed 
 to have as great an inclination to walk out of the 
 room again, as to advance farther into it. The 
 very circumstance, in its unpleasantest form, 
 which they would each have been most anxious to 
 avoid, had fallen on them—they were not only 
 all three together, but were together without the 
 
 [ 105 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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 there¬ 
 fore 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 recollec¬ 
 tion, 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 re¬ 
 gretted 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 per¬ 
 ceived them to be narrowly 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; f or 
 his heart had not the indifference of Lucy’s, nor 
 could his conscience have quite the ease of 
 Elinor’s. 
 
 [ 106 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 Lucy, with a demure and settled air, seemed 
 determined to make no contribution to the com¬ 
 fort 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 infor¬ 
 mation about her mother’s health, their coming to 
 town, &c., which Edward ought to have inquired 
 about, but never did. 
 
 Her exertions did not stop here; for she soon 
 afterwards felt herself so heroically disposed as 
 to determine, under pretence of fetching Mari¬ 
 anne, 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 land¬ 
 ing place, with the most high-minded fortitude, 
 before she went to her sister. When that was 
 once done, however, it was time for the raptures 
 of Edward to cease; for Marianne’s joy hurried 
 her into the drawing-room immediately. Her 
 pleasure in seeing him was like every other of her 
 feelings, strong in itself and strongly spoken. 
 She met him with a hand that would be taken, and 
 a voice that expressed the aff ection 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 de¬ 
 served, but before such witnesses he dared not 
 say half what he really felt. Again they all sat 
 
 r 107] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 down, and for a moment or two all were silent; 
 while Marianne was looking with the most speak¬ 
 ing tenderness, sometimes at Edward and some¬ 
 times at Elinor, regretting only that their delight 
 in each other should be checked by Lucy’s unwel¬ 
 come presence. Edward was the first to speak, 
 and it was to notice Marianne’s altered looks, and 
 express his f ear of her not finding London agree 
 with her. 
 
 “Oh! don’t think of me!” she replied, with 
 spirited earnestness, though her eyes were filled 
 with tears as she spoke, “don’t think of my 
 health. Elinor is well, you see. That must be 
 enough for us both.” 
 
 This remark was not calculated to make 
 Edward or Elinor more easy, nor to conciliate the 
 good-will of Lucy, who looked up at Marianne 
 with no very benignant expression. 
 
 “Do you like London?” said Edward, willing 
 to say 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, 
 [ 108 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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 some¬ 
 thing 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, 
 
 [ 109 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 “Not so, indeed; for seriously speaking, I am 
 very sure that conscience only kept Edward from 
 Harley-street. And I really believe he has the 
 most delicate conscience in the world; the most 
 scrupulous in performing every engagement, 
 however minute, and however it may make 
 against his interest or pleasure. He is the most 
 fearful of giving pain, of wounding expectation, 
 and the most incapable of being selfish of any¬ 
 body I ever saw. Edward, it is so, and I will say 
 it. What! are you never to hear yourself praised? 
 Then you must be no friend of mine; for those 
 who will accept of my love and esteem, must sub¬ 
 mit to my open commendation.” 
 
 The nature of her commendation in the present 
 case, however, happened to be particularly ill- 
 suited to the feelings of two-thirds of her audi¬ 
 tors, 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 outstaid 
 him had his visit lasted two hours, soon afterwards 
 went away. 
 
 “What can bring her here so often!” said Mari¬ 
 anne, on her leaving them. “Could she not see 
 [ 110 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 that we wanted her gone! How teazing to 
 Edward!” 
 
 “How so?—we were all his friends, and Lucy 
 has been the longest known to him of any. It is 
 but natural that he should like to see her as well 
 as ourselves.” 
 
 Marianne looked at her steadily, and said, 
 “You know, Elinor, that this is a kind of talking 
 which I cannot bear. If you only hope to have 
 your assertion contradicted, as I must suppose 
 to be the case, you ought to recollect that I am 
 the last person in the world to do it. I cannot 
 descend to be tricked out of assurances that are 
 not really wanted.” 
 
 She then left the room; and Elinor dared not 
 follow her to say more, for bound as she was by 
 her promise of secrecy to Lucy, she could give no 
 information that would convince Marianne; and 
 painful as the consequences of her still continu¬ 
 ing in an error might be, she was obliged to sub¬ 
 mit 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 meet¬ 
 ing—and this she had every reason to expect. 
 
 [Ill] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI 
 
 W ITHIN 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 para¬ 
 graph, at least to all those intimate connections 
 who knew it before. 
 
 This event, highly important to Mrs Jennings’s 
 happiness, produced a temporary alteration in 
 the disposal of her time, and influenced in a like 
 degree the engagements of her young friends; 
 for as she wished to be as much as possible with 
 Charlotte, she went thither every morning as soon 
 as she was dressed, and did not return till late in 
 the evening; and the Miss Dashwoods, at the par¬ 
 ticular 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 com¬ 
 panions to the former; and by the latter they were 
 [ 112 ] 
 
 i; • ,, '«HnH 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 considered with a jealous eye, as intruding on 
 their ground, and sharing the kindness which they 
 wanted to monopolize. Though nothing could be 
 more polite than Lady Middleton’s behaviour to 
 Elinor and Marianne, she did not really like them 
 at all. Because they neither flattered herself nor 
 her children, she could not believe them good- 
 natured; and because they were fond of reading, 
 she fancied them satirical: perhaps without ex¬ 
 actly 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 sis- 
 
 [ 113 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 ter to Elinor, and more than once dropt a reflec¬ 
 tion on the inconstancy of beaux before Mari¬ 
 anne, no effect was produced, but a look of indif¬ 
 ference 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 unsuspected by Mrs Jennings, 
 that she thought it a delightful thing for the girls 
 to be together; and generally congratulated her 
 young friends every night, on having escaped the 
 company of a stupid old woman so long. She 
 joined them sometimes at Sir John’s, and some¬ 
 times at her own house; but wherever it was, she 
 always came in excellent spirits, full of delight 
 and importance, attributing Charlotte’s well¬ 
 doing to her own care, and ready to give so exact, 
 so minute a detail of her situation, as only Miss 
 Steele had curiosity enough to desire. One thing 
 did disturb her; and of that she made her daily 
 complaint. Mr Palmer maintained the common, 
 but unfatherly opinion among his sex, of all 
 infants being alike; and though she could plainly 
 [ 114 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 perceive at different times the most striking re¬ 
 semblance 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 Dash wood. 
 It so happened that while her two sisters with 
 Mrs Jennings were first calling on her in Harley- 
 street, another of her acquaintance had dropt in 
 —a circumstance in itself not apparently likely 
 to produce evil to her. But while the imagina¬ 
 tions of other people will carry them away to 
 form wrong judgments of our conduct, and to 
 decide on it by slight appearances, one’s happi¬ 
 ness 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 Dash wood’s sisters, she immedi¬ 
 ately 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 narty at her house. The conse- 
 
 [ 115 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 quence of which was, that Mrs John Dash wood 
 was obliged to submit not only to the exceedingly 
 great inconvenience of sending her carriage for 
 the Miss Dashwoods, but, what was still worse, 
 must be subject to all the unpleasantness of ap¬ 
 pearing 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 disap¬ 
 pointing 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 anything 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 engage¬ 
 ment, though without expecting the smallest 
 amusement from any, and very often without 
 knowing till the last moment where it was to take 
 her. 
 
 To her dress and appearance she was grown so 
 perfectly indifferent, as not to bestow half the 
 consideration on it, during the whole of her 
 toilette, which it received from Miss Steele in the 
 first five minutes of their being together, when it 
 was finished. Nothing escaped her minute obser¬ 
 vation and general curiosity; she saw everything, 
 [ 116 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY* 
 
 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 con¬ 
 cluded with a compliment, which though meant as 
 its douceur, was considered by Marianne as the 
 greatest impertinence of all; for after undergo¬ 
 ing an examination into the value and make of 
 her gown, the colour of her shoes, and the ar¬ 
 rangement 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 dis¬ 
 missed on the present occasion to her brother’s 
 carriage; which they were ready to enter five min¬ 
 utes after it stopped at the door, a punctuality not 
 very agreeable to their sister-in-law, who had pre¬ 
 ceded them to the house of her acquaintance, and 
 was there hoping for some delay on their part that 
 might inconvenience either herself or her coach¬ 
 man. 
 
 The events of the evening were not very re¬ 
 markable. The party, like other musical par- 
 
 til?] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 ties, 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 pri¬ 
 vate performers in England. 
 
 As Elinor was neither musical, nor aff ecting 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 finish- 
 [ 118 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 ing stroke to what the ill-humour of his mother 
 and sister would have begun. But while she won¬ 
 dered 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 mod¬ 
 esty and worth of the other. Why they were dif¬ 
 ferent, Robert explained to her himself in the 
 course 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 in proper society, he candidly and gener¬ 
 ously attributed it much less to any natural de¬ 
 ficiency, than to the misfortune of a private edu¬ 
 cation; while he himself, though probably with¬ 
 out any particular, 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 noth¬ 
 ing 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, and it has been 
 entirely your own doing. Why would you be per¬ 
 suaded 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 
 
 [ 119 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 this would have been prevented.’ This is the way 
 in which I always consider the matter, and my 
 mother is perfectly convinced of her error.” 
 
 Elinor would not oppose his 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 Daw¬ 
 lish. He bestowed his hearty approbation, how¬ 
 ever, on their species of house. 
 
 “For my own part,” said he, “I am excessively 
 fond of a cottage; there is always so much com¬ 
 fort, so much elegance about them. And I pro¬ 
 test, 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 pur¬ 
 pose 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 
 [ 120 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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. It was last month at my friend 
 Elliott’s near Dartford. 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 man¬ 
 aged. There is not a room in this cottage that 
 will hold ten couple, and where can the supper 
 be?’ I 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 couple, and the affair was arranged pre¬ 
 cisely 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 Dash wood had no more pleasure in 
 music than his eldest sister, his mind was equally 
 at liberty to fix on anything else; and a thought 
 
 [ 121 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 struck him during the evening, which he com¬ 
 municated to his wife, for her approbation when 
 they got home. The consideration of Mrs Den¬ 
 nison’s mistake, in supposing his sisters their 
 guests, had suggested the propriety of their being 
 really invited to become such, while Mrs Jen¬ 
 nings’s engagements kept her from home. The 
 expense would be nothing, the inconvenience not 
 more; and it was altogether an attention which 
 the delicacy of his conscience pointed out to be 
 requisite to its complete enfranchisement 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 everyday 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 shews. 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— 
 
 [ 122 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 “My love, I would ask them with all my heart, 
 if it was in my power. But I had just settled 
 within myself to ask the Miss Steeles to spend a 
 few days with us. They are very well-behaved, 
 good kind of girls; and I think the attention is 
 due to them, as their uncle did so very well by 
 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 immedi¬ 
 ately, and his conscience was pacified by the reso¬ 
 lution of inviting his sisters another year; at the 
 same time, however, slyly suspecting that another 
 year would make the invitation needless by bring¬ 
 ing 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 procured 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, cherishing all her hopes, and pro¬ 
 moting all her views! Such an opportunity of 
 
 [ 123 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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 grate¬ 
 fully acknowledged, nor too speedily made use 
 of; and the visit to Lady Middleton, which had 
 not before had any precise limits, was instantly 
 discovered to have been always meant to end in 
 two days’ time. 
 
 When the note was shewn to 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, by time and ad¬ 
 dress, 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 Dash wood; 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 
 [ 124 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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 XXXVII 
 
 M RS PALMER was so well at the end of 
 a fortnight, that her mother felt it no 
 longer necessary to give up the whole of 
 her time to her; and contenting herself with vis¬ 
 iting her once or twice a day, returned from that 
 period to her own home, and her own 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 Jen¬ 
 nings, on returning from her ordinary visit to 
 Mrs Palmer, entered the drawing-room, where 
 Elinor was sitting by herself, 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?” 
 
 [ 125 ] 
 
 “>•*4 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 “No, ma’am. What is it?” 
 
 “Something so strange! But you shall hear it 
 all. When I got to Mr Palmer’s, I found Char¬ 
 lotte 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 noth¬ 
 ing in the world but the red-gum, and then Char¬ 
 lotte 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 indispo¬ 
 sition, I think it advisable to say, that I believe 
 there is no great reason for alarm; I hope Mrs 
 Dashwood will do very well.’ ” 
 
 “What! is Fanny ill?” 
 
 “That is exactly what I said, my dear. ‘Lord!’ 
 says I, ‘is Mrs Dashwood ill?’ So then it all came 
 [ 126 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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, popt 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 before, that she 
 thought to make a match between Edward and 
 some lord’s daughter or other, I forget who. So 
 
 [ 127 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 you may think what a blow it was to all her vanity 
 and pride. She fell into violent hysterics imme¬ 
 diately, with such screams as reached your 
 brother’s ears, as he was sitting in his own dress¬ 
 ing-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 dream¬ 
 ing 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 de¬ 
 clared 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 fright¬ 
 ened that he would send for Mr Donavan, and 
 Mr Donavan found the house in all this uproar. 
 The carriage 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 
 [ 128 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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 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 of them. I have no 
 notion 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.” 
 
 [ 129 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 Here Mrs Jennings ceased, and as Elinor had 
 had time enough to collect her thoughts, she was 
 able to give such an answer, and make such ob¬ 
 servations, as the subject might naturally be sup¬ 
 posed to produce.—Happy to find that she was 
 not suspected of any 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 em¬ 
 barrassment, 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 ex¬ 
 pectation of its event really was;—though she 
 earnestly tried to drive away the notion of its 
 being possible to end otherwise at last, than in the 
 marriage of Edward and Lucy. What Mrs Fer- 
 rars wx>uld 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 com¬ 
 passion;—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 sub¬ 
 ject, Elinor soon saw the necessity of preparing 
 Marianne for its discussion.—No time was to be 
 11301 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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 betray¬ 
 ing 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 particu¬ 
 lars of Edward, as she feared would ruin him for 
 ever in her good opinion,—and to make Mari¬ 
 anne, by a resemblance in their situations, which 
 to her fancy would seem strong, feel all her own 
 disappointment over again. But unwelcome 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 engagement, might suggest a hint of 
 what was practicable to Marianne. Her narra¬ 
 tion was clear and simple; and though, it could 
 not be given without emotion, it was not accom¬ 
 panied by violent agitation, nor impetuous grief. 
 —That belonged rather to the hearer, for Mari¬ 
 anne 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 
 
 [ 131 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 own composure of mind, and a very earnest vin¬ 
 dication of Edward from every charge but of 
 imprudence, was readily off ered. 
 
 But Marianne for some time would give credit 
 to neither. Edward seemed a second Wil¬ 
 loughby; and acknowledging as Elinor did, that 
 she had loved him most sincerely, could she feel 
 less than herself! As for Lucy Steele, she con¬ 
 sidered her so totally unamiable, so absolutely 
 incapable of attaching a sensible man, that she 
 could not be persuaded at first to believe, 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 con¬ 
 vinced 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 sooth her distress, lessen her 
 alarms, and combat her resentment. The first 
 question on her side, which led to farther particu¬ 
 lars, 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.” 
 
 [ 132 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY, 
 
 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 re¬ 
 proached 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 sup¬ 
 ported?” 
 
 “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 your¬ 
 self and my mother,” added Elinor; “and once or 
 twice I have attempted it;—but without betray¬ 
 ing 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 I felt. 
 
 [ 133 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 Now, I can think and speak of it with little emo¬ 
 tion. I would not have you suff er 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 disap¬ 
 pointment by any imprudence of my own, and I 
 have borne it as much as possible without spread¬ 
 ing 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, Marianne, after all 
 that is bewitching in the idea of a single and con¬ 
 stant attachment, 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 pos¬ 
 sible 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 Mari¬ 
 anne, “if the loss of what is most valued is so 
 easily to be made up by something else, your reso¬ 
 lution, your self-command, are perhaps a little 
 less to be wondered at. They are brought more 
 within my comprehension.” 
 
