 CHAPTER 1 The family of Dashwood had long been settled in Sussex. Their estate was large, and their residence was at Norland Park, in the centre of their property, where for many generations they had lived in so respectable a manner as to engage the general good opinion of their surrounding acquaintance. The late owner of this estate was a single man, who lived to a very advanced age, and who for many years of his life had a constant companion and housekeeper in his sister. But her death, which happened ten years before his own, produced a great alteration in his home. For to supply her loss, he invited and received into his house the family of his nephew, Mr. Henry Dashwood, the legal inheritor of the Norland estate, and the person to whom he intended to be with it. In the society of his nephew and niece, and their children, the old gentlemen's days were comfortably spent. His attachment to them all increased. The constant attention of Mr. and Mrs. Henry Dashwood to his wishes, which proceeded not merely from interest, but from goodness of heart, gave him every degree of solid comfort which his age could receive, and the cheerfulness of the children added a relish to his existence. By a former marriage Mr. Henry Dashwood had one son, by his present lady, three daughters. The son, a steady, respectable young man, was amply provided for by the fortune of his mother, which had been large, and half of which devolved on him on his coming of age. By his own marriage likewise, which happened soon afterwards, he added to his wealth. To him, therefore, the succession to the Norland estate was not so really important as to his sisters, for their fortune, independent of what might arise to them from their fathers inheriting that property, could be but small. Their mother had nothing, and their father only seven thousand pounds in his own disposal, for the remaining moiety of his first wife's fortune was also secured to her child, and he had only a life interest in it. The old gentleman died, his will was read, and like almost every other will gave as much disappointment as pleasure. He was neither so unjust nor so ungrateful as to leave his estate from his nephew, but he left it to him on such terms as destroyed half the value of the bequest. Mr. Dashwood had wished for it more for the sake of his wife and daughters than for himself or his son. But to his son, and his son's son, a child of four years old, it was secured in such a way as to leave himself no power of providing for those who were most dear to him, and who most needed a provision by any charge on the estate or by any sale of its valuable woods. The whole was tied up for the benefit of this child, who, in occasional visits with his father and mother at Norland, had so far gained on the affections of his uncle by such attractions as are by no means unusual in children of two or three years old. An imperfect articulation, an earnest desire of having his own way, many cunning tricks, and a great deal of noise, as to outweigh all the value of all the attention which, for years, he had received from his niece and her daughters. He meant not to be unkind, however, and as a mark of his affection for the three girls he left them a thousand pounds apiece. Mr. Dashwood's disappointment was at first severe, but his temper was cheerful and sanguine, and he might reasonably hope to live many years, and by living economically lay by a considerable sum from the produce of an estate already large and capable of almost immediate improvement. But the fortune which had been so tardy in coming was his only one twelve-month. He survived his uncle no longer, and ten thousand pounds, including the late legacies, was all that remained for his widow and daughters. His son was sent for as soon as his danger was known, and to him Mr. Dashwood recommended with all the strength and urgency which illness could command the interest of his mother-in-law and sisters. Mr. John Dashwood had not the strong feelings of the rest of the family, but he was affected by a recommendation of such a nature at such a time, and he promised to do everything in his power to make them comfortable. His father was rendered easy by such an assurance, and Mr. John Dashwood had then leisure to consider how much there might prudently be in his power to do for them. He was not an ill-disposed young man, unless to be rather cold-hearted and rather selfish is to be ill-disposed, but he was in general well respected, for he conducted himself with propriety in the discharge of his ordinary duties. Had he married a more amiable woman, he might have been made still more respectable than he was. He might even have been made amiable himself, for he was very young when he married and very fond of his wife. But Mrs. John Dashwood was a strong caricature of himself, more narrow-minded and selfish. When he gave his promise to his father, he meditated within himself to increase the fortunes of his sisters by the present of a thousand pounds apiece. He then really thought himself equal to it. The prospect of four thousand a year, in addition to his present income, besides the remaining half of his own mother's fortune, warmed his heart and made him feel comfortable of generosity. Yes, he would give them three thousand pounds. It would be liberal and handsome. It would be enough to make them completely easy. Three thousand pounds he could spare so considerable a sum with little inconvenience. He thought of it all day long, and for many days successively, and he did not repent. No sooner was his father's funeral over than Mrs. John Dashwood, without sending any notice of her intention to her mother-in-law, arrived with her child and their attendance. No one could dispute her right to come. The house was her husband's from the moment of his father's disease. But the indelicacy of her conduct was so much the greater, and to a woman in Mrs. Dashwood's situation with only common feelings must have been highly unpleasing. But in her mind there was a sense of honour so keen, a generosity so romantic, that any offence of the kind, by whom so ever given or received, was to her a source of immovable disgust. Mrs. John Dashwood had never been a favourite with any of her husband's family, but she had had no opportunity till the present of showing them with how little attention to the comfort of other people she could act when occasion required it. So acutely did Mrs. Dashwood feel this ungracious behaviour, and so earnestly did she despise her daughter-in-law for it, that on the arrival of the latter she would have quitted the house for ever, had not the entreaty of her eldest girl induced her first to reflect on the propriety of going, and her own tender love for all three children determined her afterwards to stay, and for their sakes avoid a breach with their brother. Eleanor, this eldest daughter whose advice was so effectual, possessed a strength of understanding and coolness of judgment which qualified her, though only nineteen, to be the counsellor of her mother, and enabled her frequently to counteract, to the advantage of them all, that eagerness of mind in Mrs. Dashwood which must generally have led to imprudence. She had an excellent heart, her disposition was affectionate, and her feelings were strong, but she knew how to govern them. It was a knowledge which her mother had yet to learn, and which one of her sisters had resolved never to be taught. Mary Ann's abilities were in many respects quite equal to Eleanor's. She was sensible and clever, but eager in everything. Her sorrows, her joys could have no moderation. She was generous, amiable, interesting. She was everything but prudent. The resemblance between her and her mother was strikingly great. Eleanor saw with concern the excess of her sister's sensibility, but by Mrs. Dashwood it was valued and cherished. They encouraged each other now in the violence of their affliction. The agony of grief which overpowered them at first was voluntarily renewed, was sought for, was created again and again. They gave themselves up wholly to their sorrow, seeking increase of wretchedness in every reflection that could afford it, and resolved against ever admitting consolation in future. Eleanor too was deeply afflicted, but still she could struggle, she could exert herself, she could consult with her brother, could receive her sister-in-law on her arrival, and treat her with proper attention, and could strive to rouse her mother to similar exertion, and encourage her to similar forbearance. Margaret, the other sister, was a good-humored, well-disposed girl, but as she had already imbibed a good deal of Marianne's romance, without having much of her sense, she did not at thirteen bid fair equal to her sister's at a more advanced period of life. CHAPTER II Mrs. John Dashwood now installed herself mistress of Norland, and her mother and sister-in-law were degraded to the condition of visitors. As such, however, they were treated by her with quiet civility, and by her husband with as much kindness as he could feel towards anybody beyond himself, his wife, and their child. He really pressed them with some earnestness to consider Norland as their home. And as no plan appeared so eligible to Mrs. Dashwood as remaining there till she could accommodate herself with a house in the neighbourhood, his invitation was accepted. A continuance in a place where everything reminded her of former delight was exactly what suited her mind. In seasons of cheerfulness no temper could be more cheerful than hers, or possess in a greater degree that sanguine expectation of happiness which is happiness itself. But in sorrow she must be equally carried away by her fancy, and as far beyond consolation as in pleasure she was beyond alloy. Mrs. John Dashwood did not at all approve of what her husband intended to do for his sisters. To take three thousand pounds from the fortune of their dear little boy would be impoverishing him to the most dreadful degree. She begged him to think again on the subject. How could he answer it to himself to rob his child, and his only child, too, of so large a sum? And what possible claim could the Miss Dashwoods, who were related to him only by half blood, which she considered as no relationship at all, have on his generosity to so large an amount? It was very well known that no affection was ever supposed to exist between the children of any man by different marriages. And why was he to ruin himself and their poor little Harry by giving away all his money to his half-sisters? It was my father's last request to me, replied her husband, that I should assist his widow and daughters. He did not know what he was talking of, I dare say—ten to one, but he was light-headed at the time. Had he been in his right senses, he could not have thought of such a thing as begging you to give away half your fortune from your own child. He did not stipulate for any particular sum, my dear Fanny. He only requested me, in general terms, to assist them, and make their situation more comfortable than it was in his power to do. Perhaps it would have been as well if he had left it wholly to myself. He could hardly suppose I should neglect them. But as he required the promise, I could not do less than give it. At least, I thought so at the time. The promise, therefore, was given, and must be performed. Something must be done for them, whenever they leave Norland and settle in a new home. Well, then, let something be done for them. But that something need not be three thousand pounds. Consider, she added, that when the money is once parted with, it never can return. Your sisters will marry, and it will be gone for ever. If indeed it could be restored to our poor little boy— Why, to be sure, said her husband very gravely, that would make great difference. The time may come when Harry will regret that so large a sum was parted with. If he should have a numerous family, for instance, it would be a very convenient addition. To be sure it would. Perhaps then it would be better for all parties if the sum were diminished one-half—five hundred pounds would be a prodigious increase to their fortunes. Oh! Beyond anything great! What brother on earth would do half so much for his sisters, even if really his sisters? And as it is, only half blood! But you have such a generous spirit. I would not wish to do anything mean, he replied. One had rather on such occasions do too much than too little. No one, at least, can think I have not done enough for them. Even themselves. You can hardly expect more. There is no knowing what they may expect, said the lady. But we are not to think of their expectations. The question is, what you can afford to do? Certainly. And I think I may afford to give them five hundred pounds apiece, as it is without any addition of mine. They will each have about three thousand pounds on their mother's death—a very comfortable fortune for any young woman. To be sure it is. And indeed, it strikes me that they can want no addition at all. They will have ten thousand pounds divided amongst them. If they marry, they will be sure of doing well. And if they do not, they may all live very comfortably together on the interest of ten thousand pounds. That is very true. And therefore, I do not know whether upon the whole it would not be more advisable to do something for their mother while she lives, rather than for them, something of the annuity kind, I mean. My sisters would feel the good effects of it as well as herself. A hundred a year would make them all perfectly comfortable. His wife hesitated a little, however, in giving her consent to this plan. To be sure, said she, it is better than parting with fifteen hundred pounds at once. But then, if Mrs. Dashwood should live fifteen years, we shall be completely taken in. Fifteen years, my dear Fanny, her life cannot be worth half that purchase. Certainly not. But if you observe, people always live forever when there is an annuity to be paid them, and she is very stout and healthy and hardly forty. An annuity is a very serious business. It comes over and over every year, and there is no getting rid of it. You are not aware of what you are doing. I have known a great deal of the trouble of annuities, for my mother was clogged with the payment of three to old, superannuated servants by my father's will, and it is amazing how disagreeable she found it. This every year these annuities were to be paid, and then there was the trouble of getting it to them, and then one of them was said to have died, and afterwards it turned out to be no such thing. My mother was quite sick of it. Her income was not her own, she said, with such perpetual claims on it, and it was the more unkind in my father, because otherwise the money would have been entirely at my mother's disposal without any restriction whatever. It has given me such an abhorrence of annuities, that I am sure I would not pin myself down to the payment of one for all the world. It is certainly an unpleasant thing, replied Mr. Dashwood, to have those kind of yearly drains on one's income. One's fortune, as your mother justly says, is not one's own. To be tied down to the regular payment of such a sum, or every rent day, is by no means desirable. It takes away one's independence. Undoubtedly, and after all you have no thanks for it. They think themselves secure. You do know more than what is expected, and it raises no gratitude at all. If I were you, whatever I did should be done at my own discretion entirely. I would not bind myself to allow them anything yearly. It may be very inconvenient some years to spare a hundred, or even fifty pounds from our own expenses. I believe you are right, my love. It will be better that there should be no annuity in the case. Whatever I may give them occasionally will be of far greater resistance than a yearly allowance, because they would only enlarge their style of living if they felt sure of a larger income, and would not be sixpence the ritter for it at the end of the year. It will certainly be much the best way. A present of fifty pounds now and then will prevent their ever being distressed for money, and will, I think, be amply discharging my promise to my father. To be sure it will. Indeed, to say the truth, I am convinced within myself that your father had no idea of your giving them any money at all. The assistance he thought of, I dare say, was only such as might be reasonably expected of you—for instance, such as looking out for a comfortable small house for them, helping them to move their things, and sending them presents of fish and game, and so forth whenever they are in season. I lay my life that he meant nothing further. Indeed, it would be very strange and unreasonable if he did. Do but consider, my dear Mr. Dashwood, how excessively comfortable your mother-in-law and her daughters may live on the interest of seven thousand pounds, besides the thousand pounds belonging to each of the girls, which brings them in fifty pounds a year apiece, and, of course, they will pay their mother for their board out of it. Although they will have five hundred a year amongst them, and what on earth can four women want for more than that? They will live so cheap. Their housekeeping will be nothing at all. They will have no carriage, no horses, and hardly any servants. They will keep no company, and can have no expenses of any kind. Only conceive how comfortable they will be—five hundred a year. I am sure I cannot imagine how they will spend half of it. And as to your giving them more, it is quite absurd to think of it. They will be much more able to give you something. Upon my word, said Mr. Dashwood, I believe you are perfectly right. My father certainly could mean nothing more by his request to me than what you say. I clearly understand it now, and I will strictly fulfil my engagement by such acts of assistance and kindness to them as you have described. When my mother removes into another house, my services shall be readily given to a comitator as far as I can. Some little present of furniture, too, may be acceptable then. Certainly! returned Mrs. Dashwood. But, however, one thing must be considered. When your father and mother moved to Norland, though the furniture of Stanhill was sold, all the china, plate, and linen was saved, and is now left to your mother, her house will therefore be almost completely fitted up as soon as she takes it. That is a material consideration, undoubtedly. A valuable legacy, indeed. And yet some of the plate would have been a very pleasant addition to our own stock here. Yes. And the set of breakfast-china is twice as handsome as what belongs to this house—a great deal too handsome, in my opinion, for any place they can ever afford to live in. But, however, so it is. Your father thought only of them. And I must say this, that you owe no particular gratitude to him, nor attention to his wishes, for we very well know that if he could, he would have left almost everything in the world to them. This argument was irresistible. It gave to his intentions whatever of decision was wanting before, and he finally resolved that it would be absolutely unnecessary, if not highly and decorous, to do more for the widow and children of his father, than such kind of neighborly acts as his own wife pointed out. CHAPTER III Mrs. Dashwood remained at Norland several months, not from any disinclination to move when the sight of every well-known spot ceased to raise the violent emotion which it produced for a while, for when her spirits began to revive, and her mind became capable of some other exertion than that of heightening its affliction by melancholy remembrances, she was impatient to be gone, and indefatigable in her inquiries for a suitable dwelling in the neighborhood of Norland, for to remove far from that beloved spot was impossible. But she could hear of no situation that at once answered her notions of comfort and ease, and suited the prudence of her eldest daughter, whose steady adjudgment rejected several houses as too large for their income, which her mother would have approved. Mrs. Dashwood had been informed by her husband of the solemn promise on the part of his son in their favor, which gave comfort to his last earthly reflections. She doubted the sincerity of this assurance no more than he had doubted it himself, and she thought of it for her daughter's sake with satisfaction, though as for herself she was persuaded that a much smaller provision than seven thousand pounds would support her in affluence. For their brother's sake too, for the sake of his own heart, she rejoiced, and she reproached herself for being unjust to his merit before in believing him incapable of generosity. His attentive behavior to herself and his sisters convinced her that their welfare was dear to him, and for a long time she firmly relied on the liberality of his intentions. The contempt which she had very early in their acquaintance felt for her daughter-in-law was very much increased by the further knowledge of her character, which half a year's residence in her family afforded, and perhaps in spite of every consideration of politeness or maternal affection on the side of the former, the two ladies might have found it impossible to have lived together so long, had not a particular circumstance occurred to give still greater eligibility, according to the opinions of Mrs. Dashwood, to her daughter's continuance at Norland. This circumstance was a growing attachment between her eldest girl and the brother of Mrs. John Dashwood, a gentleman-like and pleasing young man, who was introduced to their acquaintance soon after his sister's establishment at Norland, and who had since spent the greatest part of his time there. Some mothers might have encouraged the intimacy from motives of interest, for Edward Ferris was the eldest son of a man who had died very rich, and some might have repressed it from motives of prudence, for except a trifling sum, the whole of his fortune depended on the will of his mother. But Mrs. Dashwood was alike uninfluenced by either consideration. It was enough for her that he appeared to be amiable, that he loved her daughter, and that Eleanor returned the partiality. It was contrary to every doctrine of hers that difference of fortune should keep any couple asunder, who were attracted by resemblance of disposition, and that Eleanor's merit should not be acknowledged by every one who knew her, was to her comprehension impossible. Edward Ferris was not recommended to their good opinion by any peculiar graces of person or address. He was not handsome, and his manners required intimacy to make them pleasing. He was too diffident to do justice to himself. But when his natural shyness was overcome, his behavior gave every indication of an open, affectionate heart. His understanding was good, and his education had given it solid improvement. But he was neither fitted by abilities nor disposition to answer the wishes of his mother and sister, who longed to see him distinguished, as they hardly knew what. They wanted him to make a fine figure in the world in some manner or other. His mother wished to interest him in political concerns, to get him into Parliament, or to see him connected with some of the great men of the day. Mrs. John Dash would wish it likewise, but in the meanwhile, till one of these superior blessings could be attained, it would have quieted her ambition to see him driving a barouche. But Edward had no turn for great men or barouches. All his wishes centered in domestic comfort and the quiet of private life. Fortunately, he had a younger brother who was more promising. Edward had been staying several weeks in the house before he engaged much of Mrs. Dashwood's attention, for she was at that time in such affliction as rendered her careless of surrounding objects. She only saw that he was quiet and unobtrusive, and she liked him for it. He did not disturb the wretchedness of her mind by ill-timed conversation. She was first called to observe and approve him father by a reflection which Eleanor chanced one day to make on the difference between him and his sister. It was a contrast which recommended him most forcibly to her mother. "'It is enough,' said she, to say that he is unlike Fanny is enough. It implies everything amiable. I love him already.' "'I think you will like him,' said Eleanor, when you know more of him.' "'Like him?' replied her mother with a smile. I feel no sentiment of approbation inferior to love. You may esteem him.' "'I have never yet known what it was to separate esteem and love.'" Mrs. Dashwood now took pains to get acquainted with him. Her manners were attaching, and soon banished his reserve. She speedily comprehended all his merits. The persuasion of his regard for Eleanor perhaps assisted her penetration, but she really felt assured of his worth, and even that quietness of manner which militated against all her established ideas of what a young man's address ought to be, was no longer uninteresting, when she knew his heart to be warm and his temper affectionate. No sooner did she perceive any symptom of love in his behavior to Eleanor than she considered their serious attachment as certain, and looked forward to their marriage as rapidly approaching. "'In a few months, my dear Marianne,' said she, "'Eleanor will, in all probability, be settled for life. We shall miss her, but she will be happy.' "'Oh, Mama, how shall we do without her?' "'My love! It will scarcely be a separation. We shall live within a few miles of each other, and she'll meet every day of our lives. You will gain a brother, a real, affectionate brother. I have the highest opinion in the world of Edward's heart. But you look grave, Marianne. Do you disapprove your sister's choice?' "'Perhaps,' said Marianne. "'I may consider it with some surprise. Edward is very amiable, and I love him tenderly. But yet—' "'He is not the kind of young man. There is something wanting. His figure is not striking. It has none of that grace which I should expect in the man who could seriously attach my sister. His eyes want all that spirit, that fire, which at once announced virtue and intelligence. And besides all this, I am afraid, Mama, he has no real taste. Music seems scarcely to attract him, and though he admires Eleanor's drawings very much, it is not the admiration of a person who can understand their worth. It is evident, in spite of his frequent attention to her while she draws, that in fact he knows nothing of the matter. He admires as a lover, not as a connoisseur. To satisfy me those characters must be united. I could not be happy with a man whose taste did not in every point coincide with my own. He must enter into all my feelings. The same books, the same music must charm us both. Oh, Mama, how spiritless, how tame was Edward's manner in reading to us last night. I felt for my sister most severely. Yet she bore it with so much composure she seems scarcely to notice it. I could hardly keep my seat. To hear those beautiful lines which have frequently almost driven me wild, pronounced with such impenetrable, calmness, such dreadful indifference. He would certainly have done more justice to simple and elegant prose. I thought so at the time. But you would give him calper. Name a ma, if he is not to be animated by calper. But we must allow for difference of taste. Eleanor has not my feelings, and therefore she may overlook it and be happy with him. But it would have broken my heart had I loved him, to hear him read with so little sensibility. Mama, the more I know of the world, the more I am convinced that I shall never see a man whom I can really love. I require so much. He must have all Edward's virtues, and his person and manners must ornament his goodness with every possible charm. Remember, my love, that you are not seventeen. It is yet too early in life to despair of such a happiness. Why should you be less fortunate than your mother? In one circumstance only, my Marianne, may your destiny be different from hers. CHAPTER IV What a pity it is, Eleanor, said Marianne, that Edward should have no taste for drawing. No taste for drawing, replied Eleanor, why should you think so? He does not draw himself, indeed, but he has great pleasure in seeing the performances of other people, and I assure you he is by no means deficient in natural taste, though he has not had opportunities of improving it. Had he ever been in the way of learning, I think he would have drawn very well. He distrusts his own judgment in such matters so much, that he is always unwilling to give his opinion on any picture, but he has an innate propriety and simplicity of taste, which in general direct him perfectly right. Marianne was afraid of offending and said no more on the subject. But the kind of approbation which Eleanor described as excited in him by the drawings of other people was very far from that rapturous delight which, in her opinion, could alone be called taste. Yet, though smiling within herself at the mistake, she honoured her sister for that blind partiality to Edward which produced it. I hope, Marianne, continued Eleanor, you do not consider him as deficient in general taste. I think I may say that you cannot, for your behaviour to him is perfectly cordial, and if that