 [ 134 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 “I understand you. You do not suppose that 
 I have ever felt much. For four months, Mari¬ 
 anne, 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 ex¬ 
 plained 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 per¬ 
 son’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 exulta¬ 
 tion to listen to again and again. I have known 
 myself to be divided from Edward for ever, with¬ 
 out hearing one circumstance that could make 
 me less desire the connection. Nothing has proved 
 him unworthy; nor has anything declared him 
 indiff erent 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 unhap¬ 
 piness. If you can think me capable of ever feel¬ 
 ing—surely you may suppose that I have suf¬ 
 fered now . The composure of mind with which 
 
 [ 135 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 I have brought myself at present to consider the 
 matter, the consolation 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 shewing that I 
 was very unhappy.” 
 
 Marianne was quite subdued. 
 
 “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 com¬ 
 fort, 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, Mari¬ 
 anne engaged never to speak of the aff air to any 
 one with the least appearance of bitterness;—to 
 meet Lucy without betraying the smallest in¬ 
 crease of dislike to her;—and even to see Edward 
 himself, if chance should bring them together, 
 without any diminution of her usual cordiality. 
 
 [ 136 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 These were great concessions, but where Mari¬ 
 anne 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 Jen¬ 
 nings had to say upon the subject with an un¬ 
 changing complexion, dissented from her in noth¬ 
 ing, 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 ad¬ 
 vances towards heroism in her sister, made Eli¬ 
 nor feel equal to anything herself. 
 
 The next morning brought a farther 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 with¬ 
 out our being, any of us, quite overcome. Poor 
 
 [ 137 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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 shewn, 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 de¬ 
 served some attention, were harmless, well-be¬ 
 haved girls, and would be pleasant companions; 
 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 daugh¬ 
 ter. And now to be so rewarded! T wish with all 
 my heart/ says poor Fanny in her affectionate 
 way, ‘that we had asked your sisters instead 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 aff ection had been plan¬ 
 ning a most eligible connection for him, was it to 
 be supposed that he could be all the time secretly 
 [ 138 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 engaged to another person!—such a suspicion 
 could never have entered her head! If she sus¬ 
 pected any prepossession elsewhere, it could not 
 be in that quarter. 'There, to be sure,’ said she, 
 T might have thought myself safe.’ She was 
 quite in an agony. We consulted together, how¬ 
 ever, as to what should be done, and at last she 
 determined 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 sup¬ 
 pose by my arguments, and Fanny’s entreaties, 
 was of no avail. Duty, affection, everything was 
 disregarded. I never thought Edward so stub¬ 
 born, so unfeeling, before. His mother ex¬ 
 plained 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 pro¬ 
 tested should be his all; she would never see him 
 again; and so far would she be 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.” 
 
 [ 139 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 Here Marianne in an ecstacy of indignation, 
 clapped her hands together and cried, “Gracious 
 God! can this be possible!” 
 
 “Well may you wonder, Marianne,” replied her 
 brother, “at the obstinacy which could resist such 
 arguments as these. Your exclamation is very 
 natural.” 
 
 Marianne was going to retort, but she remem¬ 
 bered 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 the en¬ 
 gagement. He would stand to it, cost him what 
 it might.” 
 
 “Then,” cried Mrs Jennings, with blunt sincer¬ 
 ity, 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 any¬ 
 body of good fortune. He therefore replied, 
 without any resentment— 
 
 “I w^ould by no means speak disrespectfully of 
 
 [ 140 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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 alto¬ 
 gether 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 circum¬ 
 stances, 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?” 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 “What indeed, ma’am! It is a melancholy con¬ 
 sideration. Born to the prospect of such afflu¬ 
 ence ! I cannot conceive a situation more deplor¬ 
 able. 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 charge 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 him¬ 
 self,” said John Dash wood, “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 deter- 
 [ 142 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 mined, with a very natural kind of spirit, to settle 
 that estate upon Robert immediately, which 
 might have been Edward’s on proper conditions. 
 I left her this morning with her lawyer, talking 
 over the business.” 
 
 “Well!” said Mrs Jennings, “that is her re¬ 
 venge. Everybody has a way of their own. But 
 I don’t think mine would be to make one son inde¬ 
 pendent because another had plagued me.” 
 
 Marianne got up, and walked about the room. 
 
 “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 indispo¬ 
 sition, and that they need not therefore be very 
 uneasy about it, he went away; leaving the three 
 ladies unanimous in their sentiments on the pres¬ 
 ent occasion, as far at least as it regarded 
 Mrs Ferrars’s conduct, the Dash woods’, and 
 Edward’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. 
 
 [ 143 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII 
 
 M RS JENNINGS was very warm in ner 
 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 dis¬ 
 covery, restored 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 assur¬ 
 ances of Marianne, that belief of Edward’s con¬ 
 tinued 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 her¬ 
 self than ever, by the comparison it necessarily 
 produced 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 exer¬ 
 tion now; she felt it with all the pain of continual 
 [ 144 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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 fancied 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 
 matter was known to them already, that Mrs 
 Jennings might have had enough to do in spread¬ 
 ing that knowledge farther, 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 fine, so beautiful a Sunday 
 as to draw many to Kensington Gardens, though 
 it was only the second week in March. Mrs Jen¬ 
 nings and Elinor were of the number; but Mari¬ 
 anne, who knew that the Willoughbys were again 
 in town, and had a constant dread of meeting 
 them, chose rather to stay at 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 
 
 [ 145 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 with them, and engaging all Mrs Jennings’s con¬ 
 versation, 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 her¬ 
 self, with some surprise, accosted by Miss Steele, 
 who, though looking rather shy, expressed great 
 satisfaction in meeting them, and on receiving 
 encouragement 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.” 
 
 [146] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 “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 them.” 
 
 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 Dash wood,” speaking tri¬ 
 umphantly, “people may say what they chuse 
 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 ill-natured reports to 
 be spread abroad. Whatever Lucy might think 
 about 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. 
 
 [147] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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 Bichard 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 up all 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 
 bv 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 
 now 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 rid into the 
 country somewhere or other; and how he had 
 staid about at an inn all Thursday and Friday. 
 
 [148] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 on purpose to get the better of it. And after 
 thinking 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 doing 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 dropt 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 
 
 [ 149 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY, 
 
 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 liv¬ 
 ing. And just then I could not hear any more, 
 for my cousin called from below to tell me Mrs 
 Richardson was come in 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 inter¬ 
 rupting them,” said Elinor; “y ou were all in the 
 same room together, were not you?” 
 
 “No indeed! not us. La! Miss Dash wood, do 
 you think people make love when anybody else is 
 by ? Oh! f or 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 repeat¬ 
 ing to me what you only learnt yourself by lis¬ 
 tening at the door ? I am sorry I did not know it 
 before; 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?” 
 
 [ 150 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 “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 secrets together, she never made 
 any bones of hiding in a closet, or behind a chim¬ 
 ney-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 
 huswifes 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, h6 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 
 
 [151] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 Doctor, to get Edward the curacy of his new 
 living. I know they will; but I am sure I would 
 not do such a thing for all the world.—‘La!’ I 
 shall say directly, T wonder how you could think 
 of such a thing. I write to the Doctor, indeed!’ ” 
 
 “Well,” said Elinor, “it is a comfort to be pre¬ 
 pared 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 comes 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 
 they are very genteel people. He makes a 
 monstrous deal of money, and they keep their 
 own coach. I have not time to speak to Mrs 
 Jennings about it myself, but pray tell her I am 
 quite happy to hear she is not in anger against 
 us, and Lady Middleton the same; and if any¬ 
 thing should happen to take you and your sister 
 away, and Mrs Jennings should want company, 
 
 i 
 
 I am sure we should be very glad to come and stay 
 with her for as long a time as she likes. I sup¬ 
 pose Lady Middleton won’t ask us any more this 
 bout. Good-bye; I am sorry Miss Marianne was 
 not here. Remember me kindly to her. La! if 
 you have not got your spotted muslin on!—I 
 wonder you was not afraid of its being torn.” 
 
 [152] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 Such was her parting concern; for after this, 
 she had time only to pay her farewell compli¬ 
 ments to Mrs Jennings, before her company was 
 claimed by Mrs Richardson: and Elinor was left 
 in possession of knowledge which might feed her 
 powers of reflection some time, though she had 
 learnt very little more than what had been already 
 foreseen and foreplanned in her own mind. 
 Edward’s marriage with Lucy was as firmly de¬ 
 termined on, and the time of its taking place 
 remained as absolutely uncertain, as she had con¬ 
 cluded it would be;—everything depended, ex¬ 
 actly after her expectation, on his getting that 
 preferment, of which, at present, there seemed 
 not the smallest chance. 
 
 As soon as they returned to the carriage, Mrs 
 Jennings was eager for information; but as Eli¬ 
 nor wished to spread as little as possible intelli¬ 
 gence that had in the first place been so unfairly 
 obtained, she confined herself to the brief repeti¬ 
 tion of such simple particulars, as she f elt assured 
 that Lucy, for the sake of her own consequence, 
 would chuse to have known. The continuance of 
 their engagement, and the means that were to 
 be taken for promoting its end, was all her com¬ 
 munication; and this produced from Mrs Jen¬ 
 nings the following natural remark:— 
 
 “Wait for his having a living!—aye, we all 
 know how that will end;—they will wait a twelve- 
 
 [153] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 month, and finding no good comes of it, will set 
 down upon a curacy of fifty pounds a-year, with 
 the interest of his two thousand pounds, and what 
 little matter Mr Steele and Mr Pratt can give 
 her.—Then they will have a child every year! 
 and Lord help ’em! how poor they will be!—I 
 must see what I can give them towards furnish¬ 
 ing their house. Two maids and two men indeed! 
 —as I talked of t’other day.—No, no, they must 
 get a stout girl of all works.—Betty^s sister 
 would never do for them now” 
 
 The next morning brought Elinor a letter by 
 the two-penny post, from Lucy herself. It was 
 as follows:— 
 
 Bartlett’s Buildings, March . 
 
 I hope my dear Miss Dash wood will excuse the 
 liberty I take of writing to her; but I know your 
 friendship for me will make you pleased to hear 
 such a good account of myself and my dear 
 Edward, after all the troubles we have went 
 through lately, therefore will make no more 
 apologies, but proceed to say that, thank God! 
 though we have suffered dreadfully, we are both 
 quite well now, and as happy as we must always 
 be in one another’s love. We have had great 
 trials, and great persecutions, but however, at the 
 same time, gratefully acknowledge many friends, 
 yourself not the least among them, whose great 
 [ 154 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 
 kindness I shall always thankfully remember, as 
 will Edward too, who I have told of it. I am 
 sure you will be glad to hear, as likewise dear Mrs 
 Jennings, I spent two happy hours with him yes¬ 
 terday afternoon, he would not hear of our part¬ 
 ing, though earnestly did I, as I thought my duty 
 required, urge him to it for prudence sake, and 
 would have parted for ever on the spot, would he 
 consent to it; but he said it should never be, he 
 did not regard his mother’s anger, while he could 
 have my affections; our prospects are not very 
 bright, to be sure, but we must wait, and hope for 
 the best; he will be ordained shortly, and should 
 it ever be in your power to recommend him to 
 anybody that has a living to bestow, am very sure 
 you will not forget us, and dear Mrs Jennings 
 too, trust she will speak a good word for us to Sir 
 John, or Mr Palmer, or any friend that may be 
 able to assist us.—Poor Anne was much to blame 
 for what she did, but she did it for the best, so I 
 say nothing; hope Mrs Jennings won’t think it 
 too much trouble to give us a call, should she come 
 this way any morning, ’twould be a great kind¬ 
 ness, and my cousins would be proud to know 
 her.—My paper reminds me to conclude, and 
 begging to be most gratefully and respectfully 
 remembered to her, and to Sir John and Lady 
 Middleton, and the dear children, when you 
 chance to see them, and love to Miss Marianne, 
 
 I am, &c., &c. 
 
 [155] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 As soon as Elinor had finished it, she per¬ 
 formed what she concluded to be its writer’s real 
 design, by placing it in the hands of Mrs Jen¬ 
 nings, who read it aloud with many comments of 
 satisfaction and praise. 
 
 “Very well indeed!—how prettily she writes!— 
 aye, that was quite proper to let him be off if he 
 would. That was just like Lucy.—Poor soul! 
 I wish I could get him a living with all my heart. 
 —She calls me dear Mrs Jennings, you see. She 
 is a good-hearted girl as ever lived.—Very well, 
 upon my word. That sentence is very prettily 
 turned. Yes, yes, I will go and see her sure 
 enough. How attentive she is, to think of every¬ 
 body!—Thank you, my dear, for shewing it me. 
 It is as pretty a letter as ever I saw, and does 
 Lucy’s head and heart great credit.” 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX 
 
 T HE Miss Dashwoods had now been rather 
 more than two months in town, and 
 Marianne’s impatience to be gone in¬ 
 creased every day. She sighed for the air, the 
 liberty, the quiet of the country; and f ancied that 
 if any place could give her ease, Barton must do 
 it. Elinor was hardly less anxious than herself 
 [ 156 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 for their removal, and only so much less bent on 
 its being effected immediately, as that she was 
 conscious of the difficulties of so long a journey, 
 which Marianne could not be brought to acknowl¬ 
 edge. She began, however, seriously to turn her 
 thoughts towards its accomplishment, and had 
 already mentioned their wishes to their kind 
 hostess, who resisted them with all the eloquence 
 of her good-will, when a plan was suggested, 
 which though detaining them from home yet a 
 few weeks longer, appeared to Elinor altogether 
 much more eligible than any other. The Palmers 
 were to remove to Cleveland about the end of 
 March, for the Easter holidays; and Mrs Jen¬ 
 nings, with both her friends, received a very warm 
 invitation from Charlotte to go with them. This 
 would not, in itself, have been sufficient for the 
 delicacy of Miss Dash wood;—but it was inforced 
 with so much real politeness by Mr Palmer him¬ 
 self, as, joined to the very great amendment of 
 his manners towards them since her sister had 
 been known to be unhappy, induced her to accept 
 it with pleasure. 
 
 When she told Marianne what she had done, 
 however, her first reply was not very auspicious. 
 
 “Cleveland!”—she cried, with great agitation. 
 “No, I cannot go to Cleveland.” 
 
 “You forget,” said Elinor gently, “that its 
 situation is not .... that it is not in the 
 neighbourhood of . . . . ” 
 
 [1571 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 “But it is in Somersetshire.—I cannot go into 
 Somersetshire.—There, where I looked forward 
 to going . . .No, Elinor, you cannot expect 
 me to go there.” 
 
 Elinor would not argue upon the propriety of 
 overcoming such f eelings;—she only endeavoured 
 to counteract them by working on others;—and 
 represented it, therefore, as a measure which 
 would fix the time of her returning to that dear 
 mother, whom she so much wished to see, in a 
 more eligible, more comfortable manner, than 
 any other plan could do, and perhaps without any 
 greater delay. From Cleveland, which was 
 within a few miles of Bristol, the distance to Bar¬ 
 ton was not beyond one day, though a long day’s 
 journey; and their mother’s servant might easily 
 come there to attend them down; and as there 
 could be no occasion for their staying above a 
 week at Cleveland, they might now be at home in 
 little more than three weeks’ time. As Mari¬ 
 anne’s affection for her mother was sincere, it 
 must triumph, with little difficulty, over the im¬ 
 aginary evils she had started. 
 
 Mrs Jennings was so far from being weary of 
 her guests, that she pressed them very earnestly 
 to return with her again from Cleveland. Elinor 
 was grateful for the attention, but it could not 
 alter their design; and their mother’s concur¬ 
 rence being readily gained, everything relative to 
 [ 158 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 their return was arranged as far as it could be;— 
 and Marianne found some relief in drawing up a 
 statement of the hours that were yet to divide her 
 from Barton. 
 