were your opinion, I am sure you could never be civil to him. Marianne hardly knew what to say. She would not wound the feelings of her sister on any account, and yet to say what she did not believe was impossible. At length, she replied, Do not be offended, Eleanor, if my praise of him is not in everything equal to your sense of his merits. I have not had so many opportunities of estimating the minute propensities of his mind, his inclinations and his tastes, as you have, but I have the highest opinion in the world of his goodness and sense. I think him everything that is worthy and amiable. I am sure, replied Eleanor with a smile, that his dearest friends could not be dissatisfied with such commendation as that. I do not perceive how you could express yourself more warmly. Marianne was rejoiced to find her sister so easily pleased. Of his sense and goodness, continued Eleanor, no one can, I think, be in doubt, who has seen him often enough to engage him in unreserved conversation. The excellence of his understanding and his principles can be concealed only by that shyness which too often keeps him silent. You know enough of him to do justice to his solid worth, but of his minute propensities, as you call them, you have from peculiar circumstances been kept more ignorant than myself. And I have been at times thrown a good deal together, while you have been wholly engrossed on the most affectionate principle by my mother. I have seen a great deal of him, have studied his sentiments, and heard his opinion on subjects of literature and taste, and upon the whole, I have entered to pronounce that his mind is well informed, enjoyment of books exceedingly great, his imagination lively, his observation just and correct, and his taste delicate and pure. His abilities in every respect improve as much upon acquaintance as his manners and person. At first sight his address is certainly not striking, and his person can hardly be called handsome till the expression of his eyes which are uncommonly good, and the general sweetness of his countenance is perceived. At present I know him so well that I think him really handsome, or at least almost so. What say you, Mary Ann? I shall very soon think him handsome, Eleanor, if I do not now. When you tell me to love him as a brother, I shall no more see imperfection in his face than I now do in his heart. Eleanor started at this declaration, and was sorry for the warmth she had been betrayed into in speaking of him. She felt that Edward stood very high in her opinion. She believed the regard to be mutual, but she required greater certainty of it to make Mary Ann's conviction of their attachment agreeable to her. She knew that what Mary Ann and her mother conjectured one moment they believed the next, that with them, to wish was to hope, and to hope was to expect. She tried to explain the real state of the case to her sister. I do not attempt to deny, said she, that I think very highly of him, that I greatly esteem, that I like him. Mary Ann here burst forth with indignation, esteem him, like him! Cold-hearted Eleanor! Oh, worse than cold-hearted! A shame of being otherwise! Use those words again, and I will leave the room this moment! Eleanor could not help laughing. Excuse me, said she, and be assured that I meant no offence to you by speaking in so quiet a way of my own feelings. Believe them to be stronger than I have declared. Believe them, in short, to be such as his merit and the suspicion, the hope of his affection for me may warrant, without imprudence or folly. But farther than this you must not believe. I am by no means assured of his regard for me. There are moments when the extent of it seems doubtful. Until his sentiments are fully known, you cannot wonder at my wishing to avoid any encouragement of my own partiality, by believing or calling it more than it is. In my heart I feel little, scarcely any doubt of his preference. But there are other points to be considered besides his inclination. He is very far from being independent. What his mother really is we cannot know, but from Fanny's occasional mention of her conduct and opinions, we have never been disposed to think her amiable, and I am very much mistaken if Edward is not himself aware, that there would be many difficulties in his way if he were to wish to marry a woman who had not either a great fortune or a high rank. Mary Ann was astonished to find how much the imagination of her mother and herself had outstripped the truth. And you really are not engaged to him, said she. Yet it certainly soon will happen. But two advantages will proceed from this delay. I shall not lose you so soon, and Edward will have greater opportunity of improving that natural taste for your favorite pursuit, which must be so indispensably necessary to your future felicity. Oh! if he should be so far stimulated by your genius as to learn to draw himself, how delightful it would be! Eleanor had given her real opinion to her sister. She could not consider her partiality for Edward in so prosperous a state as Mary Ann had believed it. There was, at times, a want of spirits about him, which, if it did not denote indifference, spoke of something almost as unpromising. A doubt of her regard, supposing him to feel it, need not give him more than inquiritude. It would not be likely to produce that dejection of mind which frequently attended him. A more reasonable cause might be found in the dependent situation which forbade the indulgence of his affection. She knew that his mother neither behaved to himself to make his home comfortable at presence, nor to give him any assurance that he might form a home for himself without strictly attending to her views for his aggrandizement. With such a knowledge as this, it was impossible for Eleanor to feel easy on the subject. She was far from depending on that result of his preference of her, which her mother and sister still considered as certain. Nay, the longer they were together, the more doubtful seemed the nature of his regard, and sometimes, for a few painful minutes, she believed it to be no more than friendship. But whatever might really be its limits, it was enough, when perceived by his sister, to make her uneasy, and at the same time, which was still more common, to make her uncivil. She took the first opportunity of affronting her mother-in-law on the occasion, talking to her so expressively of her brother's great expectations, of Mrs. Farrah's resolution that both her sons should marry well, and of the danger attending any young woman who attempted to draw him in, that Mrs. Dashwood could neither pretend to be unconscious, nor endeavour to be calm. She gave her an answer which marked her contempt, and instantly left the room, resolving that, whatever might be the inconvenience or expense if so sudden a removal, her beloved Eleanor should not be exposed another week to such insinuations. In this state of her spirits, a letter was delivered to her from the post, which contained a proposal particularly well timed. It was the offer of a small house, on very easy terms, belonging to a relation of her own, a gentleman of consequence and property in Devonshire. The letter was from this gentleman himself, and written in the true spirit of friendly accommodation. He understood that she was in need of a dwelling, and though the house he now offered her was merely a cottage, he assured her that everything should be done to it which she might think necessary if the situation pleased her. He earnestly pressed her, after giving the particulars of the house and garden, to come with her daughters to Barton Park, the place of his own residence, from whence she might judge herself where the Barton cottage, for the houses were in the same parish, could, by any alteration, be made comfortable to her. He seemed really anxious to accommodate them, and the whole of his letter was written in so friendlier style, as could not fail of giving pleasure to his cousin, more especially at a moment when she was suffering under the cold and unfeeling behavior of her nearer connections. She needed no time for deliberation or inquiry. Her resolution was formed as she read. The situation of Barton, in a county so far distant from Sussex as Devonshire, which, but a few hours before, would have been a sufficient objection to outweigh every possible advantage belonging to the place, was now its first recommendation. To quit the neighborhood of Norland was no longer an evil. It was an object of desire, it was a blessing, in comparison of the misery of continuing her daughter-in-law's guest, and to remove forever from that beloved place would be less painful than to inhabit or visit it, while such a woman was its mistress. She instantly wrote Sir John Middleton her acknowledgment of his kindness, and her acceptance of his proposal, and then hastened to show both letters to her daughters that she might be secure of their approbation before her answer was sent. Eleanor had always thought it would be more prudent for them to settle at some distance from Norland than immediately amongst their present acquaintance. On that head, therefore, it was not for her to oppose her mother's intention of removing into Devonshire. The house, too, as described by Sir John, was on so simple a scale, and the rent so uncommonly moderate, as to leave her no right of objection on either point. And therefore, though it was not a plan which brought any charm to her fancy, though it was a removal from the vicinity of Norland beyond her wishes, she made no attempt to dissuade her mother from sending a letter of acquiescence. CHAPTER V No sooner was her answer dispatched than Mrs. Dashwood indulged herself in the pleasure of announcing to her son-in-law and his wife that she was provided with a house, and should incommode them no longer than till everything were ready for her inhabiting it. They heard her with surprise. Mrs. John Dashwood said nothing, but her husband civilly hoped that she would not be settled far from Norland. She had great satisfaction in replying that she was going into Devonshire. Edward turned hastily towards her on hearing this, and in a voice of surprise and concern which required no explanation to her repeated, Devonshire, are you indeed going there, so far from hence, and to what part of it? She explained the situation. It was within four miles northward of Exeter. It is but a cottage, she continued, but I hope to see many of my friends in it. A room or two can easily be added, and if my friends find no difficulty in travelling so far to see me, I am sure I will find none in accommodating them. She concluded with a very kind invitation to Mr. and Mrs. John Dashwood to visit her at Barton, and to Edward she gave one with still greater affection. Though her late conversation with her daughter-in-law had made her resolve on remaining at Norland no longer than was unavoidable, it had not produced the smallest effect on her in that point to which it principally tended. To separate Edward and Eleanor was as far from being her object as ever, and she wished to show Mrs. John Dashwood, by this pointed invitation to her brother, how totally she disregarded her disapprobation of the match. Mr. John Dashwood told his mother again and again how exceedingly sorry he was that she had taken a house at such a distance from Norland as to prevent his being of any service to her in removing her furniture. He really felt conscientiously vexed on the occasion, for the very exertion to which he had limited the performance of his promise to his father was by this arrangement rendered impracticable. The furniture was all sent around by water. It chiefly consisted of household linen, plate, china, and books, with a handsome piano forty of Marianne's. Mrs. John Dashwood saw the packages depart with a sigh. She could not help feeling it hard that as Mrs. Dashwood's income would be so trifling in comparison with their own, she should have any handsome article of furniture. Mrs. Dashwood took the house for a twelve-month. It was ready furnished, and she might have immediate possession. No difficulty arose on either side in the agreement, and she waited only for the disposal of her effects at Norland, and to determine her future household, before she set off for the West. And this, as she was exceedingly rapid in the performance of everything that interested her, was soon done. The horses, which were left her by her husband, had been sold soon after his death, and an opportunity now offering of disposing of her carriage, she agreed to sell that likewise at the earnest advice of her eldest daughter. For the comfort of her children, had she consulted only her own wishes, she would have kept it, but the discretion of Eleanor prevailed. Her wisdom, too, limited the number of their servants to three—two maids, and a man, with whom they were speedily provided from amongst those who had formed their establishment at Norland. The man and one of the maids were sent off immediately into Devonshire, to prepare the house for their mistress's arrival. For as Lady Middleton was entirely unknown to Mrs. Dashwood, she preferred going directly to the cottage, to being a visitor at Barton Park. And she relied so undoubtedly on Sir John's description of the house, as to feel no curiosity to examine it herself, till she entered it as her own. Her eagerness to be gone from Norland was preserved from diminution by the evident satisfaction of her daughter-in-law in the prospect of her removal, a satisfaction which was but feebly attempted to be concealed under a cold invitation to her to defer her departure. Now was the time when her son-in-law's promise to his father might with particular propriety be fulfilled. Since he had neglected to do it on first coming to the estate, there quitting his house might be looked on as the most suitable period for its accomplishment. But Mrs. Dashwood began shortly to give over every hope of the kind, and to be convinced, from the general drift of his discourse, that his assistance extended no farther than their maintenance for six months at Norland. He so frequently talked of the increasing expenses of housekeeping, and of the perpetual demands upon his purse, which a man of any consequence in the world was beyond calculation exposed to, that he seemed rather to stand in need of more money himself, than to have any design of giving money away. In a very few weeks from the day which brought Sir John Middleton's first letter to Norland, everything was so far settled in their future abode, as to enable Mrs. Dashwood and her daughters to begin their journey. Many were the tears shed by them in their last adures to a place so much beloved. But dear Norland, said Mary Ann, as she wandered alone before the house, on the last evening of their being there, when shall I cease to regret you? When learn to feel a home elsewhere? Oh, happy house! Could you know what I suffer in now viewing you from this spot? From whence perhaps I may view you no more? And you, ye well-known trees, but you will continue the same. No leaf will decay because we are removed, nor any branch become motionless although we can observe you no longer. No. You will continue the same, unconscious of the pleasure or the regret you occasion, and insensible of any change in those who walk under your shade. But who will remain to enjoy you? CHAPTER VI The first part of their journey was performed in two melancholy at disposition to be otherwise than tedious and unpleasant. But as they drew towards the end of it, their interest in the appearance of a country which they were to inhabit overcame their dejection, and a view of Barton Valley as they entered it gave them cheerfulness. It was a pleasant fertile spot, well-wooded and rich in pasture. After winding along it for more than a mile, they reached their own house. A small green court was the whole of its domain in front, and a neat wicked gate admitted them into it. As a house, Barton Cottage, though small, was comfortable and compact. But as a cottage it was defective, for the building was regular, the roof was tiled, the window shutters were not painted green, nor were the walls covered with honeysuckles. A narrow passage led directly through the house into the garden behind. On each side of the entrance was a sitting-room, about sixteen feet square, and beyond them were the offices and the stairs. Four bedrooms and two garrets formed the rest of the house. It had not been built many years, and was in good repair. In comparison of Norland it was poor and small indeed, but the tears which recollection called forth as they enter the house were soon dried away. They were cheered by the joy of the servants on their arrival, and each for the sake of the others resolved to appear happy. It was very early in September, the season was fine, and from first seeing the place under the advantage of good weather, they received an impression in its favour which was of material service in recommending it to their lasting approbation. The situation of the house was good. High hills rose immediately behind, and at no great distance on each side, some of which were open downs, the others cultivated a moody. The village of Barton was chiefly on one of these hills, and formed a pleasant view from the cottage windows. The prospect in front was more extensive. It commanded the whole of the valley, and reached into the country beyond. The hills which surrounded the cottage terminated the valley in that direction. Under another name, and in another course, it branched out again between two of the steepest of them. With the size and furniture of the house Mrs. Dashwood was upon the whole well satisfied. For though her former style of life rendered many additions to the latter indispensable, but to add and improve was a delight to her, and she had at this time ready money enough to supply all that was wanted of greater elegance to the apartments. As for the house itself, to be sure, said she, it is too small for our family, but we will make ourselves tolerably comfortable for the present, as it is too late in the year for improvements. Perhaps in the spring, if I have plenty of money, as I daresay I shall, we may think of building. These parlours are both too small for such parties of our friends as I hope to see often collected here, and I have some thoughts of throwing the passage into one of them with perhaps a part of the other, and so leave the remainder of that other for an entrance. This, with a new drawing-room, which may be easily added, and a bed-chamber and garret above, will make it a very snug little cottage. I could wish the stairs were handsome, but one must not expect everything, though I suppose it would be no difficult matter to widen them. I shall see how much I am beforehand with the world in the spring, and we will plan our improvements accordingly. In the meantime, till all these alterations could be made from the savings of an income of five hundred a year by a woman who never saved in her life, they were wise enough to be contented with the house as it was, and each of them was busy in arranging their particular concerns and endeavouring by placing around them books and other possessions to form themselves a home. Mary Ann's piano forte was unpacked and properly disposed of, and Eleanor's drawings were affixed to the walls of their sitting-room. In such employments as these they were interrupted soon after breakfast the next day by the entrance of their landlord, who called to welcome them to Barton, and to offer them every accommodation from his own house and garden, in which theirs might at present be deficient. Sir John Middleton was a good-looking man about forty. He had formally visited at Stanhill, but it was too long for his young cousins to remember him. His countenance was thoroughly good-humoured, and his manners were as friendly as the style of his letter. Their arrival seemed to have fought him real satisfaction, and their comfort to be an object of real solicitude to him. He said much of his earnest desire of their living in the most sociable terms with his family, and pressed them so cordially to dine at Barton Park every day till they were better settled at home, that though his entreaties were carried to a point of perseverance beyond civility they could not give offence. His kindness was not confined to words, for within an hour after he left them a large basket full of garden stuff and fruit arrived from the park which was followed before the end of the day by a present of game. He insisted, moreover, on conveying all their letters to and from the post for them, and would not be denied the satisfaction of sending them his newspaper every day. Lady Middleton had sent a very civil message by him, denoting her intention of waiting on Mrs. Dashwood as soon as she could be assured that her visit would be knowing convenience. And as this message was answered by an invitation equally polite, her ladyship was introduced to them the next day. They were, of course, very anxious to see a person on whom so much of their comfort at Barton must depend, and the elegance of her appearance was favourable to their wishes. Lady Middleton was not more than six or seven and twenty. Her face was handsome, her figure tall and striking, and her address graceful. Her manners had all the elegance which her husbands wanted, but they would have been improved by some sheriffs frankness and warmth, and her visit was long enough to detract something from their first admiration by showing that, though perfectly well-bred, she was reserved, cold, and had nothing to say for herself beyond the most commonplace inquiry or remark. The invitation, however, was not wanted, for Sir John was very chatty, and Lady Middleton had taken the wise precaution of bringing with her their eldest child, a fine little boy about six years old, by which means there was one subject always to be recurred to by the ladies in case of extremity, for they had to inquire his name and age, admire his beauty, and ask him questions which his mother answered for him, while he hung about her and held down his head, to the great surprise of her ladyship, who wondered at his being so shy before company, as he could make noise enough at home. On every formal visit a child ought to be of the party by way of provision for discourse. In the present case it took up to ten minutes to determine whether the boy were most like his father or mother, and in what particular he resembled either, for of course everybody differed, and everybody was astonished at the opinion of the others. An opportunity was soon to be given to the dashwards of debating on the rest of the children, as Sir John would not leave the house without securing their promise of dining at the park the next day. CHAPTER VII Barton Park was about half a mile from the cottage. The ladies had passed near it in their way along the valley, but it was screened from their view at home by the projection of a hill. The house was large and handsome, and the Middletons lived in a style of equal hospitality and elegance. The former was for Sir John's gratification, the latter for that of his lady. They were scarcely ever without some friends staying with them in the house, and they kept more company of every kind than any other family in the neighborhood. It was necessary to the happiness of both, for however dissimilar in temper and outward behavior, they strongly resembled each other in that total want of talent and taste which confined their employments, unconnected with such a society produced within a very narrow compass. Sir John was a sportsman, Lady Middleton a mother. He hunted and shot, and she humoured her children, and these were their only resources. Lady Middleton had the advantage of being able to spoil her children all the year round, while Sir John's independent employments were in existence only half the time. Continual engagements at home and abroad, however, supplied all the deficiencies of nature and education, supported the good spirits of Sir John, and gave exercise to the good breeding of his wife. Lady Middleton peaked herself upon the elegance of her table and of all her domestic arrangements, and from this kind of vanity was her greatest enjoyment in any of their parties. Sir John's satisfaction in society was much more real. He delighted in collecting about him more young people than his house would hold, and the noisier they were, the better he was pleased. He was a blessing to all the juvenile part of the neighbourhood, for in summer he was forever forming parties to eat cold ham and chicken out of doors, and in winter his private balls were numerous enough for any young lady who was not suffering under the insatiable appetite of fifteen. The arrival of a new family in the country was always a matter of joy to him, and in every point of view he was charmed with the inhabitants he had now procured for his cottage at Barton. The Miss Dashwoods were young, pretty and unaffected. It was enough to secure his good opinion, for to be unaffected was all that a pretty girl could want to make her mind as captivating as her person. The friendliness of his disposition made him happy in accommodating those whose situation might be considered, in comparison with the past, as unfortunate. In showing kindness to his cousins, therefore, he had the real satisfaction of a good heart, and in settling a family of females only in his cottage he had all the satisfaction of a sportsman. For a sportsman, though he esteems only those of his sex who are sportsmen likewise, is not often desirous of encouraging their taste by admitting them to a residence within his own manner. Miss Dashwood and her daughters were met at the door of the house by Sir John, who welcomed them to Barton Park with unaffected sincerity, and as he attended them to the drawing-room, repeated to the young ladies the concern which the same subject had drawn from him the day before, at being unable to get any smart young men to meet them. They would see, he said, only one gentleman there besides himself, a particular friend who was staying at the park, but who was neither very young nor very gay. He hoped they would all excuse the smallness of the party, and could assure them it should never happen so again. He had been to several families that morning in hopes of procuring some addition to their number, but it was moonlight, and everybody was full of engagements. Luckily, Lady Middleton's mother had arrived at Barton within the last hour, and as she was a very cheerful, agreeable woman, he hoped the young ladies would not find it so very dull as they might imagine. The young ladies, as well as their mother, were perfectly satisfied with having two entire strangers of the party, and wished for no more. Mrs. Jennings, Lady Middleton's mother, was a good-humoured, merry, fat, elderly woman, who talked a great deal, seemed very happy, and rather vulgar. She was full of jokes and laughter, and before dinner was over, had said many witty things on the subject of lovers and husbands. But they had not left their hearts behind them in sussigs, and pretended to see them blush, whether they did or not. Mary Ann was vexed at it for her sister's sake, and turned her eyes toward Eleanor, to see how she bore these attacks, with an earnestness which gave Eleanor far more pain than could arise from such commonplace railery as Mrs. Jennings's. Colonel Brandon, the friend of Sir John, seemed no more adapted by resemblance of manner to be his friend, than Lady Middleton was to be his wife, or Mrs. Jennings to be Lady Middleton's mother. He was silent and grave. His appearance, however, was not unpleasing, in spite of his being, in the opinion of Mary Ann and Margaret, an absolute old bachelor, for he was on the wrong side of five and thirty. But though his face was not handsome, his countenance was sensible, and his address was particularly gentlemanlike. There was nothing in any of the party which could recommend them as companions to the Dashwoods. But the cold insipidity of Lady Middleton was so particularly repulsive, that in comparison of it, the gravity of Colonel Brandon, and even the boisterous mirth of Sir John and his mother-in-law, was interesting. Lady Middleton seemed to be roused to enjoyment, only by the entrance of her four noisy children after dinner, who pulled her about, tore her clothes, and put an end to every kind of discourse, except what were later to themselves. In the evening, as Mary Ann was discovered to be musical, she was invited to play. The instrument was unlocked, everybody prepared to be charmed, and Mary Ann, who sang very well, at their request went through the chief of the songs which Lady Middleton had brought into the family on her marriage, and which perhaps had lain ever since in the same position on the Piano Forte, for her ladyship had celebrated that event by giving up music, although by her mother's account she had played extremely well, and by her own was very fond of it. Mary Ann's performance was highly applauded. Sir John was loud in his admiration at the end of every song, and as loud in his conversation with the others while every song lasted. Lady Middleton frequently called him to order, wondered how any one's attention could be