 “Ah! Colonel, I do not know what you and I 
 shall do without the Miss Dash woods,”—was Mrs 
 Jennings’s address to him when he first called on 
 her, after their leaving her was settled—“for they 
 are quite resolved upon going home from the 
 Palmers;—and how forlorn we shall be, when I 
 come back!—Lord! we shall sit and gape at one 
 another as dull as two cats.” 
 
 Perhaps Mrs Jennings was in hopes, by this 
 vigorous sketch of their future ennui, to provoke 
 him to make that offer which might give himself 
 an escape from it—and if so, she had soon after¬ 
 wards good reason to think her object gained; 
 for, on Elinor’s moving to the window to take 
 more expeditiously the dimensions of a print 
 which she was going to copy for her friend, he 
 followed her to it with a look of particular mean¬ 
 ing, and conversed with her there for several min¬ 
 utes. The eff ect of this discourse on the lady too, 
 could not escape her observation; for though she 
 was too honourable to listen, and had even 
 changed her seat on purpose that she might not 
 hear, to one close by the pianoforte on which 
 Marianne was playing, she could not keep herself 
 from seeing that Elinor changed colour, attended 
 
 [159] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 with agitation, and was too intent on what he 
 said, to pursue her employment.—Still farther in 
 confirmation of her hopes, in the interval of 
 Marianne’s turning from one lesson to another, 
 some words of the Colonel’s inevitably reached 
 her ear, in which he seemed to be apologizing for 
 the badness of his house. [This set] the matter 
 beyond a doubt. She wondered indeed at his 
 thinking it necessary to do so;—but supposed it 
 to be the proper etiquette. What Elinor said in 
 reply she could not distinguish, but judged from 
 the motion of her lips that she did not think that 
 any material objection;—and Mrs Jennings com¬ 
 mended her in her heart for being so honest. 
 They then talked on for a few minutes longer 
 without her catching a syllable, when another 
 lucky stop in Marianne’s performance brought 
 her these words in the Colonel’s calm voice— 
 
 “I am afraid it cannot take place very soon.” 
 Astonished and shocked at so unlover-like a 
 speech, she was almost ready to cry out, “Lord! 
 what should hinder it!”—but checking her desire, 
 confined herself to this silent ejaculation— 
 
 “This is very strange!—sure he need not wait 
 to be older.” 
 
 This delay on the Colonel’s side, however, did 
 not seem to offend or mortify his fair com¬ 
 panion in the least; for on their breaking up the 
 conference soon afterwards, and moving differ- 
 [ 160 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 ent ways, Mrs Jennings very plainly heard Eli¬ 
 nor say, and in a voice which shewed her to feel 
 what she said— 
 
 “I shall always think myself very much obliged 
 to you.” 
 
 Mrs Jennings was delighted with her gratitude, 
 and only wondered, that after hearing such a 
 sentence, the Colonel should be able to take leave 
 of them, as he immediately did, with the utmost 
 sang-froid, and go without making her any 
 reply!—She had not thought her old friend could 
 have made so indifferent a suitor. 
 
 What had really passed between them was to 
 this effect— 
 
 “I have heard,” said he, with great compassion, 
 “of the injustice your friend Mr Ferrars has suf¬ 
 fered from his family; for if I understand the 
 matter right, he has been entirely cast off by 
 them for persevering in his engagement with a 
 very deserving young woman.—Have I been 
 rightly informed?—Is it so?” 
 
 Elinor told him it was. 
 
 “The cruelty, the impolitic cruelty,” he replied, 
 with great feeling, “of dividing, or attempting 
 to divide, two young people long attached to each 
 other, is terrible;—Mrs Ferrars does not know 
 what she may be doing—what she may drive her 
 son to. I have seen Mr Ferrars two or three 
 times in Harley-street, and am much pleased with 
 
 [161] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 him. He is not a young man with whom one can 
 be intimately acquainted in a short time, but I 
 have seen enough of him to wish him well for his 
 own sake, and as a friend of yours, I wish it still 
 more. I understand that he intends to take 
 orders. Will you be so good as to tell him that 
 the living of Delaford, now just vacant, as I am 
 informed by this day’s post, is his, if he think it 
 worth his acceptance;—but that, perhaps, so un¬ 
 fortunately circumstanced as he is now, it may be 
 nonsense to appear to doubt; I only wish it were 
 more valuable.—It is a rectory, but a small one; 
 the late incumbent, I believe, did not make more 
 than 200 pounds per annum, and though it is 
 certainly capable of improvement, I fear, not to 
 such an amount as to afford him a very comfort¬ 
 able income. Such as it is, however, my pleasure 
 in presenting him to it will be very great. Pray 
 assure him of it.” 
 
 Elinor’s astonishment at this commission could 
 hardly have been greater, had the Colonel been 
 really making her an offer of his hand. The pre¬ 
 ferment, which only two days before she had con¬ 
 sidered as hopeless for Edward, was already pro¬ 
 vided to enable him to marry;—and she , of all 
 people in the world, was fixed on to bestow it!— 
 Her emotion was such as Mrs Jennings had at¬ 
 tributed to a very different cause;—but what¬ 
 ever minor feelings less pure, less pleasing, might 
 [ 162 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 have a share in that emotion, her esteem for the 
 general benevolence, and her gratitude for the 
 particular friendship, which together prompted 
 Colonel Brandon to this act, were strongly felt, 
 and warmly expressed. She thanked him for it 
 with all her heart, spoke of Edward’s principles 
 and disposition with that praise which she knew 
 them to deserve, and promised to undertake the 
 commission with pleasure, if it were really his 
 wish to put off so agreeable an office to another. 
 But, at the same time, she could not help think¬ 
 ing that no one could so well perform it as him¬ 
 self. It was an office, in short, from which, un¬ 
 willing to give Edward the pain of receiving an 
 obligation from her , she would have been very 
 glad to be spared herself;—but Colonel Brandon, 
 on motives of equal delicacy declining it likewise, 
 still seemed so desirous of its being given through 
 her means, that she would not on any account 
 make farther opposition. Edward, she believed, 
 was still in town, and fortunately she had heard 
 his address from Miss Steele. She could under¬ 
 take therefore to inform him of it in the course 
 of the day. After this had been settled, Colonel 
 Brandon began to talk of his own advantage in 
 securing so respectable and agreeable a neigh¬ 
 bour; and then it was that he mentioned with 
 regret, that the house was small and indifferent; 
 —an evil which Elinor, as Mrs Jennings had sup- 
 
 [163] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 posed her to do, made very light of, at least as 
 far as regarded its size. 
 
 “The smallness of the house,” said she, “I can¬ 
 not imagine any inconvenience to them, for it will 
 be in proportion to their family and income.” 
 
 By which the Colonel was surprised to find that 
 she was considering their marriage as the certain 
 consequence of the presentation; for he did not 
 suppose it possible that Delaford living could 
 supply such an income as anybody in his style of 
 life would venture to settle on—and he said so. 
 
 “This little rectory can do no more than make 
 Mr Ferrars comfortable as a bachelor; it cannot 
 enable him to marry. I am sorry to say that my 
 patronage ends with this; and my interest is 
 hardly more extensive. If, however, by any un¬ 
 foreseen chance it should be in my power to serve 
 him farther, I must think very differently of him 
 from what I now do, if I am not as ready to be 
 useful to him then, as I sincerely wish I could be 
 at present. What I am now doing indeed seems 
 nothing at all, since it can advance him so little 
 towards what must be his principal, his only ob¬ 
 ject of happiness. His marriage must still be a 
 distant good;—at least I am afraid it cannot take 
 place very soon.” 
 
 Such was the sentence which, when misunder¬ 
 stood, so justly offended the delicate feelings of 
 Mrs Jennings; but after this narration of what 
 [ 164 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 really passed between Colonel Brandon and Eli¬ 
 nor, while they stood at the window, the gratitude 
 expressed by the latter on their parting may per¬ 
 haps appear, in general, not less reasonably ex¬ 
 cited, nor less properly worded, than if it had 
 arisen from an offer of marriage. 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 ELL, Miss Dash wood,” said Mrs Jen¬ 
 nings, sagaciously smiling, as soon 
 as the gentleman had withdrawn, “I 
 
 do not ask you what the Colonel has been saying 
 to you; for though, upon my honour, I tried to 
 keep out of hearing, I could not help catching 
 enough to understand his business. And I assure 
 you I never was better pleased in my life, and I 
 wish you joy of it with all my heart.” 
 
 “Thank you, ma’am,” said Elinor. “It is a 
 matter of great joy to me; and I feel the good¬ 
 ness of Colonel Brandon most sensibly. There 
 are not many men who would act as he has done. 
 Few people have so compassionate a heart! I 
 never was more astonished in my life.” 
 
 “Lord! my dear, you are very modest! I an’t 
 the least astonished at it in the world, for I have 
 often thought, of late, there was nothing more 
 likely to happen.” 
 
 [ 165 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 “You judged from your knowledge of the 
 Colonel’s general benevolence; but at least you 
 could not foresee that the opportunity would so 
 very soon occur.” 
 
 “Opportunity!” repeated Mrs Jennings— 
 “Oh! as to that, when a man has once made up 
 his mind to such a thing, somehow or other he 
 will soon find an opportunity. Well, my dear, I 
 wish you joy of it again and again; and if ever 
 there was a happy couple in the world, I think I 
 shall soon know where to look for them.” 
 
 “You mean to go to Delaford after them, I 
 suppose,” said Elinor, with a faint smile. 
 
 “Aye, my dear, that I do, indeed. And as to 
 the house being a bad one, I do not know what 
 the Colonel would be at, for it is as good a one as 
 ever I saw.” 
 
 “He spoke of its being out of repair.” 
 
 “Well, and whose fault is that? why don’t he 
 repair it?—who should do it but himself?” 
 
 They were interrupted by the servant’s coming 
 in, to announce the carriage being at the door; 
 and Mrs Jennings, immediately preparing to go, 
 said— 
 
 “Well, my dear, I must be gone before I have 
 had half my talk out. But, however, we may 
 have it all over in the evening, for we shall be 
 quite alone. I do not ask you to go with me, for 
 I dare say your mind is too full of the matter to 
 [ 166 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 care for company; and besides, you must long to 
 tell your sister all about it.” 
 
 Marianne had left the room before the conver¬ 
 sation began. 
 
 “Certainly, ma’am, I shall tell Marianne of it; 
 but I shall not mention it at present to anybody 
 else.” 
 
 “Oh! very well,” said Mrs Jennings, rather dis¬ 
 appointed. “Then you would not have me tell 
 it Lucy, for I think of going as far as Holborn 
 to-day.” 
 
 “No, ma’am, not even Lucy, if you please. 
 One day’s delay will not be very material; and till 
 I have written to Mr Eerrars, I think it ought not 
 to be mentioned to anybody else. I shall do that 
 directly. It is of importance that no time should 
 be lost with him, for he will, of course, have much 
 to do relative to his ordination.” 
 
 This speech at first puzzled Mrs Jennings ex¬ 
 ceedingly. Why Mr Ferrars was to be written to 
 about it in such a hurry she could not immedi¬ 
 ately comprehend. A few moments’ reflection, 
 however, produced a very happy idea, and she 
 exclaimed— 
 
 “Oh ho! I understand you. Mr Ferrars is to 
 be the man. Well, so much the better for him. 
 Aye, to be sure, he must be ordained in readiness; 
 and I am very glad to find things are so forward 
 between you. But, my dear, is not this rather 
 
 [ 167 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 out of character? Should not the Colonel write 
 himself? Sure, he is the proper person.” 
 
 Elinor did not quite understand the beginning 
 of Mrs Jennings’s speech; neither did she think 
 it worth inquiring into; and therefore only 
 replied to its conclusion. 
 
 “Colonel Brandon is so delicate a man, that he 
 rather wished any one to announce his intentions 
 to Mr Ferrars than himself.” 
 
 “And so you are forced to do it. Well, that is 
 an odd kind of delicacy! However, I will not 
 disturb you” (seeing her prepare to write). “You 
 know your own concerns best. So good-bye, my 
 dear. I have not heard of anything to please me 
 so well since Charlotte was brought to bed.” 
 
 And away she went, but returning again in a 
 moment— 
 
 “I have just been thinking of Betty’s sister, my 
 dear. I should be very glad to get her so good 
 a mistress. But whether she would do for a lady’s 
 maid, I am sure I can’t tell. She is an excellent 
 housemaid, and works very well at her needle. 
 However, you will think of all that at your 
 leisure.” 
 
 “Certainly, ma’am,” replied Elinor, not hear¬ 
 ing much of what she said, and more anxious to 
 be alone than to be mistress of the subject. 
 
 How she should begin—how she should express 
 herself in her note to Edward was now all her 
 [ 168 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 concern. The particular circumstances between 
 them made a difficulty of that which to any other 
 person would have been the easiest thing in the 
 world; but she equally feared to say too much or 
 too little, and sat deliberating over her paper, 
 with the pen in her hand, till broken in on by the 
 entrance of Edward himself. 
 
 He had met Mrs Jennings at the door in her 
 way to the carriage, as he came to leave his fare¬ 
 well card; and she, after apologising for not re¬ 
 turning herself, had obliged him to enter by say¬ 
 ing that Miss Dashwood was above, and wanted 
 to speak with him on very particular business. 
 
 Elinor had just been congratulating herself in 
 the midst of her perplexity, that however difficult 
 it might be to express herself properly by letter, 
 it was at least preferable to giving the informa¬ 
 tion by word of mouth, when her visitor entered, 
 to force her upon this greatest exertion of all. 
 Her astonishment and confusion were very great 
 on his so sudden appearance. She had not seen 
 him before since his engagement became public, 
 and therefore not since his knowing her to be 
 acquainted with it; which, with the consciousness 
 of what she had been thinking of, and what she 
 had to tell him, made her feel particularly uncom¬ 
 fortable for some minutes. He too was much 
 distressed, and they sat down together in a most 
 promising state of embarrassment.—Whether he 
 
 [ 169 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 had asked her pardon for his intrusion on first 
 coming into the room, he could not recollect; but 
 determining to be on the safe side, he made his 
 apology in form as soon as he could say anything, 
 after taking a chair. 
 
 “Mrs Jennings told me,” said he, “that you 
 wished to speak with me, at least I understood her 
 so—or I certainly should not have intruded on 
 you in such a manner; though, at the same time, 
 I should have been extremely sorry to leave Lon¬ 
 don without seeing you and your sister; especially 
 as it will most likely be some time—it is not prob¬ 
 able that I should soon have the pleasure of meet¬ 
 ing you again. I go to Oxford to-morrow.” 
 
 “You would not have gone, however,” said Eli¬ 
 nor, recovering herself, and determined to get 
 over what she so much dreaded as soon as possible, 
 “without receiving our good wishes, even if we 
 had not been able to give them in person. Mrs 
 Jennings was quite right in what she said. I have 
 something of consequence to inform you of, 
 which I was on the point of communicating by 
 paper. I am charged with a most agreeable 
 office” (breathing rather faster than usual as she 
 spoke). “Colonel Brandon, who was here only 
 ten minutes ago, has desired me to say, that, 
 understanding you mean to take orders, he has 
 great pleasure in off ering you the living of Dela- 
 ford, now just vacant, and only wishes it were 
 [ 170 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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 consider¬ 
 able, 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 him¬ 
 self, it cannot be expected that any one else should 
 say it for him. He looked all the astonishment 
 which such unexpected, such unthought-of infor¬ 
 mation could not fail of exciting; but he said only 
 these two words— 
 
 “Colonel Brandon!” 
 
 “Yes,” continued Elinor, gathering more reso¬ 
 lution, 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 unjustifiable 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 
 approbation of your behaviour on the present 
 occasion.” 
 
 “Colonel Brandon give me a living!—Can it be 
 possible?” 
 
 “The unkindness of your own relations has 
 
 [171] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 made you astonished to find friendship any¬ 
 where.” 
 