diverted from music for a moment, and asked Mary Ann to sing a particular song which Mary Ann had just finished. Sir Brandon alone, of all the party, heard her without being in raptures. He paid her only the compliment of attention, and she felt a respect for him on the occasion which the others had reasonably forfeited by their shameless want of taste. His pleasures in music, though it amounted not to that ecstatic delight which alone could sympathize with her own, was estimable when contrasted against the horrible insensibility of the others, and she was reasonable enough to allow that a man of five and thirty might well have outlived all acuteness of feeling and every exquisite power of enjoyment. She was perfectly disposed to make every allowance for the Colonel's advanced state of life which humanity required. CHAPTER VIII Mrs. Jennings was a widow with an ample jointure. She had only two daughters, both of whom she had lived to see respectively married, and she had now therefore nothing to do but to marry all the rest of the world. In the promotion of this object she was zealously active, as far as her ability reached, and missed no opportunity of projecting weddings among all the young people of her acquaintance. She was remarkably quick in the discovery of attachments, and had enjoyed the advantage of raising the blushes and the vanity of many a young lady, by insinuations of her power over such a young man, and this kind of discernment enabled her soon after her arrival at Barton decisively to pronounce that Colonel Brandon was very much in love with Mary Ann Dashwood. She rather suspected it to be so, on the very first evening of their being together, from his listening so attentively while she sang to them, and when the visit was returned by the Middleton's dining at the cottage, the fact was ascertained by his listening to her again. It must be so. She was perfectly convinced of it. It would be an excellent match, for he was rich, and she was handsome. Miss Jennings had been anxious to see Colonel Brandon well married ever since her connection with Sir John first brought him to her knowledge, and she was always anxious to get a good husband for every pretty girl. The immediate advantage to herself was by no means inconsiderable, for it supplied her with endless jokes against them both. At the park she laughed at the Colonel, and at the cottage at Mary Ann. To the former her railery was probably, as far as it regarded only himself, perfectly indifferent. But to the latter it was at first incomprehensible, and when its object was understood, she hardly knew whether most to laugh at his absurdity or censure its impertinence, for she considered it as an unfeeling reflection on the Colonel's advanced years and on his forlorn condition as an old bachelor. Mrs. Nashwood, who could not think a man five years younger than herself so exceedingly ancient as he appeared to the youthful fancy of her daughter, ventured to clear Miss Jennings from the probability of wishing to throw ridicule on his age. But at least, Mama, you cannot deny the absurdity of the accusation, though you may not think it intentionally ill-natured. Colonel Brandon is certainly younger than Mrs. Jennings, but he is old enough to be my father, and if he were ever animated enough to be in love, must have long outlived every sensation of the kind. It is too ridiculous. When is a man to be safe from such wit if age and infirmity will not protect him? Do you call Colonel Brandon infirm? I can easily suppose that his age may appear much greater to you than to my mother, but you can hardly deceive yourself as to his having the use of his limbs. Did you not hear him complain of the rheumatism, and is not that the commonest infirmity of declining life? My dearest child, said her mother, laughing, at this rate you must be in continual terror of my decay, and it must seem to you a miracle that my life has been extended to the advanced age of forty. Mamma, you are not doing me justice. I know very well that Colonel Brandon is not old enough to make his friends yet apprehensive of losing him in the course of nature. He may live twenty years longer, but thirty-five has nothing to do with matrimony. Perhaps, said Eleanor, thirty-five and seventeen had better not have anything to do with matrimony together. But if there should by any chance happen to be a woman who is single at seven and twenty, I should not think Colonel Brandon's being thirty-five any objection to his marrying her. A woman of seven and twenty, said Marianne, after pausing a moment, can never hope to feel or inspire affection again, and if her home be uncomfortable, or her fortune small, I can suppose that she might bring herself to submit to the offices of a nurse, for the sake of the provision and security of a wife. In his marrying such a woman, therefore, there would be nothing unsuitable. It would be a compact of convenience, and the world would be satisfied. In my eyes it would be no marriage at all, but that would be nothing. To me it would seem only a commercial exchange, in which each wish to be benefited at the expense of the other. It would be impossible, I know, replied Eleanor, to convince you that a woman of seven and twenty could feel for a man of thirty-five anything near enough to love, to make him a desirable companion to her. But I must object to your dooming Colonel Brandon and his wife to the constant confinement of a sick chamber, merely because he chanced to complain yesterday a very cold, damp day of a slight rheumatic feel in one of his shoulders. But he talked of flannel waistcoats, said Marianne, and with me a flannel waistcoat is invariably connected with aches, cramps, rheumatisms, and every species of ailment that can afflict the old and the feeble. Had he been only in a violent fever you would not have despised him half so much. Yes, Marianne, is there not something interesting to you in the flushed cheek, hollow eye, and quick pulse of a fever? Soon after this, upon Eleanor's leaving the room, Mama, said Marianne, I have an alarm on the subject of illness which I cannot conceal from you. I am sure Edward Ferris is not well. We have now been here almost a fortnight, and yet he does not come. Nothing but real in disposition could occasion this extraordinary delay. What else can detain him at Norland? And you any idea of his coming so soon? said Mrs. Dashwood. I had none. On the contrary, if I have felt any anxiety at all on the subject, it has been in recollecting that he sometimes showed a want of pleasure and readiness in accepting my invitation when I talked of his coming to Barton. Does Eleanor expect him already? I have never mentioned it to her, but of course she must. I rather think you are mistaken, for when I was talking to her yesterday of getting a new grate for the spare bed-chamber, she observed that there was no immediate hurry for it, as it was not likely that the room would be wanted for some time. How strange this is! What can be the meaning of it? But the whole of their behaviour to each other has been unaccountable. How cold! How composed were their last adures! How languid their conversation the last evening of their being together! In Edward's farewell there was no distinction between Eleanor and me. It was the good wishes of an affectionate brother to both. This did I leave them purposely together in the course of the last morning, and each time did he most unaccountably follow me out of the room. And Eleanor, in quitting Norland and Edward, cried not as I did. Even now her self-command is invariable. When is she dejected or melancholy? When does she try to avoid society where appear restless and dissatisfied in it? CHAPTER IX The dashboards were now settled at Barton with tolerable comfort to themselves. The house and the garden, with all the objects surrounding them, were now become familiar, and the ordinary pursuits which had given to Norland half its charms were engaged in again with far greater enjoyment than Norland had been able to afford since the loss of their father. Sir John Middleton, who called on them every day for the first fortnight, and was not in the habit of seeing much occupation at home, could not conceal his amazement on finding them always employed. Their visitors, except those from Barton Park, were not many. For in spite of Sir John's urgent entreaties that they would mix more in the neighbourhood, and repeated assurances of his carriage being always at their service, the independence of Mrs. Dashwood's spirit overcame the wish of society for her children, and she was resolute in declining to visit any family beyond the distance of a walk. There were but few who could be so classed, and it was not all of them that were attainable. About a mile and a half from the cottage, along the narrow winding valley of Allanum, which issued from that of Barton, as formerly described, the girls had, in one of their earliest walks, discovered an ancient respectable-looking mansion, which, by reminding them a little of Norland, interested their imagination, and made them wish to be better acquainted with it. But they learnt, on enquiry, that its possessor, an elderly lady of very good character, was unfortunately too infirm to mix with the world, and never stirred from home. The whole country about them abounded in beautiful walks. The high downs which invited them from almost every window of the cottage to seek the exquisite enjoyment of air on their summits, were a happy alternative when the dirt of the valleys beneath shut up their superior beauties. And towards one of these hills did Marianne and Margaret one memorable morning direct their steps, attracted by the partial sunshine of a showery day, and unable longer to bear the confinement which the settled rain of the two preceding days had occasioned. The weather was not tempting enough to draw the two others from their pencil and their book, in spite of Marianne's declaration that the day would be lastingly fair, and that every threatening cloud would be drawn off from their hills. And the two girls set off together. They gaily ascended the downs, rejoicing in their own penetration at every glimpse of blue sky, and when they caught in their faces the animating gales of a high southwesterly wind, they pitted the fears which had prevented their mother and Eleanor from sharing such delightful sensations. "'Is there a felicity in the world,' said Marianne, superior to this? Margaret, we will walk here at least two hours.' Margaret agreed, and they pursued their way against the wind, resisting it with laughing delight for about twenty minutes longer, when suddenly the clouds united over their heads, and a driving rain set full in their face. Shagrined and surprised, they were obliged, though unwillingly, to turn back, for no shelter was nearer than their own house. One consolation, however, remained to them, to which the exigence of the moment gave more than usual propriety. It was that of running with all possible speed down the steep side of the hill which led immediately to their garden-gate. They set off. Marianne had at first the advantage, but a false step brought her suddenly to the ground, and Margaret, unable to stop herself to assist her, was involuntarily hurried along and reached the bottom in safety. A gentleman carrying a gun with two pointers playing round him was passing up the hill, and within a few yards of Marianne when her accident happened. He put down his gun and ran to her assistance. She had raised herself from the ground, but her foot had been twisted in her fall, and she was scarcely able to stand. The gentleman offered his services, and perceiving that her modesty declined what her situation rendered necessary, took her up in his arms without further delay, and carried her down the hill. Then passing through the garden, the gate of which had been left open by Margaret, he bore her directly into the house, with her Margaret was just arrived, and quitted not his hold till he had seated her in a chair in the parlour. Eleanor and her mother rose up in amazement at their entrance, and while the eyes of both were fixed on him with an evident wonder and a secret admiration which equally sprung from his appearance, he apologised for his intrusion by relating its cause, in a manner so frank and so graceful that his person, which was uncommonly handsome, received additional charms from his voice and expression. Had he been even old, ugly, and vulgar, the gratitude and kindness of Mrs. Dashwood would have been secured by any act of attention to her child. But the influence of youth, beauty, and elegance gave an interest to the action which came home to her feelings. She thanked him again and again, and with a sweetness of a dress which always attended her, invited him to be seated. But this he declined as he was dirty and wet. Mrs. Dashwood then begged to know to whom she was obliged. His name, he replied, was Willoughby, and his present home was at Allanham, from whence he hoped she would allow him the honour of calling to-morrow to inquire after Mrs. Dashwood. The honour was readily granted, and he then departed to make himself still more interesting in the midst of a heavy rain. His manly beauty and more than common gracefulness were instantly the theme of general admiration, and the laugh which his gallantry raised against Marianne received particular spirit from his exterior attractions. Marianne herself had seen less of his person than the rest, for the confusion which crimsoned over her face on his lifting her up had robbed her of the power of regarding him after their entering the house. But she had seen enough of him to join in all the admiration of the others, and with an energy which always adorned her praise. His person and heir were equal to what her fancy had ever drawn for the hero of a favourite story, and in his carrying her into the house with so little previous formality there was a rapidity of thought which particularly recommended the action to her. Every circumstance belonging to him was interesting. His name was good, his residence was in their favourite village, and she soon found out that of all manly dresses a shooting jacket was the most becoming. Her imagination was busy, her reflections were pleasant, and the pain of a sprained ankle was disregarded. Sir John called on them as soon as the next interval of fair weather that morning allowed him to get out of doors, and Mary Ann's accident being related to him he was eagerly asked whether he knew any gentleman of the name of Willoughby at Allanham. "'Willoughby?' cried Sir John. "'What? Is he in the country?' "'But is good