 “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 en¬ 
 tirely, to your own merit, and Colonel Brandon’s 
 discernment 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 oc¬ 
 curred 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 hesita¬ 
 tion; which probably contributed to fix that sus¬ 
 picion 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 eff ort, he said— 
 
 “Colonel Brandon seems a man of great worth 
 and respectability. I have always heard him 
 [ 172 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 spoken of as such, and your brother, I know, 
 esteems him highly. He is undoubtedly a sen¬ 
 sible man, and in his manners perfectly the gen¬ 
 tleman.” 
 
 “Indeed,” replied Elinor, “I believe that you 
 will find him, on farther acquaintance, all that 
 you have heard him to be; and as you will be such 
 very near neighbours (for I understand the par¬ 
 sonage is almost close to 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 
 good-will, than the power of expressing it. 
 
 [ 173 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 “When I see him again,” said Elinor to herself, 
 as the door shut him out, “I shall see him the hus¬ 
 band of Lucy.” 
 
 And with this pleasing anticipation, she sat 
 down to reconsider the past, recall the words, and 
 endeavour to comprehend all the feelings of 
 Edward; and, of course, to reflect on her own 
 with 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 
 a great deal to say, her mind was so much more 
 occupied by the important secret in her posses¬ 
 sion, 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 sup¬ 
 pose 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 
 [ 174 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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 the Colonel only mar¬ 
 ries you for the sake of giving ten guineas to 
 Mr Ferrars!” 
 
 The deception could not continue after this; 
 and an explanation immediately took place, by 
 which both gained considerable amusement for 
 the moment, without any material loss of happi¬ 
 ness to either, for Mrs Jennings 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 first 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 house-keeper told me, could make up 
 
 [ 175 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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 on less. Take my word 
 for it, that, if I am alive, I shall be paying a visit 
 at Delaford Parsonage before Michaelmas; and 
 I am sure I shan’t go if Lucy an’t there.” 
 
 Elinor was quite of her opinion, as to the prob¬ 
 ability of their not waiting for anything more. 
 
 CHAPTER XLI 
 
 E DWARD having carried his thanks to 
 Colonel Brandon, proceeded with his hap¬ 
 piness 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 con¬ 
 gratulations, that she had never seen him in such 
 spirits before in her life. 
 
 [ 176 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 Her own happiness, and her own spirits, were 
 at least very certain; and she joined Mrs Jen¬ 
 nings most heartily in her expectation of their 
 being all comfortably together in Delaford Par¬ 
 sonage 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 Dash- 
 wood’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 in 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. 
 
 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 
 
 cm] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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 unwillingness to be in her 
 company again. The consequence was, that Eli¬ 
 nor 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 dis¬ 
 like. 
 
 Mrs Dashwood was denied; but before the car¬ 
 riage could turn from the house, her husband ac¬ 
 cidentally came out. He expressed great pleas¬ 
 ure in meeting Elinor, told her that he had been 
 just going to call in Berkeley-street, and assur¬ 
 ing her that Fanny would be very glad to see her, 
 invited her to come in. 
 
 They walked up stairs 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 
 [ 178 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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, 
 4 ‘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 farther 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 incum¬ 
 bent 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 inconsist¬ 
 ency in almost every human character. I sup- 
 
 [ 179 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 pose, however—on recollection—that the case 
 may probably be this. Edward is only to 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 posi¬ 
 tively; and by relating that she had herself been 
 employed in conveying the offer from Colonel 
 Brandon to Edward, and therefore must under¬ 
 stand the terms on which it was given, obliged 
 him to submit to her authority. 
 
 “It is truly astonishing!”—he cried, after hear¬ 
 ing what she said—“what could be the Colonel’s 
 motive?” 
 
 “A very simple one—to be of use to Mr Fer- 
 rars.” 
 
 “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 
 [ 180 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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 be supposed that Mrs Fep-ars 
 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 be¬ 
 falls him. She would not be so weak as to throw 
 away the comfort of a child, and yet retain the 
 anxiety of a parent!” 
 
 “All! 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 acceler¬ 
 ate that dreadful event, must be concealed 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.” 
 
 [ 181 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 “You wrong her exceedingly. Mrs Ferrars is 
 one of the most affectionate mothers in the 
 world.” 
 
 Elinor was silent. 
 
 “We think now ,” said Mr Dashwood, after a 
 short pause, “of Robert's marrying Miss Mor¬ 
 ton.” 
 
 Elinor, smiling at the grave and decisive impor¬ 
 tance 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 man¬ 
 ner of speaking, it must be the same to Miss Mor¬ 
 ton 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 in 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 
 [ 182 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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 prefer¬ 
 able 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. Tt would have been beyond com¬ 
 parison,’ 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 exceedingly 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 there¬ 
 fore glad to be spared from the necessity of say¬ 
 ing much in reply herself, and from the danger 
 of hearing anything more from her brother, by 
 
 [ 183 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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 Eli¬ 
 nor 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 liber¬ 
 ality, 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 them¬ 
 selves, before he began to speak of Edward; for 
 he too had heard of the living, and was very in¬ 
 quisitive on the subject. Elinor repeated the par¬ 
 ticulars of it, as she had given them to John, and 
 their eff ect 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 immov¬ 
 able gravity, the conclusion of such folly, could 
 [ 184 ] 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 LIBRARY 
 Of THE 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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 called from wit to wisdom, 
 not by any reproof of her, but by his own sensi¬ 
 bility. 
 
 “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, it 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 Dash wood, 
 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 fel¬ 
 low! 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, feel¬ 
 ing myself called on to act with resolution, imme¬ 
 diately said to her, ‘My dear madam, I do not 
 
 [ 185 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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, I never will see 
 him again/ That was what I said immediately, 
 —I was most uncommonly shocked indeed!— 
 Poor Edward!—he has done for himself com¬ 
 pletely!—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 ex¬ 
 pected. 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 per¬ 
 fectly. Just the kind of girl I should suppose 
 likely to captivate poor Edward. I offered im¬ 
 mediately, as soon as my mother related the af¬ 
 fair 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 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 
 [ 186 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 Edward in a very strong light. ‘My dear fellow,’ 
 I should have said, ‘consider what you are doing. 
 You are making a most disgraceful connection, 
 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 com¬ 
 posure, when the entrance of Mrs John Dash- 
 wood 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 some¬ 
 thing 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 enamoured over her accents, seemed to dis¬ 
 tinguish everything that was most affectionate 
 and graceful. 
 
 [ 187 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 CHAPTER XLII 
 
 O NE other short call in Harley-street, in 
 which Elinor received her brother’s con¬ 
 gratulations, on their travelling so far 
 towards Barton without any expense, and on 
 Colonel Brandon’s being to follow them to Cleve¬ 
 land in a day of two, completed the intercourse of 
 the brother and sisters in town; and a faint invi¬ 
 tation from Fanny, to come to Norland when¬ 
 ever 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 
 chuse 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 
 [ 188 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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 Cleve¬ 
 land soon after their arrival. 
 
 Marianne, few as had been her hours of com¬ 
 fort 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, 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 Willoughby since his 
 marriage, and she looked forward with hope to 
 what a few months of tranquillity at Barton 
 might do towards restoring Marianne’s peace of 
 mind, and confirming her own. 
 
 Their journey was safely performed. The 
 
 [ 189 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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 imagina¬ 
 tion; 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 pop¬ 
 lars, shut out the offices. 
 
 Marianne entered the house with an 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 shew 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 
 [ 190 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 1 
 
 of hills in the horizon, and fancy that from their 
 summits Combe Magna might be seen. 
 
 In such moments of precious, of invaluable 
 misery, 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 privi¬ 
 lege of country liberty, of wandering from place 
 to place in free and luxurious solitude, she re¬ 
 solved to spend almost every hour of every day 
 while she remained with the Palmers, in the in¬ 
 dulgence 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 green-house, where the loss of her favourite 
 plants, unwarily exposed, and nipped by the lin¬ 
 gering frost, raised the laughter of Charlotte, 
 —and in visiting her poultry-yard, 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 employment abroad, had not cal¬ 
 culated for any change of weather during their 
 
 [ 191 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 stay at Cleveland. With great surprise, there¬ 
 fore, 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 
 farther than Reading that night. Elinor, how¬ 
 ever little concerned in it, joined in their dis¬ 
 course, and Marianne, who had the knack of find¬ 
 ing her way in every house to the library, however 
 it might be avoided by the family in general, sbon 
 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 f or 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 
 [ 192 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 evident, was not disgusting because it was not 
 conceited; and Elinor could have forgiven every¬ 
 thing but her laugh. 
 
 The two gentlemen arrived the next day to a 
 very late dinner, affording a pleasant enlarge¬ 
 ment of the party, and a very welcome variety to 
 their conversation, which a long morning of the 
 same continued rain had reduced 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 occasion¬ 
 ally 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 supe¬ 
 rior 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 
 at all unusual in his sex and time of lif e. 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 
 
 [ 193 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 she could like him no more; not sorry to be driven 
 by the observation of his Epicurism, his selfish¬ 
 ness, and his conceit, to rest with complacency on 
 the remembrance of Edward’s generous temper, 
 simple taste, and diffident feelings. 
 
 Of Edward, or at least of some of his concerns, 
 she now received intelligence from Colonel Bran¬ 
 don, 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 parson¬ 
 age 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 her after an absence of only ten days, 
 his readiness to converse with her, and his defer¬ 
 ence for her opinion, might very well justify Mrs 
 Jennings’s persuasion 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 Mari¬ 
 anne’s feeling in her head and throat the begin- 
 [ 194 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 ning of an heavy cold, because unexpressed by 
 words, entirely escaped the latter lady’s observa¬ 
 tion, she could discover in them the quick feelings 
 
 and needless alarm of a lover. 
 
 0 
 
 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 still greater impru¬ 
 dence 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 
 everybody, and the notice of herself. Prescrip¬ 
 tions 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 en¬ 
 tirely; and it was with difficulty that Elinor pre¬ 
 vailed on her, when she went to bed, to try one or 
 two of the simplest of the remedies. 
 
 [ 195 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 CHAPTER XLIII 
 
 M ARIANNE 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 customary employ¬ 
 ments. 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 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 expectation 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, 
 [ 196 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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 confirm¬ 
 ing Charlotte’s fears and caution, urged the ne¬ 
 cessity of her immediate removal with her infant; 
 and Mr Palmer, though treating their apprehen¬ 
 sions as idle, found the anxiety and importunity 
 of his wife too great to be withstood. Her de¬ 
 parture 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 hus¬ 
 band 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 attentive care, to supply to her the 
 place of the mother she had taken her from; and 
 Elinor found her on every occasion a most will¬ 
 ing and active helpmate, desirous to share in all 
 her fatigues, and often, by her better experience 
 in nursing, of material use. 
 
 [ 197 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 Poor Marianne, languid and low from the 
 nature of her malady, and feeling herself uni¬ 
 versally 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 afternoon. 
 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 
 farther 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 himself, with a much greater 
 exertion, began to talk of going likewise. Here, 
 however, the kindness of Mrs Jennings inter¬ 
 posed most acceptably; for to send the Colonel 
 away while his love was in so much uneasiness on 
 
 [ 198 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 her sister’s account, would be to deprive them 
 both, she thought, of every comfort; and there¬ 
 fore 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 
 Dashwood was above with her sister, &c., 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 aff ect 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 de- 
 
 [ 199 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 termined very early in the seisure that Marianne 
 would never get over it, and Colonel Brandon, 
 who was chiefly of use in listening to Mrs Jen¬ 
 nings’s forebodings, was not in a state of mind 
 to resist their influence. He tried to reason him¬ 
 self 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 en¬ 
 tirely alone were but too favourable for the ad¬ 
 mission 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 favour¬ 
 able than on the preceding visit. Elinor, con¬ 
 firmed in every pleasant hope, was all cheerful¬ 
 ness; rejoicing that in her letters to her mother, 
 she has pursued her own judgment rather than 
 her friend’s, in making very light of the indispo¬ 
 sition which delayed them at Cleveland, and 
 almost fixing on the time when Marianne would 
 be able to travel. 
 
 But the day did not close as auspiciously as it 
 began. Towards the evening Marianne became 
 ill again, growing more heavy, restless, and un¬ 
 comfortable than before. Her sister, however, 
 [ 200 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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 adminis¬ 
 tering the cordials prescribed, saw her with satis¬ 
 faction 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 
 the result of it herself, she resolved to sit with 
 her during the whole of it. Mrs Jennings, know¬ 
 ing nothing of any change in the patient, went 
 unusually 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 unre¬ 
 mitting attention her continual change of pos¬ 
 ture, 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 mama coming?” 
 
 “Not yet,” replied the other, concealing her 
 terror, and assisting Marianne to lie down again; 
 “but she will be here I hope, before it is long. It 
 is a great way, you know, from hence to Barton.” 
 
 [ 201 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 “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 
 mama, her alarm increased so rapidly, as to deter¬ 
 mine 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 eff ecting 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 immediately 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 in¬ 
 stantly 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 grati- 
 [ 202 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 tude, 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 com¬ 
 panion whose judgment would guide, whose at¬ 
 tendance must relieve, and whose friendship 
 might sooth 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 arrived, even before they were expected, 
 and Colonel Brandon only pressing 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 re¬ 
 turned 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 
 
 [ 203 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 Mr Harris appeared. Her apprehensions once 
 raised, paid by their excess for all her former se¬ 
 curity, 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 mis¬ 
 tress 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 hav¬ 
 ing 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 her¬ 
 self her suff ering 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 ac¬ 
 knowledging a very unexpected and unpleasant 
 alteration 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. 
 
 [ 204 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 With strong concern, and with many re¬ 
 proaches 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 per¬ 
 son with concern. On Mrs Jennings’s compas¬ 
 sion 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 
 suff erings was very sincere. 
 
 Mr Harris was punctual in his second visit;— 
 but he came to be disappointed in his hopes of 
 what the last would produce. His medicines had 
 failed;—the fever was unabated; and Marianne 
 only more quiet—not more herself—remained in 
 an heavy stupor. Elinor catching all, and more 
 than all, his fears in a moment, proposed to call in 
 farther advice. But he judged it unnecessary; 
 
 [ 205 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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 in¬ 
 disposition which Marianne’s disappointment had 
 brought on. Elinor felt all the reasonableness of 
 the idea, and it gave fresh misery to her reflec¬ 
 tions. 
 
 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 
 [ 206 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 her young friend from indulging a thought of its 
 continuance; and Elinor, conning over every in¬ 
 junction of distrust, told herself likewise not to 
 hope. But it was too late. Hope had already 
 entered; and feeling all its anxious flutter, she 
 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 amend¬ 
 ment, 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 bet¬ 
 ter, 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 recovery. 
 
 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, 
 
 [ 207 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 friends, and to her doating mother, was an idea to 
 fill her heart with sensations of exquisite comfort, 
 and expand it in f ervent gratitude;—but it led to 
 no outward demonstrations of joy, no words, no 
 smiles. All within Elinor’s breast was satisfac¬ 
 tion, silent and strong. 
 
 She continued by the side of her sister with lit¬ 
 tle intermission the whole afternoon, calming 
 every fear, satisfying every inquiry of her en¬ 
 feebled spirits, supplying ever 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 ap¬ 
 pearance 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- 
 [ 208 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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 refresh¬ 
 ment, therefore, with such feelings of content as 
 she brought to it, was particularly welcome. Mrs 
 Jennings would have persuaded her at its con¬ 
 clusion to take some rest before her mother’s 
 arrival, and allow her to take her place by Mari¬ 
 anne; 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 up stairs 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 convinced 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 adjoining dressing- 
 closet and opened a window-shutter, to be satis- 
 
 [ 209 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 fled 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 diffi¬ 
 cult to be calm, as at that moment. The knowl¬ 
 edge of what her mother must be feeling as the 
 carriage stopt at the door,—of her doubt—her 
 dread—perhaps her despair!—and of what she 
 had to tell!—with such knowledge it was impos¬ 
 sible to be calm. All that remained to be done 
 was to be speedy; and therefore staying only till 
 she could leave Mrs Jennings’s maid with her 
 sister, she hurried down stairs. 
 