news, however. I will ride over to-morrow and ask him to dinner on Thursday.' "'You know him, then,' said Mrs. Dashwood. "'Know him? To be sure I do. Why? He is down here every year.' "'And what sort of a young man is he?' "'As good a kind of fellow as ever lived, I assure you. A very decent shot, and there is not a bolder rider in England.' "'And is that all you can say for him?' cried Mary Ann indignantly. "'But what are his manners on more intimate acquaintance? What is pursuits, his talents, and genius?' Sir John was rather puzzled. "'Pon my soul,' said he. "'I do not know much about him, Mr. Wall, that. But he is a pleasant, good-humoured fellow, and has got the nightest little black bitch of a pointer I ever saw. Was she out with him to-day?' And Mary Ann could no more satisfy him as to the colour of Mr. Willoughby's pointer than he could ascribe to her the shades of his mind. "'But who is he?' said Eleanor. "'Where does he come from? Has he a house at Allanham?' On this point Sir John could give more certain intelligence, and he told them that Mr. Willoughby had no property of his own in the country, that he resided there only while he was visiting the old lady at Allanham Court, to whom he was related, and whose possessions he was to inherit. "'Yes, yes. He is very well worth catching, I can tell you, Miss Dashwood. He has a pretty little estate of his own in Somersetshire besides, and if I were you, I would not give him up to my younger sister, in spite of all this tumbling down hills. Miss Mary Ann must not expect to have all the men to herself. Brandon will be jealous, if she does not take care.' "'I do not believe,' said Mrs. Dashwood, with a good-humoured smile, that Mr. Willoughby will be incommodied by the attempts of either of my daughters towards what you call catching him. It is not an employment to which they have been brought up. Men are very safe with us, let them be ever so rich. I am glad to find, however, from what you say, that he is a respectable young man, and one whose acquaintance will not be ineligible.' "'He is as good a sort of fellow I believe as ever lived,' repeated Sir John. I remember last Christmas at a little hop in the park. He danced from eight o'clock until four, without once sitting down.' "'Did he indeed?' cried Mary Ann, with sparkling eyes, and with elegance, with spirit.' "'Yes.' And he was up again at eight to write to Covert.' "'That is what I like. That is what a young man ought to be, whatever his pursuits, his eagerness in them, should show no moderation, and leave him no sense of fatigue.' "'I see how it will be,' said Sir John, "'I see how it will be. You will be setting your cap at him now, and never think of poor Brandon.' "'That is an expression, Sir John,' said Mary Ann warmly, which I particularly dislike. I abhor every commonplace phrase by which wit is intended, and setting one's cap at a man, or making a conquest, are the most odious of all. Their tendency is gross and illiberal, and if their construction could ever be deemed clever, time has long ago destroyed all its ingenuity.' Sir John did not much understand this reproof, but he laughed as heartily as if he did, and then replied, "'Ah, you will make conquests enough, I daresay, one way or another.' "'Poor Brandon, he is quite smitten already, and he is very well worth setting your cap at, I can tell you, in spite of all this tumbling about and spraining of ankles.' End of CHAPTER IX Mary Ann's preserver, as Margaret, with more elegance than precision, styled Willoughby, called at the cottage early the next morning to make his personal inquiries. He was received by Mrs. Dashwood with more than politeness, with a kindness which Sir John's account of him and her own gratitude prompted, and everything that passed during the visit tended to assure him of the sense, elegance, mutual affection, and domestic comfort of the family to whom accident had now introduced him. Of their personal charms he had not required a second interview to be convinced. Miss Dashwood had a delicate complexion, regular features, and a remarkably pretty figure. Mary Ann was still handsomer. Her form, though not so correct as her sister's, in having the advantage of height, was more striking, and her face was so lovely that when in the common count of praise she was called a beautiful girl, truth was less violently outraged than usually happens. Her skin was very brown, but from its transparency her complexion was uncommonly brilliant. Her features were all good, her smile was sweet and attractive, and in her eyes, which were very dark, there was a life, a spirit, an eagerness which could hardly be seen without delight. From Willoughby their expression was at first held back by the embarrassment which the remembrance of his assistants created. But when this passed away, when her spirits became collected, when she saw that to the perfect good breeding of the gentlemen he united frankness and vivacity, and above all, when she heard him declare that of music and dancing he was passionately fond, she gave him such a look of approbation as secured the largest chair of his discourse to herself for the rest of his day. It was only necessary to mention any favorite amusement to engage her to talk. She could not be silent when such points were introduced, and she had neither shyness nor reserve in their discussion. They speedily discovered that their enjoyment of dancing and music was mutual, and that it arose from a general conformity of judgment in all that related to either. Reached by this to a further examination of his opinions, she proceeded to question him on the subject of books. Her favorite authors were brought forward and dwelt upon with so rapturous a delight that any young man of five and twenty must have been insensible indeed not to become an immediate convert to the excellence of such works, however disregarded before. Their taste was strikingly alike. The same books, the same passages were idolized by each, or if any difference appeared, any objection arose, it lasted no longer than till the force of her arguments and the brightness of her eyes could be displayed. He acquiesced in all her decisions, caught all her enthusiasm, and long before his visit concluded they conversed with the familiarity of a long-established acquaintance. Well, Marianne, said Eleanor, as soon as he had left them, for one morning I think you have done pretty well. You have already ascertained Mr. Willoughby's opinion in almost every matter of importance. You know what he thinks of Calper and Scott. You are certain of his estimating their beauties as he awed, and you have received every assurance of his admiring pope no more than his proper. But how is your acquaintance to be long supported under such extraordinary despatch of every subject for discourse? You will soon have exhausted each favorite topic. Another meeting will suffice to explain his sentiments on picturesque beauty, on second marriages, and then you can have nothing further to ask. Eleanor cried Marianne, is this fair, is this just? Are my ideas so scanty? But I see what you mean. I have been too much at my ease, too happy, too frank. I have erred against every commonplace notion of decorum. I have been open and sincere, where I ought to have been reserved, spiritless, dull, and deceitful. Had I talked only of the weather in the roads, and had I spoken only once in ten minutes, this reproach would have been spared. My love, said her mother, you must not be offended with Eleanor. She was only in jest. I should scold her myself if she were capable of wishing to check the delight of your conversation with our new friend. Marianne was softened in a moment. Willoughby, on his side, gave every proof of his pleasure in their acquaintance which an evident wish of improving it could offer. He came to them every day. To inquire after Marianne was at first his excuse, but the encouragement of his reception, to which every day gave greater kindness, made such an excuse unnecessary before it had ceased to be possible by Marianne's perfect recovery. She was confined for some days to the house, but never had any confinement been less irksome. Willoughby was a young man of good abilities, quick imagination, lively spirits, and open, affectionate manners. He was exactly formed to engage Marianne's heart, for with all this he joined not only a captivating person, but a natural ardour of mind, which was now roused and increased by the example of her old, and which recommended him to her affection beyond everything else. His society became gradually her most exquisite enjoyment. They read, they talked, they sang together, his musical talents were considerable, and he read with all the sensibility and spirit which Edward had unfortunately wanted. In Mrs. Dashwood's estimation he was as fortless as in Marianne's, and Eleanor saw nothing to censure in him but a propensity in which he strongly resembled and peculiarly delighted her sister, of saying too much what he thought on every occasion without attention to persons or circumstances. In hastily forming and giving his opinion of other people, in sacrificing general politeness to the enjoyment of undivided attention where his heart was engaged, and in slighting too easily the forms of worldly propriety, he displayed a want of caution which Eleanor could not approve in spite of all that he and Marianne could say in its support. Marianne began now to perceive that the desperation which had seized her at sixteen and a half of ever seeing a man who could satisfy her ideas of perfection had been rash and unjustifiable. Willoughby was all that her fancy had delineated in that unhappy hour, and in every brighter period, as capable of attaching her, and his behaviour declared his wishes to be in that respect as earnest as his abilities were strong. Her mother too, in whose mind not one speculative thought of their marriage had been raised, by his prospect of riches, was led before the end of a week to hope and expected, and secretly to congratulate herself on having gained two such sons-in-law as Edward and Willoughby. Colonel Brandon's partiality for Marianne, which had so early been discovered by his friends, now first became perceptible to Eleanor when it ceased to be noticed by them. Their attention and wit were drawn after his more fortunate rival, and the railery which the other had incurred before any partiality arose, was removed when his feelings began really to call for the ridicule so justly annexed to sensibility. Eleanor was obliged, though unwillingly, to believe that the sentiments which Mrs. Jennings had assigned him for her own satisfaction were now actually excited by her sister, and that however a general resemblance of disposition between the parties might forward the effecture of Mr. Willoughby, an equally striking opposition of character was no hindrance to the regard of Colonel Brandon. She saw it with concern, for what could a silent man of five and thirty hope, when opposed to a very lively one of five and twenty? And as she could not even wish him successful, she heartily wished him indifferent. She liked him. In spite of his gravity and reserve, she beheld in him an object of interest. His manners, though serious, were mild, and his reserve appeared rather the result of some oppression of spirits than of any natural gloominess of temper. Sir John had dropped hints of past injuries and disappointments, which justified her belief of his being an unfortunate man, and she regarded him with respect and compassion. Perhaps she pitied and esteemed him the more because he was slighted by Willoughby and Marianne, who prejudiced against him for being neither lively nor young, seemed resolved to undervalue his merits. "'Brandon is just the kind of man,' said Willoughby one day, when they were talking of him together, whom everybody speaks well of, and nobody cares about, whom all are delighted to see, and nobody remembers to talk to. "'That is exactly what I think of him,' cried Marianne. "'Do not boast of it, however,' said Eleanor, for it is injustice in both of you. He is highly esteemed by all the family at the park, and I never see him myself without taking pains to converse with him. "'That he is patronized by you,' replied Willoughby, is certainly in his favor. But as for the esteem of the others, it is a reproach in itself. Who would submit to the indignity of being approved by such a woman as Lady Middleton and Mrs. Jennings, that could command the indifference of anybody else? "'But perhaps the abuse of such people as yourself and Marianne will make amends for the regard of Lady Middleton and her mother. If their praise is censure, your censure may be praise, for they are not more un-decerning than you are prejudiced and unjust.' "'In defense of your protégé, you can even be saucy.' "'My protégé, as you call him, is a sensible man, and sense will always have attractions for me. Yes, Marianne, even in a man between thirty and forty, he has seen a great deal of the world, has been abroad, has read, and has a thinking mind. I have found him capable of giving me much information on various subjects, and he has always answered my inquiries with readiness of good breeding and good nature. "'That is to say,' cried Marianne contemptuously, he has told you that in the East Indies the climate is hot and the mosquitoes are troublesome. He would have told me so, I doubt not, had I made any such inquiries, but there happened to be points on which I had been previously informed. Perhaps,' said Willoughby, his observations may have extended to the existence of nabobs, gold moors, and palanquins. "'I may venture to say that his observations have stretched much further than your candor. But why should you dislike him? I do not dislike him. I consider him, on the contrary, as a very respectable man, who has everybody's good word, and nobody's notice, who has more money than he can spend, more time than he knows how to employ, and two new coats every year. Add to which,' cried Marianne, he has neither genius, taste, nor spirit. That his understanding has no brilliancy, his feelings no ardour, and his voice no expression. "'You decide on his imperfection so much in the mass,' replied Eleanor, and so much on the strength of your own imagination, that the commendation I am able to give of him is comparatively cold and insipid. I can only pronounce him to be a sensible man, well-bred, well-informed, of gentle address, and I believe possessing an amiable heart. "'Miss Dashwood,' cried Willoughby, "'you are now using me unkindly. You are endeavouring to disarm me by reason, and to convince me against my will. But it will not do. You shall find me as stubborn as you can be artful. I have three unanswerable reasons for disliking Colonel Brandon. He threatened me with rain when I wanted it to be fine. He has found fault with the hanging of my curicle, and I cannot persuade him to buy my brown mare. If it will be any satisfaction to you, however, to be told, that I believe his character to be in other respects irreproachable, I am ready to confess it. And in return for an acknowledgement, which must give me some pain, you cannot deny me the privilege of disliking him as much as ever." CHAPTER X XI of Sense and Sensibility by Jane Austen. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. CHAPTER XI Little had Mrs. Dashwood or her daughters imagined when they first came into Devonshire that so many engagements would arise to occupy their time as shortly presented themselves, or that they should have such frequent invitations and such constant visitors as to leave them little leisure for serious employment. Yet such was the case. When Marianne was recovered, the schemes of amusement at home and abroad, which Sir John had been previously forming, were put into execution. The private balls at the park then began, and parties on the water were made and accomplished as often as a showery October would allow. In every meeting of the kind, Willoughby was included, and the ease and familiarity which naturally attended these parties were exactly calculated to give increasing intimacy to his acquaintance with the Dashwoods, to afford him opportunity of witnessing the excellencies of Marianne, of marking his animated admiration of her, and of receiving, in her behaviour to himself, the most pointed assurance of her affection. Eleanor could not be surprised at their attachment. She only wished that it were less openly shown, and once or twice did venture to suggest the propriety of some self-command to Marianne. But Marianne abhorred all concealment where no real disgrace could attend unreserved, and to aim at the restraint of sentiments which were not in themselves illaudible appeared to her not merely an unnecessary effort, but a disgraceful subjection of reason to commonplace and mistaken notions. Willoughby thought the same, and their behaviour at all times was an illustration of their opinions. When he was present, she had no eyes for anyone else. Everything he did was right. Everything he said was clever. If their evenings at the park were concluded with cards, he cheated himself and all the rest of the party to get her a good hand. If dancing formed the amusement of the night, they were partners for half the time, and when obliged to separate for a couple of dances, were careful to stand together, and scarcely spoke a word to anybody else. Such conduct made them, of course, most exceedingly laughed at, but ridicule could not shame and seemed hardly to provoke them. Mrs. Dashwood entered into all their feelings with a warmth which left her no inclination for checking the successive display of them. To her it was but the natural consequence of a strong affection in a young and ardent mind. This was the season of happiness to Marianne. Her heart was devoted to Willoughby, and the fond attachment to Norland, which she brought with her from Sussex, was more likely to be softened than she had thought it possible before by the charms which his society bestowed on her present home. Eleanor's happiness was not so great. Her heart was not so much at ease, nor her satisfaction in their amusement so pure. They afforded her no companion that could make amends for what she had left behind, nor that could teach her to think of Norland with less regret than ever. Neither Lady Middleton nor Mrs. Jennings could supply to her the conversation she missed, although the latter was an everlasting talker, and from the first had regarded her with a kindness which ensured her a large share of her discourse. She had already repeated her own history to Eleanor three or four times, and had Eleanor's memory been equal to her means of improvement, she might have known very early in their acquaintance all the particulars of Mr. Jennings' last illness and what he said to his wife a few minutes before he died. Lady Middleton was more agreeable than her mother, only in being more silent. Eleanor needed little observation to perceive that her reserve was a mere calmness of manner with which sense had nothing to do. Towards her husband and mother she was the same as to them, and intimacy was therefore neither to be looked for nor desired. She had nothing to say one day that she had not said the day before. Her insipidity was invariable, for even her spirits were always the same. And though she did not oppose the parties arranged by her husband, provided everything were conducted in style and her two eldest children attended her, she never appeared to receive more enjoyment from them than she might have experienced in sitting at home. And so little did her presence add to the pleasure of the others by any share in their conversation, that they were sometimes only reminded of her being amongst them by her solicitude about her troublesome boys. In Colonel Brandon alone, of all her new acquaintance, did Eleanor find a person who could in any degree claim the respect of abilities, excite the interest of friendship, or give pleasure as a companion? Willoughby was out of the question. Her admiration and regard, even her sisterly regard, was all his own. But he was a lover, his attentions were holy Marianne's, and a far less agreeable man might have been more generally pleasing. Colonel Brandon, unfortunately for himself, had no such encouragement to think only of Marianne, and in conversing with Eleanor he found the greatest consolation for the indifference of her sister. Eleanor's compassion for him increased, as she had reason to suspect that the misery of disappointed love had already been known to him. This suspicion was given by some words which accidentally dropped from him one evening at the park when they were sitting down together by mutual consent while the others were dancing. His eyes were fixed on Marianne, and after a silence of some minutes he said with a faint smile, "'Your sister, I understand, does not approve of second attachments.'" "'No,' replied Eleanor, her opinions are all romantic. Or rather, as I believe, she considers them impossible to exist. I believe she does. But how she contrives it without reflecting on the character of her own father, who had himself two wives, I know not. A few years, however, will settle her opinions on the reasonable basis of common sense and observation, and then they may be more easy to define and to justify than they now are by anybody but herself." "'This will probably be the case,' he replied, and yet there is something so amiable in the prejudices of a young mind that one is sorry to see them give way to the reception of more general opinions.' "'I cannot agree with you there,' said Eleanor. "'There are inconveniences attending such feelings as Marianne's, which all the charms of enthusiasm and ignorance of the world cannot atone for. Her systems have all the unfortunate tendency of setting propriety at naught, and a better acquaintance with the world is what I look forward to as her greatest possible advantage.'" After a short pause he resumed the conversation by saying, "'Does your sister make no distinction in her objections against a second attachment? Or is it equally criminal in everybody? Are those who have been disappointed in their first choice, whether from the inconsistency of its object or the perverseness of circumstances, to be equally indifferent during the rest of their lives?' "'Upon my word, I am not acquainted with the minutiae of her principles. I only know that I have never yet heard her admit any instance of a second attachment's being partnable.'" "'This,' said he, cannot hold. But a change, a total change of sentiments. No, no, do not desire it. For when the romantic refinements of a young mind are obliged to give way, how frequently are they succeeded by such opinions as are but too common and too dangerous? I speak from experience. I once knew a lady who, in temper and mind, greatly resembled your sister, who thought and judged like her, but who from an enforced change, from a series of unfortunate circumstances. Here he stopped suddenly, appeared to think that he had said too much, and by his countenance gave rise to conjectures which might not otherwise have entered Eleanor's head. The lady would probably have passed without suspicion, had he not convinced Miss Dashwood that what concerned her ought not to escape his lips. As it was, it required but a slight effort of fancy to connect his emotion with the tender recollection of past regard. Eleanor attempted no more. But Mary Ann, in her place, would not have done so little. The whole story would have been speedily formed under her active imagination, and everything established in the most melancholy order of disastrous love. CHAPTER XI. As Eleanor and Mary Ann were walking together the next morning, the latter communicated a piece of news to her sister, which in spite of all that she knew before of Mary Ann's imprudence and want of thought, surprised her by its extravagant testimony of both. Mary Ann told her with the greatest delight that Willoughby had given her a horse, one that he had bred himself on his estate in Somersetshire, and which was exactly calculated to carry a woman. Without considering that it was not in her mother's plan to keep any horse, that if she were to alter her resolution in favour of this gift, she must buy another for the servant, and keep a servant to ride it, and after all build a stable to receive them. She had accepted the present without hesitation, and told her sister of it in raptures. He intends to send his groom into Somersetshire immediately for it, she added, and when it arrives we will ride every day. You shall share its use with me. Imagine to yourself, my dear Elinor, the delight of a gallop on some of these downs. Most unwilling was she to awaken from such a dream of felicity to comprehend all the unhappy truths which attended the affair, and for some time she refused to submit to them. As to an additional servant, the expense would be a trifle. Mamar, she was sure, would never object to it, and any horse would do for him. He might always get one at the park. As to a stable, the nearest shed would be sufficient. Elinor then ventured to doubt the propriety of her receiving such a present from a man so little, or at least so lately known to her. This was too much. You are mistaken, Elinor, she said warmly, in supposing I know very little of Willoughby. I have not known him long indeed, but I am much better acquainted with him than I am with any other creature in the world except yourself and Mamar. It is not time or opportunity that is to determine intimacy. It is disposition alone. Seven years would be insufficient to make some people acquainted with each other, and seven days are more than enough for others. I should hold myself guilty of greater impropriety in accepting a horse from my brother than from Willoughby. Of John I know very little, though we have lived together for years, but of Willoughby my judgment has long been formed. Elinor thought it wisest to touch that point no more. She knew her sister's temper. Opposition on so tender a subject would only attach her the more to her own opinion. But by an appeal to her affection for her mother, by representing the inconveniences which that indulgent mother must draw on herself, if, as would probably be the case, she consented to this increase of establishment, Mary Ann was shortly subdued, and she promised not to tempt her mother to such imprudent kindness by mentioning the offer, and to tell Willoughby, when she saw him next, that it must be declined. She was faithful to her word. And when Willoughby called at the cottage the same day, Elinor heard her express her disappointment to him in a low voice on being obliged to forego the acceptance of his present. The reasons for this alteration were at the same time related, and they were such as to make further entreaty on his side impossible. His concern, however, was very apparent, and after expressing it with earnestness he added in the same low voice, but Mary Ann, the horse is still yours, though you cannot use it now. I shall keep it only till you can claim it. When you leave Barton to form your own establishment in a more lasting home, Queen Mab shall receive you. This was all overheard by Miss Dashwood, and in the whole of the sentence, in his manner of pronouncing it, and in his addressing her sister by her Christian name alone, she instantly saw an intimacy so decided, a meaning so direct, as marked a perfect agreement between them. From that moment she doubted not of their being engaged to each other, and the belief of it created no other surprise than that she, or any of their friends, should be left by tempers so frank to discover it by accident. Margaret related something to her the next day which placed this matter in a still clearer light. Willoughby had spent the preceding evening with them, and Margaret, by being left some time in the parlour with only him and Mary Ann, had had opportunity for observations, which, with a most important face, she communicated to her eldest sister when they were next by themselves. Oh, Eleanor! she cried, I have such a secret to tell you about Mary Ann, I am sure she will be married to Mr. Willoughby very soon. You have said so, replied Eleanor, almost every day since they first met on High Church Down, and they had not known each other a week, I believe, before you were certain that Mary Ann wore his picture round her neck, but it turned out to be only the miniature of our great uncle. But indeed, this is quite another thing, I am sure they will be married very soon, for he has got a lock of her hair. Take care, Margaret, it may be only the hair of some great uncle of his. But indeed, Eleanor, it is Mary Ann's, I am almost sure it is, for I saw him cut it off. Last night, after tea, when you and Mama went out of the room, they were whispering and talking together as fast as could be, and he seemed to be begging something of her, and presently he took up her scissors, and cut off a long lock of her hair, for it was all tumbled down her back, and he kissed it, and folded it up in a piece of white paper, and put it into his pocket-book. For such particulars, stated on such authority, Eleanor could not withhold her credit, nor was she disposed to it, for the circumstance was in