 The bustle in the vestibule, as she passed along 
 an inner lobby, assured her that they were already 
 in the house. She rushed forwards towards the 
 drawing-room—she entered it,—and saw only 
 Willoughby. 
 
 [ 210 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 CHAPTER XLIV 
 
 E LINOR, 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 com¬ 
 mand than supplication— 
 
 “Miss Dash wood, 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 ^prudence 
 
 [ 211 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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 medita¬ 
 tion, 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 danger, 
 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?” 
 
 Elinor looked at him with greater astonish¬ 
 ment than ever. She began to think that he must 
 [ 212 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 be in liquor;—the strangeness of such a visit, and 
 of such manners, seemed no otherwise intelli¬ 
 gible; 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 ex¬ 
 pressive 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 understand 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 intelli¬ 
 gence 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 recol¬ 
 lection— 
 
 “Mr Willoughby, you ought to feel, and I cer¬ 
 tainly do —that after what has passed—your 
 coming here in this manner, and forcing yourself 
 
 *A piece of victuals eaten between meals.—“Johnson’s Dictionary 
 
 [ 213 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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 off er some kind of expla¬ 
 nation, 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 some¬ 
 thing 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 
 behaviour to your sister, or what diabolical 
 motive you may have imputed to me.—Perhaps 
 [ 214 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 you will hardly think the better of me,—it is 
 worth the trial, however, and you shall hear every¬ 
 thing. When I first became intimate in your 
 family, I had no other intention, no other view 
 in the acquaintance than to pass my time pleas¬ 
 antly while I was obliged to remain in Devon¬ 
 shire, more pleasantly than I had ever done 
 before. Your sister’s lovely person and interest¬ 
 ing 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 con¬ 
 fess, my vanity only was elevated by it. Careless 
 of her happiness, thinking only of my own amuse¬ 
 ment, giving way to feelings which I had always 
 been too much in the habit of indulging, I en¬ 
 deavoured, 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 
 
 [ 215 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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 cir¬ 
 cumstances by marrying a woman of fortune. 
 To attach myself to your sister, therefore, was 
 not a thing to be thought of;—and with a mean¬ 
 ness, selfishness, cruelty—which no indignant, no 
 contemptuous look, even of yours, Miss Dash- 
 wood, can ever reprobate too much—I was acting 
 in this manner, trying to engage her regard, with¬ 
 out 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 everything that 
 could make it a blessing.” 
 
 [ 216 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 “You did then,” said Elinor, a little softened, 
 “believe yourself at one time attached to her.” 
 
 “To have resisted such attractions, to have with¬ 
 stood 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 
 improperly, 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 scru¬ 
 pling to engage my faith where my honour was 
 already bound. The event has proved, that I was 
 a cunning fool, providing with great circumspec¬ 
 tion 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 invariably paid 
 her, and openly assure her of an affection which 
 I had already 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 
 
 [ 217 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 opportunity of speaking with her in private—a 
 circumstance occurred—an unlucky circum¬ 
 stance, 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 farther,” he 
 added, looking at her with a heightened colour 
 and an inquiring eye, “y° llr particular intimacy 
 —you have probably heard the whole story long 
 ago.” 
 
 “I have,” returned Elinor, colouring likewise, 
 and hardening her heart anew against any com¬ 
 passion 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 impar¬ 
 tial 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 I was a liber¬ 
 tine, she must be a saint. If the violence of her 
 passions, the weakness of her understanding—I 
 [ 218 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 do not mean, however, to defend myself. Her 
 affection for me deserved better treatment, and I 
 often, with great self-reproach, recall the tender¬ 
 ness 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 
 herself; and I have injured 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 un¬ 
 fortunate 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 under¬ 
 standing 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 extremest indi¬ 
 gence.” 
 
 “But, upon my soul, I did not know it,” he 
 warmly replied; “I did not 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 
 
 [ 219 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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 dis¬ 
 posed, I believe, to doubt the morality of my con¬ 
 duct in general, and was moreover discontented 
 with the very little attention, the very little por¬ 
 tion 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 at¬ 
 tachment to me—it was all insufficient to out¬ 
 weigh 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 I chose to 
 address her, and I persuaded myself to think that 
 nothing else in common prudence remained for 
 me to do. An heavy scene however awaited me, 
 before I could leave Devonshire; I was engaged 
 [ 220 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 to dine with you on that very day, some apology 
 was therefore necessary for my breaking the en¬ 
 gagement. 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 by own magna¬ 
 nimity, as the event declared; for I went, I saw 
 her, and saw her miserable, and left her miserable 
 —and left her, hoping never to see her again.” 
 
 “Why did you call, Mr Willoughby?” said Eli¬ 
 nor, 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 neighborhood, 
 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 en¬ 
 gaged 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, 
 
 [ 221 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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 dissembling. Her sorrow, her disappoint¬ 
 ment, her deep regret, when I told 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 farther, 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 tri¬ 
 umph 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 there¬ 
 fore so tediously—no creature to speak to—my 
 [ 222 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 own reflections so cheerful—when I looked for¬ 
 ward everything so inviting!—when I looked 
 back at Barton, the picture so soothing!—oh!—it 
 was a blessed journey.” 
 
 He stopt. 
 
 “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 shew it 
 you?” 
 
 “Yes, I saw every note that passed.” 
 
 “When the first of hers reached me (as it imme¬ 
 diately 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. Thun¬ 
 derbolts and daggers!—what a reproof 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 dearer.” 
 
 Elinor’s heart, which had undergone many 
 changes in the course of this extraordinary con¬ 
 versation, was now softened again; yet she felt 
 
 [ 223 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 it her duty to check such ideas in her companion 
 as the last. 
 
 “This is not right, Mr Willoughby. Remem¬ 
 ber 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 separated, 
 she was as constant in her own feelings and as full 
 of faith in the constancy of mine as ever, awak¬ 
 ened all my remorse. I say awakened, because 
 time and London, business and dissipation had in 
 some measure quieted it, and I had been growing 
 a fine hardened villain, fancying myself indiffer¬ 
 ent to her, and chusing to fancy that she too must 
 have become indiff erent to me; talking to myself 
 of our past attachment as a mere idle, trifling 
 business, shrugging up my shoulders in proof of 
 its being so, and silencing every reproach, over¬ 
 coming every scruple, by secretly saying now and 
 then, T shall he 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, 
 [ 224 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 intending by that means to preserve myself from 
 her farther 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 morn¬ 
 ing, 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 
 
 [ 225 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 from Marianne—still affectionate, open, artless, 
 confiding—everything that could make my con¬ 
 duct 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 be¬ 
 witching 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 this world. She was before me, con- 
 [ 226 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 stantly before me, as I travelled, in the same look 
 and hue.” 
 
 A short pause of mutual thoughtfulness suc¬ 
 ceeded. Willoughby, first rousing himself, broke 
 it thus— 
 
 “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 Mari¬ 
 anne.” 
 
 “But the letter, Mr Willoughby, your own let¬ 
 ter; 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 hap¬ 
 pened to catch Sophia’s eye before it caught 
 mine; and its size, the elegance of the paper, the 
 handwriting, altogether immediately 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 ob¬ 
 servation 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. 
 
 [ 227 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 She read what made her wretched. Her wretch¬ 
 edness 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 hand¬ 
 writing.” 
 
 “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 Mari¬ 
 anne 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. T am ruined for 
 ever in their opinion,’ said I to myself; T am shut 
 out for ever from their society; they already think 
 me an unprincipled fellow, this letter will only 
 make them think me a blackguard one.’ Such 
 were my reasonings as, in a sort of desperate care- 
 [ 228 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 lessness, I copied my wife’s words, and parted 
 with the last relics of Marianne. 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 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 com¬ 
 passion. 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 after¬ 
 wards returned to town to be gay. And, now do 
 you pity me, Miss Dash wood? or have I said all 
 
 [ 229 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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 feel¬ 
 ings, will draw from her a more spontaneous, 
 more natural, more gentle, less dignified forgive¬ 
 ness. 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 rea¬ 
 son of your coming now, nor how you heard of 
 her illness.” 
 
 “Last night, in Drury-lane lobby, I ran against 
 [ 230 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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 resent¬ 
 ment. Now, however, his good-natured, honest, 
 stupid soul, full of indignation against me, and 
 concern for your sister, could not resist the temp¬ 
 tation of telling me what he knew ought to, 
 though probably he did not think it would , vex 
 me horribly. As bluntly as he could speak it, 
 therefore, he told me that Marianne Dash wood 
 was dying of a putrid fever at Cleveland—a let¬ 
 ter that morning received from Mrs Jennings de¬ 
 clared her danger most imminent—the Palmers 
 all gone off in a fright, &c. I was too much 
 shocked to be able to pass myself off as insensible, 
 even to the undiscerning Sir John. His heart 
 was softened in 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 re¬ 
 minded 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 dreadful! 
 My resolution was soon made, and at eight o’clock 
 
 [ 231 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 this morning I was in my carriage. Now you 
 know all.” 
 
 Elinor made no answer. Her thoughts were 
 silently fixed on the irreparable 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; extrava¬ 
 gance and vanity had made him cold-hearted and 
 selfish. Vanity, while seeking its own guilty tri¬ 
 umph 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 outwardly 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 unhappiness to himself of a 
 far more incurable nature. From a reverie of 
 this kind she was recalled at the end of some min¬ 
 utes by Willoughby, who, rousing himself from 
 a reverie at least equally painful, started up in 
 preparation for going, and said— 
 
 [ 232 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 “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 or two. Good-bye.” 
 
 He held out his hand. She could not refuse to 
 give him hers; he pressed it with aff ection. 
 
 “And you do think something better of me 
 than you did?” said he, letting it fall, and leaning 
 against the mantlepiece, as if forgetting he was 
 to go. 
 
 Elinor assured him that she did; that she for¬ 
 gave, pitied him, wished him well—was even in¬ 
 terested 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 
 to live for. Marianne, to be sure, is lost to me for 
 ever. Were I even, by any blessed chance, at lib¬ 
 erty 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?” 
 
 [ 233 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 “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 
 good-will, 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 XLV 
 
 E LINOR, 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 dif¬ 
 fering 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, ex¬ 
 cited a degree of commiseration for the suffer¬ 
 ings produced by them, which made her think of 
 him as now separated for ever from her family 
 with a tenderness, a regret, rather in proportion, 
 [ 234 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 as she soon acknowledged within herself, to his 
 wishes than to his merits. She felt that his influ¬ 
 ence over her mind was heightened by circum¬ 
 stances 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 ardent 
 
 love for Marianne, which it was not even inno- 
 
 % 
 
 cent to indulge. But she f elt 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, re¬ 
 freshed 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 indication of f atigue, 
 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 down-stairs 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 
 
 [ 235 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 the house had produced 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, in¬ 
 stantly 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 sup¬ 
 ported into the drawing-room between her daugh¬ 
 ter and her friend; and there, shedding tears of 
 joy, though still unable to speak, embraced Eli¬ 
 nor again and again, turning from her at inter¬ 
 vals to press Colonel Brandon’s hand, with a look 
 which spoke at once her gratitude, and her con¬ 
 viction 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 her¬ 
 self, to see Marianne was her first desire; and in 
 two minutes she was with her beloved child, ren¬ 
 dered dearer to her than ever by absence, unhap¬ 
 piness 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 
 [ 236 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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 wearing anxiety seemed to make 
 requisite, was kept off by irritation of spirits. 
 Willoughby, “poor Willoughby,” as she now 
 allowed herself to call him, was constantly in her 
 thoughts; she would not but have heard his vin¬ 
 dication 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 Bar¬ 
 ton had been much softened to Mrs Dashwood by 
 her own previous alarm; for so great was her un¬ 
 easiness about Marianne, that she had already 
 determined to set out for Cleveland on that very 
 day, without waiting for any farther intelligence, 
 
 [ 237 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 and had so far settled her journey before his ar¬ 
 rival, that the Careys were then expected every 
 moment to fetch Margaret away, as her mother 
 was unwilling to take her where there might be 
 inf ection. 
 
 Marianne continued to mend every day, and 
 the brilliant cheerfulness of Mrs Dash wood’s 
 looks and spirits proved her to be, as she repeat¬ 
 edly declared herself, one of the happiest women 
 in the world. Elinor could not hear the declara¬ 
 tion, nor witness its proofs, without sometimes 
 wondering whether her mother ever recollected 
 Edward. But Mrs Dashwood, trusting 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 conference 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 
 
 [ 238 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 and pained, surprised and not surprised, was all 
 silent attention. 
 
 “You are never like me, dear Elinor, or I 
 should wonder at your composure 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, char¬ 
 acters, or feelings, could be given;—but her 
 mother must always be carried away by her im¬ 
 agination on any interesting subject, and there¬ 
 fore, 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 friend¬ 
 ship, 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, con¬ 
 stant affection for Marianne. He has loved her, 
 my Elinor, ever since the first moment of seeing 
 her.” 
 
 [ 239 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 Here, however, Elinor perceived, not the 
 language, not the professions of Colonel Bran¬ 
 don, but the natural embellishments of her 
 mother’s active fancy, which fashioned every¬ 
 thing delightful to her, as it chose. 
 
 “His regard for her, infinitely surpassing any¬ 
 thing 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, I should be the last to en¬ 
 courage such affection, or even to be pleased by 
 it. But his coming for me as he did, with such 
 active, such ready friendship, 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 had been long 
 and intimately known; they equally love and 
 [ 240 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 respect him: and even my knowledge of him, 
 though lately acquired, is very considerable; and 
 so highly do I value and esteem him, that if Mari¬ 
 anne 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 con¬ 
 fidence, 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 repeated 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, 
 
 [ 241 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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 char¬ 
 acter and principles fixed; and his disposition, I 
 am well convinced, 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 hand¬ 
 some as Willoughby; but, at the same time, there 
 is something much more pleasing in his coun¬ 
 tenance. 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 artificial, 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 contrary, Marianne 
 would yet never have been so happy with him, as 
 she will be with Colonel Brandon.” 
 
 [ 242 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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 dis¬ 
 tance of me,” added Mrs Dash wood, “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 situa¬ 
 tion.” 
 
 Poor Elinor! here was a new scheme for 
 getting her to Delaford! but her spirit was stub¬ 
 born. 
 
 “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, to feel a pang for Wil¬ 
 loughby, 
 
 [ 243 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 CHAPTER XLVI 
 
 M ARIANNE’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 in¬ 
 vited 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 some¬ 
 thing more than his affection 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 mis¬ 
 ery to his mind, brought back by that resem¬ 
 blance between Marianne and Eliza already ac- " 
 knowledged, and now strengthened by the hol¬ 
 low eye, the sickly skin, the posture of reclining 
 weakness, and the warm acknowledgment of 
 peculiar obligation. 
 
 [ 244 ] 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 Mrs Dashwood, not less watchful of what 
 passed than her daughter, but with a mind very 
 differently influenced, and therefore watching to 
 very diff erent eff ect, 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 something 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 depended those of her 
 two friends; Mrs Jennings could not quit Cleve¬ 
 land during the Dash woods’ stay, and Colonel 
 Brandon was soon brought by their united re¬ 
 quest, to consider his own abode there as equally 
 determinate, 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. 
 
 [ 245 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 The day of separation and departure arrived; 
 and Marianne, after taking so particular and 
 lengthened a leave of Mrs Jennings—one so 
 earnestly grateful, so full of respect and kind 
 wishes as seemed due to her own heart from a 
 secret acknowledgment of past inattention—and 
 bidding Colonel Brandon farewell with the cor¬ 
 diality of a friend, was carefully 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 
 companions; 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 essen¬ 
 tial fatigue. Everything that the most zealous 
 aff ection, the most solicitous care, could do to ren¬ 
 der her comfortable, was the office of each watch¬ 
 ful companion, and each found their reward in 
 her bodily ease and her calmness of spirits. To 
 Elinor, the observation of the latter was par¬ 
 ticularly grateful. She, who had seen her 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, 
 [ 246 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 with a joy which no other could equally share, 
 an apparent composure of mind, which in being 
 the result as she trusted of serious reflection, must 
 eventually lead her to contentment and cheerful¬ 
 ness. 
 