perfect unison with what she had heard and seen herself. Margaret's sagacity was not always displayed in a way so satisfactory to her sister. When Mrs. Jennings attacked her one evening at the park, to give the name of the young man who was Eleanor's particular favourite, which had been long a matter of great curiosity to her, Margaret answered by looking at her sister and saying, I must not tell, may I, Eleanor? This, of course, made everybody laugh, and Eleanor tried to laugh too, but the effort was painful. She was convinced that Margaret had fixed on a person whose name she could not bear with composure to become a standing joke with Mrs. Jennings. Mary Ann felt for her most sincerely, but she did more harm than good to the cause by turning very red and saying in an angry manner to Margaret, remember that whatever your conjectures may be, you have no right to repeat them. I never had any conjectures about it, replied Margaret, it was you who told me of it yourself. This increased the mirth of the company, and Margaret was eagerly pressed to say something more. Oh, pray, Miss Margaret, let us know all about it, said Mrs. Jennings, what is the gentleman's name? I must not tell, ma'am, but I know very well what it is, and I know where he is, too. Yes, yes, we can guess where he is, at his own house at Norland, to be sure. He is the curate of the parish, I dare say. No, that he is not. He is of no profession at all. Margaret, said Mary Ann with great warmth, you know that all this is an invention of your own, and that there is no such person in existence. Well, then he is lately dead, Mary Ann, for I am sure there was such a man once, and his name begins with an F. Most grateful did Eleanor feel to Lady Middleton for observing at this moment that it rained very hard, though she believed the interruption to proceed less from any attention to her than from her ladyship's great dislike of all such inelegant subjects of railery as delighted her husband and mother. The idea, however, started by her was immediately pursued by Colonel Brandon, who was on every occasion mindful of the feelings of others, and much was said on the subject of rain by both of them. Willoughby opened the piano forte, and asked Mary Ann to sit down to it, and thus, amidst the various endeavours of different people to quit the topic, it fell to the ground. But not so easily did Eleanor recover from the alarm into which it had thrown her. A party was formed this evening for going on the following day to see a very fine place about twelve miles from Barton belonging to a brother-in-law of Colonel Brandon, without whose interest it could not be seen, as the proprietor, who was then abroad, had left strict orders on that head. The grounds were declared to be highly beautiful, and Sir John, who was particularly warm in their praise, might be allowed to be a tolerable judge, for he had formed parties to visit them at least twice every summer for the last ten years. They contained a noble piece of water, a sail on which was to form a great part of the morning's amusement. Cold provisions were to be taken, open carriages only to be employed, and everything conducted in the usual style of a complete party of pleasure. To some few of the company it appeared rather a bold undertaking, considering the time of year, and that it had rained every day for the last fortnight, and Mrs. Dashwood, who had already a cold, was persuaded by Eleanor to stay at home. CHAPTER XIII Their intended excursion to Whitwell turned out very different from what Eleanor had expected. She was prepared to be wet through, fatigued and frightened, but the event was still more unfortunate, for they did not go at all. By ten o'clock the whole party was assembled at the park, where they were to breakfast. The morning was rather favourable, though it had rained all night, as the clouds were then dispersing across the sky, and the sun frequently appeared. They were all in high spirits and good humour, eager to be happy and determined to submit to the greatest inconveniences and hardships rather than be otherwise. While they were at breakfast, the letters were brought in. Among the rest there was one for Colonel Brandon. He took it, looked at the direction, changed colour, and immediately left the room. What is the matter with Brandon? said Sir John. Nobody could tell. I hope he has had no bad news, said Lady Middleton. It must be something extraordinary that could make Colonel Brandon leave my breakfast-table so suddenly. In about five minutes he returned. No bad news, Colonel, I hope, said Mrs. Jennings as soon as he entered the room. None at all, ma'am, I thank you. Was it from Avignon? I hope it is not to say that your sister is worse. No, ma'am, it came from town and is merely a letter of business. But how came the hand to discompose you so much if it was only a letter of business? Come, come, this vote to Colonel, so let us hear the truth of it. My dear madam, said Lady Middleton, recollect what you are saying. Perhaps it is to tell you that your cousin Fanny is married, said Mrs. Jennings, without attending to her daughter's reproof. No, indeed it is not. Well, then I know who it is from Colonel, and I hope she is well. Whom do you mean, ma'am? said he, colouring a little. Oh, you know who I mean. I am particularly sorry, ma'am, said he, addressing Lady Middleton, that I should receive this letter to-day, for it is on business which requires my immediate attendance in town. In town, cried Mrs. Jennings, what can you have to do in town in this time of year? My own loss is great, he continued, in being obliged to leave so agreeable a party, but I am the more concerned as I fear my presence is necessary to gain your admittance at Whitwell. What a blow upon them all was this. But if you write a note to the housekeeper, Mr. Brandon, said Mary Ann, eagerly, will it not be sufficient? He shook his head. We must go, said Sir John, it shall not be put off when we are so near it. You cannot go to town till to-morrow, Brandon, that is all. I wish it could be so easily settled, but it is not in my power to delay my journey for one day. If you would but let us know what your business is, said Mrs. Jennings, we might see whether it could be put off or not. You would not be six hours later, said Willoughby, if you were to defer your journey till our return. I cannot afford to lose one hour. Eleanor then heard Willoughby say, in a low voice to Mary Ann, there are some people who cannot bear a party of pleasure. Brandon is one of them. He was afraid of catching cold, I dare say, and invented this trick for getting out of it. I would lay fifty guineas the letter was of his own writing. I have no doubt of it, replied Mary Ann. There is no persuading you to change your mind, Brandon, I know of old, said Sir John, when once you are determined on anything. But, however, I hope you will think better of it. Consider. Here are the two Miss Carries come over from Newton, the three Miss Dashwoods walked up from the cottage, and Mr. Willoughby got up two hours before his usual time on purpose to go to Whitwell. Colonel Brandon again repeated his sorrow at being the cause of disappointing the party, but at the same time declared it to be unavoidable. Well, then, when will you come back again? I hope we shall see you at Barton, added her ladyship, as soon as you can conveniently leave town, and we must put off the party to Whitwell till you return. You are very obliting, but it is so uncertain, when I may have it in my power to return, that I dare not engage for it at all. Oh! he must and shall come back, cried Sir John. If he is not here by the end of the week, I shall go after him. I do so, Sir John, cried Mrs. Jennings, and then perhaps you may find out what his business is. I do not want to pry into other men's concerns. I suppose it is something he is ashamed of. Colonel Brandon's horses were announced. You do not go to town on horseback, do you? added Sir John. No. Only to Hunneton. I shall then go post. Well, as you are resolved to go, I wish you a good journey, but you had better change your mind. I assure you it is not in my power. He then took leave of the whole party. Is there no chance of my seeing you and your sisters in town this winter, Miss Dashwood? I am afraid none at all. Then I must bid you farewell for a longer time than I should wish to do. To Mary Ann he merely bowed and said nothing. Come, Colonel, said Mrs. Jennings, before you go, do let us know what you are going about. He wished her a good morning, and, attended by Sir John, left the room. The complaints and lamentations which politeness had hitherto restrained now burst forth universally, and they all agreed again and again how provoking it was to be so disappointed. I can guess what his business is, however, said Mrs. Jennings exulting me. Can you, ma'am? said almost everybody. Yes, it is about Miss Williams, I am sure. And who is Miss Williams? asked Mary Ann. What? Do not you know who Miss Williams is? I am sure you must have heard of her before. She is a relation of the Colonel's, my dear, a very near relation. We will not say how near for fear of shocking the young ladies. Then, lowering her voice a little, she said to Eleanor, she is his natural daughter. Indeed. Oh, yes! and as like him as she can stare, I daresay the Colonel will leave her all his fortune. When Sir John returned, he joined most heartily in the general regret on so unfortunate an event, concluding, however, by observing that as they were all got together, they must do something by way of being happy. And after some consultation, it was agreed that although happiness could only be enjoyed at Whitwell, they might procure a tolerable composure of mind by driving about the country. The carriages were then ordered. Willoughby's was first, and Mary Ann never looked happier than when she got into it. He drove through the park very fast, and they were soon out of sight, and nothing more of them was seen till their return, which did not happen till after the return of all the rest. They both seemed delighted with their drive, but said only in general terms that they had kept in the lanes, while the others went on the downs. It was settled that there should be a dance in the evening, and that everybody should be extremely merry all day long. Some more of the carriages came to dinner, and they had the pleasure of sitting down nearly twenty to-table, which Sir John observed with great contentment. Willoughby took his usual place between the two elder Miss Stashwoods. Mrs. Jennings sat on Eleanor's right hand, and they had not been long seated before she leant behind her and Willoughby, and said to Mary Ann, loud enough for them both to hear, I have found you out in spite of all your tricks. I know where you spent the morning. Mary Ann coloured and replied very hastily, where pray? Did not you know, said Willoughby, that we had been out in my caracal? Yes, yes, Mr. Impudence, I know that very well, and I was determined to find out where you had been to. I hope you like your house, Miss Mary Ann. It is a very large one, I know, and when I come to see you, I hope you will have new furnished it, for it wanted it very much when I was there six years ago. Mary Ann turned away in great confusion. Mrs. Jennings laughed heartily, and Eleanor found that in a resolution to know where they had been, she had actually made her own woman inquire of Mr. Willoughby's groom, and that she had by that method been informed that they had gone to Eleanor, and spent a considerable time there in walking about the garden and going all over the house. Eleanor could hardly believe this to be true, as it seemed very unlikely that Willoughby should propose, or Mary Ann can send, to enter the house while Mrs. Smith was in it, with whom Mary Ann had not the smallest acquaintance. As soon as they had left the dining-room, Eleanor inquired of her about it, and great was her surprise when she found that every circumstance related by Mrs. Jennings was perfectly true. Mary Ann was quite angry with her for doubting it. Why should you imagine, Eleanor, that we did not go there, or that we did not see the house? Is it not what you have often wished to do yourself? Yes, Mary Ann, but I would not go while Mrs. Smith was there, and with no other companion than Mr. Willoughby. Mr. Willoughby, however, is the only person who can have a right to show that house, and as he went in an open carriage, it was impossible to have any other companion. I never spent a pleasant morning in my life. I am afraid, replied Eleanor, that the pleasantness of an employment does not always evince its propriety. On the contrary, nothing can be a stronger proof of it, Eleanor, for if there had been any real impropriety in what I did, I should have been sensible of it at the time. For we always know when we are acting wrong, and with such a conviction, I could have had no pleasure. But, my dear Mary Ann, as it has already exposed you to some very impertinent remarks, do you not now begin to doubt the discretion of your own conduct? If the impertinent remarks of Mrs. Jennings are to be the proof of impropriety and conduct, we are all offending every moment of our lives. I value not her censure any more than I should do her commendation. I am not sensible of having done anything wrong in walking over Mrs. Smith's grounds or in seeing her house. They will one day be Mr. Willoughbys, and if they were one day to be your own Mary Ann, you would not be justified in what you have done. She blushed at this hint. But it was even visibly gratifying to her. And after a ten-minutes interval of earnest thought, she came to her sister again, and said with great good humour, perhaps Eleanor it was rather ill-judged in me to go to Allanham, but Mr. Willoughby wanted particularly to show me the place, and it is a charming house, I assure you. There is one remarkably pretty sitting-room upstairs, of a nice comfortable size for constant use, and with modern furniture it would be delightful. It is a corner-room, and has windows on two sides. On one side you look across the bowling-green behind the house to a beautiful hanging-wood, and on the other you have a view of the church and village, and beyond them of those fine, bold hills that we have so often admired. I did not see it to advantage, for nothing could be more forlorn than the furniture. But if it were newly fitted up, a couple of hundred pounds, Willoughby said, would make it one of the pleasantest summer-rooms in England. Could Eleanor have listened to her without interruption from the others, she would have described every room in the house