 As they approached Barton, indeed, and en¬ 
 tered on scenes of which every field and every 
 tree brought some peculiar, some painful recol¬ 
 lection, she grew silent and thoughtful, and turn¬ 
 ing 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 unobtrusiveness 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 en¬ 
 tered 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 con¬ 
 nected. She said little, but every 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 
 
 [ 247 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 on which her eye first rested was an opera, pro¬ 
 cured 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 min¬ 
 ute, complained of feebleness in her fingers, and 
 closed the instrument again; declaring, however, 
 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, antici¬ 
 pating 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 re¬ 
 covered 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 
 plantations at Barton Cross, and the Abbeyland; 
 and we will often go to the old ruins of the 
 Priory, and try to trace its foundations as far as 
 we are told they once reached. I know we shall 
 be happy. I know the summer will pass happily 
 [ 248 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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 instruc¬ 
 tion which I now feel myself to want.” 
 
 Elinor honoured her for a plan which origi¬ 
 nated 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 re¬ 
 pining, now at work in introducing excess into 
 a scheme of such rational employment and virtu¬ 
 ous self-controul. 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 un¬ 
 settle 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 re¬ 
 solved to wait till her sister’s health were more 
 secure, before she appointed it. But the resolu¬ 
 tion was made only to be broken. 
 
 [249J 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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 confi¬ 
 dence; and Marianne, leaning on Elinor’s arm, 
 was authorised to walk as long as she could with¬ 
 out fatigue, in the lane before the house. 
 
 The sisters set out at a pace slow as the feeble¬ 
 ness of Marianne in an exercise hitherto untried 
 since her illness required;—and they had ad¬ 
 vanced only so far beyond the house as to admit 
 a full view of the hill, the important 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 
 will it be wrong?—I can talk of it now, I hope, 
 as I ought to do.” 
 
 Elinor tenderly invited her to be open. 
 
 “As for regret,” said Marianne, “I have done 
 with that, as far as he is concerned. I do not 
 mean to talk to you of what my feelings have 
 [250] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 been for him, but what they are now. At pres¬ 
 ent, if I could be satisfied on one point—if I could 
 be allowed to think that he was not always acting 
 a part, not always deceiving me;—but above all, 
 if I could be assured that he never was so very 
 wicked as my fears have sometimes fancied him, 
 since the story of that unfortunate girl—” 
 
 She stopt. Elinor joyfully treasured her 
 words as she answered— 
 
 “If you could be assured of that, you think you 
 should be easy?” 
 
 “Yes. My peace of mind is doubly involved 
 in it;—for not only is it horrible to suspect a per¬ 
 son, who has been what he has been to me, of such 
 designs,—but what must it make me to appear 
 myself? What in a situation like mine, but a 
 most shamefully unguarded affection could ex¬ 
 pose me to—” 
 
 “How then,” asked her sister, “would you ac¬ 
 count for his behaviour?” 
 
 “I would suppose him,—Oh! how gladly would 
 I suppose him, only fickle—very, very fickle.” 
 
 Elinor said no more. She was debating within 
 herself on the eligibility of beginning her story 
 directly, or postponing it till Marianne were in 
 stronger health;—and they crept on for a few 
 minutes in silence. 
 
 “I am not wishing him too much good,” said 
 Marianne at last with a sigh, “when I wish his 
 
 [ 251 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 secret reflections may be no more unpleasant than 
 my own. He will suffer enough in them.” 
 
 “Do you compare your conduct with his?” 
 
 “No. I compare it with what it ought to have 
 been; I compare it with yours.” 
 
 “Our situations have borne little resemblance.” 
 
 “They have borne more than our conduct. Do 
 not, my dearest Elinor, let your kindness defend 
 what I know your judgment must censure. My 
 illness has made me think—it has given me leisure 
 and calmness for serious recollection. Long 
 before I was enough recovered to talk, I was 
 perfectly able to reflect. I considered the past: 
 I saw in my own behaviour, since the beginning 
 of our acquaintance with him last autumn, noth¬ 
 ing but a series of imprudence towards myself, 
 and want of kindness to others. I saw that my 
 own feelings had prepared my sufferings, and 
 that my want of fortitude under them had almost 
 led me to the grave. My illness, I well knew, had 
 been entirely brought on by myself, by such neg¬ 
 ligence of my own health as I felt even at the 
 time to be wrong. Had I died, it would have 
 been self-destruction. I did not know T my danger 
 till the danger was removed; but with such feel¬ 
 ings as these reflections gave me, I wonder at my 
 recovery,—wonder that the very eagerness of my 
 desire to live, to have time for atonement to my 
 God, and to you all, did not kill me at once. Had 
 [252] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 I died, in what peculiar misery should I have left 
 you, my nurse, my friend, my sister!—You, who 
 had seen all the fretful selfishness of my latter 
 days; who had known all the murmurings of my 
 heart!—How should I have lived in your remem¬ 
 brance!—My mother too! How could you have 
 consoled her!—I cannot express my own abhor¬ 
 rence of myself. Whenever I looked towards 
 the past, I saw some duty neglected, or some fail¬ 
 ing indulged. Everybody seemed injured by 
 me. The kindness, the unceasing kindness of 
 Mrs Jennings, I had repaid with ungrateful con¬ 
 tempt. To the Middletons, the Palmers, the 
 Steeles, to every common acquaintance even, I 
 had been insolent and unjust; with an heart hard¬ 
 ened against their merits, and a temper irritated 
 by their very attention. To John, to Fanny,— 
 
 yes, even to them, little as they deserve, I had 
 given less than their due. But you,—you above 
 all, above my mother, had been wronged by me. 
 I, and only I, knew your heart and its sorrows; 
 
 yet, to what did it influence me?—not to any com¬ 
 passion that could benefit you or myself. Your 
 example was before me: but to what avail? Was 
 I more considerate of you and your comfort? Did 
 I imitate your forbearance, or lessen your re¬ 
 straints, by taking any part in those offices of 
 general complaisance or particular gratitude 
 which you had hitherto been left to discharge 
 
 [253] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 alone? No;—not less when I knew you to be 
 unhappy, than when I had believed you at ease, 
 did I turn away from every exertion of duty or 
 friendship; scarcely allowed sorrow to exist but 
 with me, regretting only that heart which deserted 
 and wronged me, and leaving you, for whom I 
 professed an unbounded affection, to be miser¬ 
 able for my sake.” 
 
 Here ceased the rapid flow of her self-reprov- 
 ing spirit; and Elinor, impatient to sooth, though 
 too honest to flatter, gave her instantly that 
 praise and support which her frankness and her 
 contrition so well deserved. Marianne pressed 
 her hand and replied— 
 
 “You are very good. The future must be my 
 proof. I have laid down my plan, and if I am 
 capable of adhering to it, my feelings shall be 
 governed and my temper improved. They shall 
 no longer worry others, nor torture myself. I 
 shall now live solely for my family. You, my 
 mother, and Margaret, must henceforth be all the 
 world to me; you will share my aff ections entirely 
 between you. From you, from my home, I shall 
 never again have the smallest incitement to move; 
 and if I do mix in other society, it will be only to 
 shew that my spirit is humbled, my heart 
 amended, and that I can practise the civilities, the 
 lesser duties of life, with gentleness and forbear¬ 
 ance. As for Willoughby, to say that I shall 
 [254] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 soorx or that I shall ever forgot him, would be 
 idle. His remembrance can be overcome by no 
 change of circumstances or opinions. But it shall 
 be regulated, it shall be checked by religion, by 
 reason, by constant employment.” 
 
 She paused, and added in a lower voice, “If I 
 could but know his heart, everything would be¬ 
 come easy.” 
 
 Elinor, who had now been some time reflecting 
 on the propriety or impropriety of speedily haz¬ 
 arding her narration, without feeling at all nearer 
 decision than at first, heard this; and perceiving 
 that as reflection did nothing, resolution must do 
 all, soon found herself leading to the fact. 
 
 She managed the recital, as she hoped, with 
 address; prepared her anxious listener with cau¬ 
 tion ; related simply and honestly the chief points 
 on which Willoughby grounded his apology; did 
 justice to his repentance, and softened only his 
 protestations of present regard. Marianne said 
 not a word; she trembled, her eyes were fixed on 
 the ground, and her lips became whiter than even 
 sickness had left them. A thousand inquiries 
 sprung up from her heart, but she dared not urge 
 one. She caught every syllable with panting 
 eagerness; her hand, unknowingly to herself, 
 closely pressed her sister’s, and tears covered her 
 cheeks. 
 
 Elinor, dreading her being tired, led her 
 
 [ 255 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 towards home; and till they reached the door of 
 the cottage, easily conjecturing what her curi¬ 
 osity must be, though no question was suffered to 
 speak it, talked of nothing but Willoughby, and 
 their conversation together; and was carefully 
 minute in every particular of speech and look, 
 where minuteness could be safely indulged. As 
 soon as they entered the house, Marianne, with a 
 kiss of gratitude, and these two words just articu¬ 
 late through her tears, “Tell mama,” withdrew 
 from her sister and walked slowly upstairs. Eli¬ 
 nor would not attempt to disturb a solitude so 
 reasonable as what she now sought; and with a 
 mind anxiously pre-arranging its result, and a 
 resolution of reviving the subject again should 
 Marianne fail to do it, she turned into the par¬ 
 lour to fulfil her parting injunction. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVII 
 
 M RS DASHWOOD did not hear unmoved 
 the vindication of her former favourite. 
 She rejoiced in his being cleared from 
 some part of his imputed guilt; she was sorry for 
 him; she wished him happy. But the feelings of 
 the past could not be recalled. Nothing could re¬ 
 store him with a faith unbroken—a character un¬ 
 blemished, to Marianne. Nothing could do away 
 [256] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 the knowledge of what the latter had suffered 
 through his means, nor remove the guilt of his 
 conduct towards Eliza. Nothing could replace 
 him, therefore, in her former esteem, nor injure 
 the interest of Colonel Brandon. 
 
 Had Mrs Dashwood, like her daughter, heard 
 Willoughby’s story from himself—had she wit¬ 
 nessed his distress, and been under the influence 
 of his countenance and his manner, it is probable 
 that her compassion would have been greater. 
 But it was neither in Elinor’s power, nor in her 
 wish, to rouse such feelings in another, by her re¬ 
 tailed explanation, as had at first been called 
 forth in herself. Reflection had given calmness 
 to her judgment, and sobered her own opinion of 
 Willoughby’s deserts; she wished, therefore, to 
 declare only the simple truth, and lay open such 
 facts as were really due to his character, without 
 any embellishment of tenderness to lead the fancy 
 astray. 
 
 In the evening, when they were all there to¬ 
 gether, Marianne began voluntarily to speak of 
 him again; but that it was not without an effort, 
 the restless, unquiet thoughtfulness in which she 
 had been for some time previously sitting, her 
 rising colour as she spoke, and her unsteady voice, 
 plainly shewed. 
 
 “I wish to assure you both,” said she, “that I 
 see everything—as you can desire me to do.” 
 
 [ 257 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 Mrs Dash wood would have interrupted her in¬ 
 stantly with soothing tenderness, had not Elinor, 
 who really wished to hear her sister’s unbiassed 
 opinion, by an eager sign, engaged her silence. 
 Marianne slowly continued— 
 
 “It is a great relief to me—what Elinor told 
 me this morning—I have now heard exactly what 
 I wished to hear.” For some moments her voice 
 was lost; but, recovering herself, she added, and 
 with greater calmness than before: “I am now 
 perfectly satisfied. I wish for no change. I 
 never could have been happy with him, after 
 knowing, as sooner or later I must have known, 
 all this. I should have had no confidence, no 
 esteem. Nothing could have done it away to my 
 feelings.” 
 
 “I know it—I know it,” cried her mother. 
 “Happy with a man of libertine practices! With 
 one who had so injured the peace of the dearest 
 of our friends, and the best of men? No—my 
 Marianne has not a heart to be made happy by 
 such a man! Her conscience, her sensitive con¬ 
 science, would have felt all that the conscience of 
 her husband ought to have felt.” 
 
 Marianne sighed, and repeated—“I wish for 
 no change.” 
 
 “You consider the matter,” said Elinor, “ex¬ 
 actly as a good mind and a sound understanding 
 must consider it; and I dare say you perceive, as 
 [ 258 ] . ‘ ; 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 well as myself, not only in this, but in many other 
 circumstances, reason enough to be convinced 
 that your marriage must have involved you in 
 many certain troubles and disappointments in 
 which you would have been poorly supported by 
 an aff ection, on his side, much less certain. Had 
 you married, you must have been always poor. 
 His expensiveness is acknowledged even by him¬ 
 self, and his whole conduct declares that self-de¬ 
 nial is a word hardly understood by him. His 
 demands and your inexperience together on a 
 small, very small income, must have brought on 
 distresses which would not be the less grievous to 
 you from having been entirely unknown and un¬ 
 thought of before. Your sense of honour and 
 honesty would have led you, I know, when aware 
 of your situation, to attempt all the economy that 
 would appear to you possible; and perhaps, as 
 long as your frugality retrenched only on your 
 own comfort, you might have been suffered to 
 practise it, but beyond that—and how little could 
 the utmost of your single management do to stop 
 the ruin which had begun before your marriage? 
 —beyond that , had you endeavoured, however 
 reasonably, to abridge his enjoyments, is it not to 
 be feared, that instead of prevailing on feelings 
 so selfish to consent to it, you would have lessened 
 your own influence on his heart, and made him 
 regret the connection which had involved him in 
 such difficulties?” 
 
 [ 259 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 Marianne’s lips quivered, and she repeated the 
 word “Selfish?” in a tone that implied “Do you 
 really think him selfish?” 
 
 “The whole of his behaviour,” replied Elinor, 
 “from the beginning to the end of the affair, has 
 been grounded on selfishness. It was selfishness 
 which first made him sport with your aff ections— 
 which afterwards, when his own were engaged, 
 made him delay the confession of it, and which 
 finally carried him from Barton. His own enjoy¬ 
 ment, or his own ease, was in every particular his 
 ruling principle.” 
 
 “It is very true. My happiness never was his 
 object.” 
 
 “At present,” continued Elinor, “he regrets 
 what he has done. And why does he regret it? 
 Because he finds it has not answered towards him- 
 self. It has not made him happy. His circum¬ 
 stances are now unembarrassed—he suffers from 
 no evil of that kind, and he thinks only that he 
 has married a woman of a less amiable temper 
 than yourself. But does it thence follow that, 
 had he married you, he would have been happy? 
 The inconveniences would have been different. 
 He would then have suff ered under the pecuniary 
 distresses which, because they are removed, he 
 now reckons as nothing. He would have had a 
 wife of whose temper he could make no com¬ 
 plaint, but he would have been always necessitous 
 [ 260 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 —always poor; and probably would soon have 
 learnt to rank the innumerable comforts of a clear 
 estate and good income as for far more impor¬ 
 tance, even to domestic happiness, than the mere 
 temper of a wife.” 
 
 “I have not a doubt of it,” said Marianne; “and 
 I have nothing to regret—nothing but my own 
 folly” 
 
 “Rather say your mother’s imprudence, my 
 child,” said Mrs Dashwood; “she must be answer- 
 able.” 
 
 Marianne would not let her proceed; and Eli¬ 
 nor, satisfied that each felt their own error, wished 
 to avoid any survey of the past that might weaken 
 her sister’s spirits; she therefore, pursuing the 
 first subject, immediately continued— 
 
 “One observation may, I think, be fairly drawn 
 from the whole of the story—that all Wil¬ 
 loughby’s difficulties have arisen from the first 
 offence against virtue, in his behaviour to Eliza 
 Williams. That crime has been the origin of 
 every lesser one, and of all his present discon¬ 
 tents.” 
 
 Marianne assented most feelingly to the re¬ 
 mark; and her mother was led by it to an enu¬ 
 meration of Colonel Brandon’s injuries and 
 merits, warm as friendship and design could 
 unitedly dictate. Her daughter did not look, 
 however, as if much of it were heard by her. 
 
 [ 261 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 Elinor, according to her expectation, saw on 
 the two or three following days, that Marianne 
 did not continue to gain strength as she had done; 
 but while her resolution was unsubdued, and she 
 still tried to appear cheerful and easy, her sister 
 could safely trust to the effect of time upon her 
 health. 
 
 Margaret returned, and the family were again 
 all restored to each other, again quietly settled at 
 the cottage, and if not pursuing their usual stud¬ 
 ies with quite so much vigour as when they first 
 came to Barton, at least planning a vigorous pros¬ 
 ecution of them in future. 
 
 Elinor grew impatient for some tidings of 
 Edward. She had heard nothing of him since her 
 leaving London, nothing new of his plans, noth¬ 
 ing certain even of his present abode. Some let¬ 
 ters had passed between her and her brother, in 
 consequence of Marianne’s illness; and in the first 
 of John’s, there had been this sentence:—“We 
 know nothing of our unfortunate Edward, and 
 can make no inquiries on so prohibited a subject, 
 but conclude him to be still at Oxford;” which 
 was all the intelligence of Edward afforded her 
 by the correspondence, for his name was not even 
 mentioned in any of the succeeding letters. She 
 was not doomed, however, to be long in ignorance 
 of his measures. 
 
 Their man-servant had been sent one morning 
 
 [ 262 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 to Exeter on business; and when, as he waited at 
 table, he had satisfied the inquiries of his mis¬ 
 tress as to the event of his errand, this was his 
 voluntary communication— 
 
 “I suppose you know, ma’am, that Mr. Ferrars 
 is married.” 
 
 Marianne gave a violent start, fixed her eyes 
 upon Elinor, saw her turning pale, and fell back 
 in her chair in hysterics. Mrs Dashwood, whose 
 eyes, as she answered the servant’s inquiry, had 
 intuitively taken the same direction, was shocked 
 to perceive by Elinor’s countenance how much 
 she really suffered, and in a moment afterwards, 
 alike distressed by Marianne’s situation, knew not 
 on which child to bestow her principal attention. 
 
 The servant, who saw only that Miss Mari¬ 
 anne was taken ill, had sense enough to call one 
 of the maids, who, with Mrs Dashwood’s assist¬ 
 ance, supported her into the other room. By that 
 time, Marianne was rather better, and her mother 
 leaving her to the care of Margaret and the maid, 
 returned to Elinor, who though still much dis¬ 
 ordered, had so far recovered the use of her rea¬ 
 son and voice as to be just beginning an inquiry 
 of Thomas as to the source of his intelligence. 
 Mrs Dashwood immediately took all that trouble 
 on herself: and Elinor had the benefit of the 
 information without the exertion of seeking it. 
 
 ‘‘Who told you that Mr Ferrars was married, 
 Thomas?” 
 
 [ 263 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 “I see Mr Ferrars myself, ma’am, this morn¬ 
 ing in Exeter, and his lady too, Miss Steele as 
 was. They was stopping in a chaise at the door 
 of the New London Inn, as I went there with a 
 message from Sally at the Park to her brother, 
 who is one of the postboys. I happened to look 
 up as I went by the chaise, and so I see directly 
 it was the youngest Miss Steele; so I took off my 
 hat, and she knew me and called to me, and in¬ 
 quired after you, ma’am, and the young ladies, 
 especially Miss Marianne, and bid me I should 
 give her compliments and Mr Ferrars’s, their best 
 compliments and service, and how sorry they was 
 they had not time to come on and see you—but 
 they was in a great hurry to go forwards, for 
 they was going further down for a little while— 
 but howsev-er, when they come back, they’d make 
 sure to come and see you.” 
 
 “But did she tell you she was married, 
 Thomas?” 
 
 “Yes, ma’am. She smiled, and said how she 
 had changed her name since she was in these parts. 
 She was always a very affable and free-spoken 
 young lady, and very civil-behaved. So, I made 
 free to wish her joy.” 
 
 “Was Mr Ferrars in the carriage with her?” 
 
 “Yes, ma’am, I just see him leaning back in it, 
 but he did not look up;—he never was a gentle¬ 
 man much for talking.” 
 
 [ 264 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 Elinor’s heart could easily account for his not 
 putting himself forward; and Mrs Dashwood 
 probably found the same explanation. 
 
 “Was there no one else in the carriage?” 
 
 “No, ma’am, only they two.” 
 
 “Do you know where they came from?” 
 
 “They come straight from town, as Miss Lucy 
 —Mrs Ferrars told me.” 
 
 “And are going farther westward?” 
 
 “Yes, ma’am—but not to bide long. They will 
 soon be back again, and then they’d be sure and 
 call here.” 
 
 Mrs Dashwood now looked at her daughter; 
 but Elinor knew better than to expect them. She 
 recognised the whole of Lucy in the message, and 
 was very confident that Edward would never 
 come near them. She observed, in a low voice, to 
 her mother, that they were probably going down 
 to Mr Pratt’s, near Plymouth. 
 
 Thomas’s intelligence seemed over. Elinor 
 looked as if she wished to hear more. 
 
 “Did you see them off before you came away?” 
 
 “No, ma’am—the horses was just coming out, 
 but I could not bide any longer; I was afraid of 
 being late.” 
 
 “Did Mrs Ferrars look well?” 
 
 “Yes, ma’am, she said how she was very well; 
 and to my mind she was always a very handsome 
 young lady—and she seemed vastly contented.” 
 
 [ 265 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 Mrs Dash wood could think of no other ques¬ 
 tion, and Thomas and the table-cloth, now alike 
 needless, were soon after dismissed. Marianne 
 had already sent to say that she should eat noth¬ 
 ing more; Mrs Dashwood’s and Elinor’s appe¬ 
 tites were equally lost, and Margaret might think 
 herself very well off, that with so much uneasiness 
 as both her sisters had lately experienced, so much 
 reason as they had often had to be careless of the 
 meals, she had never been obliged to go without 
 her dinner before. 
 
 When the dessert and the wine were arranged, 
 and Mrs Dash wood and Elinor were left to them¬ 
 selves, they remained long together in a similarity 
 of thoughtfulness and silence. Mrs Dash wood 
 f eared to hazard any remark, and ventured not to 
 offer consolation. She now found that she had 
 erred in relying on Elinor’s representation of 
 herself; and justly concluded that everything had 
 been expressly softened at the time, to spare her 
 from an increase of unhappiness, suffering as 
 she then had suffered for Marianne. She found 
 that she had been misled by the careful, the con¬ 
 siderate attention of her daughter, to think the 
 attachment, which once she had so well under¬ 
 stood, much slighter in reality than she had been 
 wont to believe, or than it was now proved to be. 
 She feared that under this persuasion she had 
 been unjust, inattentive—nay, almost unkind to 
 [ 206 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 her Elinor:—that Marianne’s affliction, because 
 more acknowledged, more immediately before 
 her, had too much engrossed her tenderness, and 
 led her away to forget that in Elinor she might 
 have a daughter suffering almost as much, cer¬ 
 tainly with less self-provocation and greater for¬ 
 titude. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVIII 
 
 E LINOR now found the difference between 
 the expectation of an unpleasant event, 
 however certain the mind may be told to 
 consider it, and certainty itself. She now found, 
 that in spite of herself, she had always admitted 
 a hope, while Edward remained single, that some¬ 
 thing would occur to prevent his marrying Lucy; 
 that some resolution of his own, some mediation 
 of friends, or some more eligible opportunity of 
 establishment for the lady, would arise to assist 
 the happiness of all. But he was now married, 
 and she condemned her heart f or the lurking flat¬ 
 tery which so much heightened the pain of the 
 intelligence. 
 
 That he should be married so soon, before (as 
 she imagined) he could be in orders, and conse¬ 
 quently before he could be in possession of the 
 living, surprised her a little at first. But she soon 
 saw how likely it was that Lucy, in her self-provi- 
 
 [ 267 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 dent care, in her haste to secure him, should over¬ 
 look everything but the risk of delay. They were 
 married, married in town, and now hastening 
 down to her uncle’s. What had Edward felt on 
 being within four miles of Barton, on seeing her 
 mother’s servant, on hearing Lucy’s message! 
 
 They would soon, she supposed, be settled at 
 Delaford,—Delaford, that place in which so 
 much conspired to give her an interest—which she 
 wished to be acquainted with, and yet desired to 
 avoid. She saw them in an instant in their par¬ 
 sonage-house ; saw in Lucy the active, contriving 
 manager, uniting at once a desire of smart ap¬ 
 pearance with the utmost frugality, and ashamed 
 to be suspected of half her economical practices; 
 —pursuing her own interest in every thought, 
 courting the favour of Colonel Brandon, of Mrs 
 Jennings, and of every wealthy friend. In 
 Edward, she knew not what she saw, nor what 
 she wished to see;—happy or unhappy—nothing 
 pleased her;—she turned away her head from 
 every sketch of him. 
 
 Elinor flattered herself that some one of their 
 connections in London would write to them to 
 announce the event, and give farther particulars; 
 but day after day passed off, and brought no let¬ 
 ter, no tidings. Though uncertain that any one 
 were to blame, she found fault with every absent 
 friend. They were all thoughtless or indolent. 
 
 [ 268 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 “When do you write to Colonel Brandon, 
 ma’am?” was an inquiry which sprung from the 
 impatience of her mind to have something going 
 on. 
 
 “I wrote to him, my love, last week, and 
 rather expect to see, than to hear from him again. 
 I earnestly pressed his coming to us, and should 
 not be surprised to see him walk in to-day or 
 to-morrow, or any day.” 
 
 This was gaining something, something to look 
 forward to. Colonel Brandon must have some 
 information to give. 
 
 Scarcely had she so determined it, when the 
 figure of a man on horseback drew her eyes to the 
 window. He stopt at their gate. It was a gen¬ 
 tleman, it was Colonel Brandon himself. Now 
 she should hear more;—and she trembled in ex¬ 
 pectation of it. But—it was not Colonel Bran¬ 
 don—neither his air, nor his height. Were it pos¬ 
 sible, she should say it must be Edward. She 
 looked again. He had just dismounted;—she 
 could not be mistaken—it was Edward. She 
 moved away and sat down. “He comes from Mr 
 Pratt’s purposely to see us. I will be calm; I 
 will be mistress of myself.” 
 
 In a moment, she perceived that the others 
 were likewise aware of the mistake. She saw her 
 mother and Marianne change colour; saw them 
 look at herself, and whisper a few sentences to 
 
 [ 269 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 each other. She would have given the world to 
 be able to speak—and to make them understand 
 that she had hoped no coolness, no slight, would 
 appear in their behaviour to him;—but she had 
 no utterance, and was obliged to leave all to their 
 own discretion. 
 
 Not a syllable passed aloud. They all waited 
 in silence for the appearance of their visitor. His 
 footsteps were heard along the gravel path; in a 
 moment he was in the passage, and in another he 
 was before them. 
 
 His countenance, as he entered the room, was 
 not too happy, even for Elinor. His complexion 
 was white with agitation, and he looked as if 
 fearful of his reception, and conscious that he 
 merited no kind one. Mrs Dash wood, however, 
 conforming, as she trusted, to the wishes of that 
 daughter by whom she then meant, in the warmth 
 of her heart, to be guided in everything, met him 
 with a look of forced complacency, gave him her 
 hand, and wished him joy. 
 
 He coloured, and stammered out an unintelli¬ 
 gible reply. Elinor’s lips had moved with her 
 mother’s, and when the moment of action was 
 over, she wished that she had shaken hands with 
 him too. But it was then too late, and with a 
 countenance meaning to be open, she sat down 
 again and talked of the weather. 
 
 Marianne had retreated as much as possible out 
 [ 270 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 of sight, to conceal her distress; and Margaret, 
 understanding some part, but not the whole, of 
 the case, thought it incumbent on her to be dig¬ 
 nified, and therefore took a seat as far from him 
 as she could, and maintained a strict silence. 
 
 When Elinor had ceased to rejoice in the dry¬ 
 ness of the season, a very awful pause took place. 
 It was put an end to by Mrs Dash wood, who felt 
 obliged to hope that he had left Mrs Ferrars very 
 well. In a hurried manner, he replied in the af¬ 
 firmative. 
 
 Another pause. 
 
 Elinor, resolving to exert herself, though fear¬ 
 ing the sound of her own voice, now said— 
 
 “Is Mrs Ferrars at Longstaple?” 
 
 “At Longstaple!”—he replied, with an air of 
 surprise. “No, my mother is in town.” 
 
 “I meant,” said Elinor, taking up some work 
 from the table, “to inquire after Mrs Edward 
 Ferrars.” 
 
 She dared not look up;—but her mother and 
 Marianne both turned their eyes on him. He col¬ 
 oured, seemed perplexed, looked doubtingly, and, 
 after some hesitation said— 
 
 “Perhaps you mean—my brother—you mean 
 Mrs—Mrs Robert Ferrars.” 
 
 “Mrs Robert Ferrars!”—was repeated by 
 Marianne and her mother in an accent of the 
 utmost amazement;—and though Elinor could 
 
 [ 271 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 not speak, even her eyes were fixed on him with 
 the same impatient wonder. He rose from his 
 seat and walked to the window, apparently from 
 not knowing what to do; took up a pair of 
 scissars that lay there, and while spoiling both 
 them and their sheath by cutting the latter to 
 pieces as he spoke, said, in an hurried voice— 
 “Perhaps you do not know—you may not have 
 heard that my brother is lately married to—to the 
 youngest—to Miss Lucy Steele.” 
 
 His words were echoed with unspeakable as¬ 
 tonishment by all but Elinor, who sat with her 
 head leaning over her work, in a state of such 
 agitation as made her hardly know where she was. 
 
 “Yes,” said he, “they were married last week 
 and are now at Dawlish.” 
 
 Elinor could sit it no longer. She almost ran 
 out of the room, and as soon as the door was 
 closed, burst into tears of joy, which at first she 
 thought would never cease. Edward, who had 
 till then looked anywhere rather than at her, saw 
 her hurry away, and perhaps saw—or even heard 
 —her emotion; for immediately afterwards he 
 fell into a reverie, which no remarks, no inquiries, 
 no affectionate address of Mrs Dashwood could 
 penetrate, and at last, without saying a word, 
 quitted the room, and walked out towards the vil¬ 
 lage, leaving the others in the greatest astonish¬ 
 ment and perplexity on a change in his situation 
 [ 272 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 so wonderful and so sudden—a perplexity which 
 they had no means of lessening but by their own 
 conjectures. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIX 
 
 U NACCOUNTABLE, however, as the cir¬ 
 cumstances of his release might appear 
 to the whole family, it was certain that 
 Edward was free; and to what purpose that free¬ 
 dom would be employed was easily predeter¬ 
 mined by all; for after experiencing the blessings 
 of one imprudent engagement, contracted with¬ 
 out his mother’s consent, as he had already done 
 for more than four years, nothing less could be 
 expected of him in the failure of that , than the 
 immediate contraction of another. 
 
 His errand at Barton, in fact, was a simple one. 
 It was only to ask Elinor to marry him; and con¬ 
 sidering that he was not altogether inexperienced 
 in such a question, it might be strange that he 
 should feel so uncomfortable in the present case 
 as he really did, so much in need of encourage¬ 
 ment and fresh air. 
 
 How soon he had walked himself into the 
 proper resolution however, how soon an oppor¬ 
 tunity of exercising it occurred, in what manner 
 he expressed himself, and how he was received, 
 
 [ 273 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 need not be particularly told. This only need be 
 said:—that when they all sat down to table at 
 four o’clock, about three hours after his arrival, 
 he had secured his lady, engaged her mother’s 
 consent, and was not only in the rapturous pro¬ 
 fession of the lover, but in the reality of reason 
 and truth, one of the happiest of men. His situa¬ 
 tion indeed was more than commonly joyful. 
 He had more than the ordinary triumph of ac¬ 
 cepted love to swell his heart, and raise his spirits. 
 He was released, without any reproach to him¬ 
 self, from an entanglement which had long 
 formed his misery, from a woman whom he had 
 long ceased to love—and elevated at once to that 
 security with another, which he must have 
 thought of almost with despair, as soon as he had 
 learnt to consider it with desire. He was 
 brought, not from doubt or suspense, but from 
 misery to happiness;—and the change was openly 
 spoken in such a genuine, flowing, grateful cheer¬ 
 fulness, as his friends had never witnessed in him 
 before. 
 
 His heart was now open to Elinor—all its 
 weaknesses, all its errors confessed, and his first 
 boyish attachment to Lucy treated with all the 
 philosophic dignity of twenty-four. 
 
 “It was a foolish, idle inclination on mv side,” 
 said he, “the consequence of ignorance of the 
 world—and want of employment. Had my 
 [ 274 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 mother given me some active profession when I 
 was removed at eighteen from the care of Mr 
 Pratt, I think—nay, I am sure, it would never 
 have happened; for, though I left Longstaple 
 with what I thought, at the time, a most uncon¬ 
 querable preference for his niece, yet had I then 
 had any pursuit, any object to engage my time 
 and keep me at a distance from her for a few 
 months, I should very soon have outgrown the 
 fancied attachment, especially by mixing more 
 with the world, as in such a case I must have done. 
 But instead of having anything to do—instead 
 of having any profession chosen for me, or being 
 allowed to chuse any myself, I returned home to 
 be completely idle; and for the first twelvemonth 
 afterwards, I had not even the nominal employ¬ 
 ment which belonging to the university would 
 have given me, for I was not entered at Oxford 
 till I was nineteen. I had therefore nothing in 
 the world to do, but to fancy myself in love; and 
 as my mother did not make my home in every 
 respect comfortable—as I had no friend, no com¬ 
 panion in my brother, and disliked new acquaint¬ 
 ance, it was not unnatural for me to be very often 
 at Longstaple, where I always felt myself at 
 home, and was always sure of a welcome; and 
 accordingly I spent the greatest part of my time 
 there from eighteen to nineteen. Lucy appeared 
 everything that was amiable and obliging. She 
 
 [ 275 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 was pretty too—at least I thought so then; and I 
 had seen so little of other women, that I could 
 make no comparisons, and see no defects. Con¬ 
 sidering everything, therefore, I hope, foolish as 
 our engagement was, foolish as it has since in 
 every way been proved, it was not at the time an 
 unnatural, or an inexcusable piece of folly.” 
 
 The change which a few hours had wrought in 
 the minds and the happiness of the Dashwoods 
 was such—so great—as promised them all the sat¬ 
 isfaction of a sleepless night. Mrs Dash wood, 
 too happy to be comfortable, 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 to¬ 
 gether, 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 
 her sister, was of a kind to give her neither spirits 
 nor language. 
 
 But Elinor, how are her feelings to be de¬ 
 scribed? 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 every¬ 
 thing by turns but tranquil. But when the sec- 
 [ 276 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY, 
 
 ond moment had passed—when she found every 
 doubt, every solicitude removed—compared her 
 situation with what so lately it had been—saw 
 him honourably released from his former engage¬ 
 ment—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 familiarized 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 will 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 lovers; and Elinor’s 
 
 [ 277 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 particular knowledge of each party made it 
 appear to her, in every view, as one of the most 
 extraordinary and unaccountable circumstances 
 she had ever heard. How they could be thrown 
 together, and by what attraction Robert could be 
 drawn on to marry a girl of whose beauty she 
 had herself heard him speak without any admira¬ 
 tion—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 com¬ 
 prehension to make it out. To her own heart it 
 was a delightful affair, to her imagination it was 
 even a ridiculous one; but to her reason, her judg¬ 
 ment, it was completely a puzzle. 
 
 Edward could only attempt an explanation by 
 supposing that perhaps at first accidentally meet¬ 
 ing, 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 re¬ 
 peated it to Edward. 
 
 “That was exactly like Robert,” was his imme¬ 
 diate observation. “And that,” he presently 
 added, “might perhaps be in his head when the 
 acquaintance between them first began. And 
 Lucy perhaps at first might think only of pro¬ 
 curing his good offices in my favour. Other de¬ 
 signs might afterwards arise.” 
 
 [ 278 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 How long it had been carrying on between 
 them, however, he was equally at a loss with her¬ 
 self to make out; for at Oxford, where he had 
 remained by choice ever since his quitting Lon¬ 
 don, 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 be¬ 
 lieved, half stupified 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 aff ections entirely, and as 
 we could not live without one another, we are just 
 returned from the altar, and are now on our way 
 
 [ 279 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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 de¬ 
 stroy my scrawls; but the ring, with my hair, you 
 are very welcome to keep.” 
 
 Elinor read and returned it without any com¬ 
 ment. 
 
 “I will not ask your opinion of it as a compo¬ 
 sition,” 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 writ¬ 
 ing! 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 
 [ 280 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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 be¬ 
 tween them Edward knew not, for no communi¬ 
 cation with any of his family had yet been at¬ 
 tempted by him. He had quitted Oxford within 
 four-and-twenty hours after Lucy’s letter ar¬ 
 rived, 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 jeal¬ 
 ousy 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 
 
 [ 281 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 it very prettily. What he might say on the sub¬ 
 ject 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 perf ectly clear to Elinor; 
 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 acquaintance 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 let¬ 
 ter reached him he had always believed her to be 
 a well-disposed, good-hearted girl, and thor¬ 
 oughly attached to himself. Nothing but such a 
 persuasion could have prevented his putting an 
 end to an engagement which, long before the dis¬ 
 covery of it laid him open to his mother’s anger, 
 had been a continual source of disquiet and re¬ 
 gret to him. 
 
 “I thought it my duty,” said he, “independent 
 of my feelings, to give her the option of continu¬ 
 ing the engagement or not, when I was renounced 
 by my mother, and stood to all appearance with¬ 
 out 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 
 [ 282 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 creature, how could I suppose, when she so earn¬ 
 estly, so warmly insisted on sharing my fate, 
 whatever 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 fam¬ 
 ily might in time relent. And at any rate, she 
 lost nothing by continuing the engagement, for 
 she has proved that it f ettered neither her inclina¬ 
 tion nor her actions. The connection was cer¬ 
 tainly 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 them¬ 
 selves, for having spent so much time with them 
 at Norland, when he must have felt his own in¬ 
 constancy. 
 
 [ 283 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 “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 situ¬ 
 ated, 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 con¬ 
 sciousness 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 any¬ 
 body but myself.” 
 
 Elinor smiled and shook her head. 
 
 Edward heard with pleasure of Colonel Bran¬ 
 don’s being expected at the cottage, as he really 
 wished not only to be better acquainted with him, 
 hut to have an opportunity of convincing him 
 that he no longer resented his giving him the liv¬ 
 ing of Delaford—“Which at present,” said he, 
 [ 284 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 “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. 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 unde¬ 
 cided between them, one difficulty only was to be 
 overcome. They were brought together by mu¬ 
 tual affection, with the warmest approbation of 
 their real friends; their intimate knowledge of 
 each other seemed to make their happiness certain 
 —and they only wanted something to live upon. 
 Edward had two thousand 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 
 
 [ 285 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 him; and on that he rested for the residue of their 
 income. But Elinor had no such dependance; 
 for, since Edward would still be unable to marry 
 Miss Morton, and his chusing herself had been 
 spoken of in Mrs Ferrars’s flattering language 
 as only a lesser evil than his chusing 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 
 Dash wood’s satisfaction, and to give her the dig¬ 
 nity 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 
 privilege 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-a-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 improve¬ 
 ment 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 rumor of Lucy’s marriage had yet 
 [ 286 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 reached him; he knew nothing of what had 
 passed, and the first hours of his visit were con¬ 
 sequently spent in hearing and in wondering. 
 Everything was explained to him by Mrs Dash- 
 wood, and he found fresh reason to rejoice in 
 what he had done for Mr Ferrars, since eventu¬ 
 ally 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 their being in love with two 
 sisters, and two sisters fond of each other, made 
 that mutual regard inevitable and immediate, 
 which might otherwise have waited the effect of 
 time and judgment. 
 
 The letters from town, which a few days be¬ 
 fore 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 hon¬ 
 est indignation against the jilting girl, and pour 
 forth her compassion towards poor Mr Edward, 
 who, she was sure, had quite doted upon the 
 worthless hussey, and was now, by all accounts, 
 almost broken-hearted, at Oxford.—“I do think,” 
 
 [287] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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 Fer- 
 rars, as well as not knowing how to get to Ply¬ 
 mouth; for Lucy, it seems, borrowed all her 
 money before she went off to be married, on pur¬ 
 pose, we suppose, to make a shew with, and poor 
 Nancy had not seven shillings in the world;—so 
 I was very glad to give her five guineas, to tab** 
 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 suff ered agonies of sensibility 
 —and he considered the existence of each, under 
 such a blow, with grateful wonder. Robert’s of¬ 
 fence was unpardonable, but Lucy’s was in¬ 
 finitely 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 
 [ 288 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 wif e should never be acknowledged as her daugh¬ 
 ter, nor be permitted to appear in her presence. 
 The secrecy with which everything had been car¬ 
 ried 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 
 farther 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 re¬ 
 ceived from him on the occasion. Perhaps, how¬ 
 ever, 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, addressed per¬ 
 haps to Fanny, and by her shewn 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.” 
 
 This paragraph was of some importance to the 
 prospects and conduct of Edward. It deter¬ 
 mined him to attempt a reconciliation, though not 
 exactly in the manner pointed out by their brother 
 and sister. 
 
 19 
 
 [ 289 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 “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 inter¬ 
 est. 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 acknowl¬ 
 edging 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 to 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 character of candour, “in bringing about 
 [ 290 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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 per¬ 
 sonal knowledge of his future home, and assist 
 his patron and friend in deciding on what im¬ 
 provements were needed to it; and from thence, 
 after staying there a couple of nights he was to 
 proceed on his journey to town. 
 
 CHAPTER L 
 
 A FTER a proper resistance on the part of 
 Mrs Ferrars, just so violent and so 
 steady as to preserve her from that re¬ 
 proach which she always seemed fearful of incur¬ 
 ring, 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 fluc¬ 
 tuating. For many years of her life she had two 
 sons; but the crime and annihilation of Edward, 
 a few weeks ago, had robbed her of one; the simi¬ 
 lar annihilation of Robert had left her for a fort¬ 
 night without any; and now, by the resuscitation 
 of Edward, she had one again. 
 
 [291] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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 circum¬ 
 stance, he feared might give a sudden turn to his 
 constitution, and carry him off as rapidly as be¬ 
 fore. With apprehensive caution therefore it 
 was revealed, and he was listened to with unex¬ 
 pected calmness. Mrs Ferrars at first rea^xxably 
 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 private 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 ex¬ 
 perience of the past, to submit—and therefore, 
 after such an ungracious delay as she owed to 
 her own dignity, and as served to prevent 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 aug¬ 
 menting their income was next to be considered: 
 and here it plainly appeared, that though Edward 
 [ 292 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY, 
 
 was now her only son, he was by no means her eld¬ 
 est; 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 thou¬ 
 sand 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 giv¬ 
 ing 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 accommo¬ 
 dation of Elinor, was making considerable im¬ 
 provements; and after waiting some time for 
 their completion—after experiencing, as usual, a 
 thousand disappointments and delays, from the 
 unaccountable dilatoriness of the workmen,—Eli¬ 
 nor, as usual, broke through the first positive reso¬ 
 lution 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 
 
 [ 293 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 whence they could superintend the progress of 
 the Parsonage, and direct everything as they 
 liked on the spot; could chuse papers, project 
 shrubberies, and invent a sweep. Mrs Jennings's 
 prophecies, 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 Mari¬ 
 anne, and rather better pasturage for their cows. 
 
 They were visited on their first settling by 
 almost all their relations and friends. Mrs Fer- 
 rars came to inspect the happiness which she was 
 almost ashamed of having authorised; and even 
 the Dash woods were at the expense 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 property here, his place, 
 his house, everything in such respectable and ex¬ 
 cellent condition! and his woods! I have not seen 
 such timber anywhere in Dorsetshire as there is 
 [ 294 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 now standing in Delaf ord Hanger! And though, 
 perhaps, Marianne may not seem exactly the per¬ 
 son to attract him, yet I think it would altogether 
 be adviseable 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 aff ection, 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-es¬ 
 tablished 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- 
 
 [295] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 interest, however its progress may be apparently 
 obstructed, will do in securing every advantage 
 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 elo¬ 
 quence would convince her in time , another visit, 
 another conversation, was always wanted to pro¬ 
 duce this conviction. Some doubts always 
 lingered in her mind when they parted, which 
 could only be removed by another half -hour’s dis¬ 
 course with himself. His attendance was by this 
 means secured, and the rest followed in course. 
 Instead of talking of Edward, they came gradu¬ 
 ally to talk only of Robert,—a subject on which 
 he had always more to say than on any other, and 
 in which she soon betrayed an interest even equal 
 to his own; and in short, it became speedily evi¬ 
 dent 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 
 [ 296 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 immediately followed is known. They passed 
 some months in great happiness at Dawlish; for 
 she had many relations and old acquaintance 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 forgiveness 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 unpar¬ 
 doned. 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 assist¬ 
 ance from Mrs Ferrars, were on the best terms 
 imaginable with the Dash woods, and setting 
 
 [ 297 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 aside the jealousies and ill-will continually sub¬ 
 sisting 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 in¬ 
 come, as either leaving his brother too little, or 
 bringing himself to much;—and if Edward might 
 be judged from the ready discharge of his duties 
 in every particular, from an increasing attach¬ 
 ment to his wife and his home, and from the reg¬ 
 ular cheerfulness of his spirits, he might be sup¬ 
 posed 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 act¬ 
 ing on motives of policy as well as pleasure in the 
 frequency of her visits at Delaford; for her wish 
 [ 298 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 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 noth¬ 
 ing so 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 gen¬ 
 eral 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 extraor¬ 
 dinary fate. She was born to discover the false¬ 
 hood of her own opinions, and to counteract, by 
 her conduct, her most favourite maxims. She 
 was borne to overcome an affection 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 con¬ 
 stitutional safeguard of a flannel waistcoat! 
 
 [ 299 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 But so it was. Instead of falling a sacrifice to 
 an irresistible passion, as once she had fondly flat¬ 
 tered herself with expecting,—instead of remain¬ 
 ing 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 attachments, enter¬ 
 ing 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 afflic¬ 
 tion;—her regard and her society restored his 
 mind to animation, and his spirits to cheerfulness: 
 and that Marianne found her own happiness in 
 forming his, was equally the persuasion and de¬ 
 light 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 clem¬ 
 ency, gave him reason for believing, that had he 
 behaved with honour towards Marianne, he might 
 [ 300 ] 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 at once have been happy and rich. That his re¬ 
 pentance 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 uncomfortable! and in his breed of horses 
 and dogs, and in sporting of every kind, he found 
 no inconsiderable degree of domestic felicity. 
 
 For Marianne, however—in spite of his incivil¬ 
 ity in surviving her loss—he always retained that 
 decided regard which interested him in every¬ 
 thing 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 Dashwood 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 sup¬ 
 posed to have a lover. 
 
 Between Barton and Delaford, there was that 
 
 [ 301 ] 
 
 * 
 
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY 
 
 constant communication which strong family 
 affection would naturally dictate; and among the 
 merits and the happiness of Elinor and Mari¬ 
 anne, let it not be ranked as the least consider¬ 
 able, that though sisters, and living almost within 
 sight of each other, they could live without dis¬ 
 agreement between themselves, or producing 
 coolness between their husbands. 
 
 Finis. 
 
 [302] 
 
s 
 

 X