 CHAPTER XIV The sudden termination of Colonel Brandon's visit at the park, with his steadiness in concealing its cause, filled the mind and raised the wonder of Mrs. Jennings for two or three days. She was a great wanderer, as every one must be who takes a very lively interest in all the comings and goings of all their acquaintance. She wondered, with little intermission, what could be the reason of it? Were sure there must be some bad news, and thought over every kind of distress that could have befallen him with a fixed determination that he should not escape them all. Something very melancholy must be the matter, I am sure," said she, I could see it in his face. Poor man! I am afraid his circumstances may be bad. The estate in Delaford was never reckoned more than two thousand a year, and his brother left everything sadly involved. I do think he must have been sent for about money matters. For what else can it be? I wonder whether it is so. I could give anything to know the truth of it. Perhaps it is about Miss Williams, and by the by I dare say it is, because he looked so conscious when I mentioned her. Maybe she is ill in town, nothing in the world more likely, for I have a notion she is always rather sickly. I would lay any wager it is about Miss Williams. It is not so very likely he should be distressed in his circumstances now, for he is a very prudent man, and to be sure must have cleared the estate by this time. I wonder what it can be? Maybe his sister is worse at Avignon, and has sent for him over. His setting-off in such a hurry seems very like it. Well, I wish him out of all his trouble with all my heart, and a good wife into the bargain. So wondered, so talked Mrs. Jennings. Her opinion varying with every fresh conjecture, and all seeming equally probable as they arose. Eleanor, though she felt really interested in the welfare of Colonel Brandon, could not bestow all the wonder on his going so suddenly away, which Mrs. Jennings was desirous of her feeling. For besides that the circumstance did not, in her opinion, justify such lasting amazement or variety of speculation, her wonder was otherwise disposed of. It was engrossed by the extraordinary silence of her sister and Willoughby, on the subject which they must know to be peculiarly interesting to them all. As this silence continued, every day made it appear more strange and more incompatible with the disposition of both. Why they should not openly acknowledge to her mother and herself what their constant behaviour to each other declared to have taken place, Eleanor could not imagine. She could easily conceive that marriage might not be immediately in their power. For though Willoughby was independent, there was no reason to believe him rich. His estate had been rated by Sir John at about six or seven hundred a year, but he lived at an expense to which that income could hardly be equal, and he had himself often complained of his poverty. But for this strange kind of secrecy maintained by them relative to their engagement, which in fact concealed nothing at all, she could not account. And it was so wholly contradictory to their general opinions and practice, that a doubt sometimes entered her mind of their being really engaged, and this doubt was enough to prevent her making any inquiry of Mary Ann. Nothing could be more expressive of attachment to them all than Willoughby's behaviour. To Mary Ann it had all the distinguishing tenderness which a lover's heart could give, and to the rest of the family it was the affectionate attention of a son and a brother. The cottage seemed to be considered and loved by him as his home. Many more of his hours were spent there than at Allanham, and if no general engagement collected them at the park, the exercise which called him out in the morning was almost certain of ending there, where the rest of the day was spent by himself at the side of Mary Ann, and by his favourite pointer at her feet. One evening in particular, about a week after Colonel Brandon left the country, his heart seemed more than usually open to every feeling of attachment to the objects around him. And on Mrs. Dashwood's happening to mention her design of improving the cottage in the spring, he warmly opposed every alteration of a place which affection had established as perfect with him. What! he exclaimed, improve this dear cottage. No, that I will never consent to. Not a stone must be added to its walls, not an inch to its size, if my feelings are regarded. Do not be alarmed, said Miss Dashwood. Nothing of the kind will be done, for my mother will never have money enough to attempt it. I am heartily glad of it, he cried. May she always be poor, if she can employ her riches no better. Thank you, Bolivia, but you may be assured that I would not sacrifice one sentiment of local attachment of yours, or of any one whom I loved, for all the improvements in the world. Depend upon it that whatever unemployed some may remain when I make up my accounts in the spring, I would even rather lay it uselessly by than dispose of it in a manner so painful to you. But are you really so attached to this place as to see no defect in it? I am, said he, to me it is faultless. Name more. I consider it as the only form of building in which happiness is attainable, and were I rich enough, I would instantly pull Kuhn down and build it up again in the exact plan of this cottage. With dark narrow stairs and a kitchen that smokes, I suppose, said Eleanor. Yes, cried he in the same eager tone, with all and everything belonging to it. In no one convenience or inconvenience about it should the least variation be perceptible. Then and then only, under such a roof, I might perhaps be as happy at Kuhn as I have been at Barton. I flatter myself, replied Eleanor, that even under the disadvantage of better rooms and a broader staircase you will hereafter find your own house as faultless as you now do this. There certainly are circumstances, said Willoughby, which might greatly endear it to me, but this place will always have one claim on my affection which no other can possibly share. Mrs. Dashwood looked with pleasure at Mary Ann, whose fine eyes were fixed so expressively on Willoughby, as plainly denoted how well she understood him. How often did I wish, added he, when I was at Allanham, this time twelve-month, that Barton Cottage were inhabited? I never passed within view of it without admiring its situation and grieving that no one to live in it. How little did I then think that the very first news I should hear from Mrs. Smith when I next came into the country would be that Barton Cottage was taken. And I felt an immediate satisfaction and interest in the event, which nothing but a kind of prescience of what happiness I should experience from it can account for. Must it not have been so, Mary Ann? Speaking to her in a lowered voice. Then continuing in his formatone, he said, and yet this house you would spoil, Mrs. Dashwood. You would rob it of its simplicity by imaginary improvement. And this dear parlour in which our acquaintance first began, and in which so many happy hours have been since spent by us together, you would degrade to the condition of a common entrance and everybody would be eager to pass through the room which has hitherto contained within itself more real accommodation and comfort than any other apartment of the handsomest dimensions in the world could possibly afford. Mrs. Dashwood again assured him that no alteration of the kind should be attempted. You are a good woman, he warmly replied. Your promise makes me easy. Extend it a little farther, and it will make me happy. Tell me that not only your house will remain the same, but that I shall ever find you and yours as unchanged as your dwelling, and that you will always consider me with the kindness which has made everything belonging to you so dear to me. The promise was readily given, and Willoughby's behaviour during the whole of the evening declared at once his affection and happiness. Shall we see you to-morrow to dinner? said Mrs. Dashwood when he was leaving them. I do not ask you to come in the morning, for we must walk to the park to call on Lady Middleton. He engaged to be with them by four o'clock. Mrs. Dashwood's visit to Lady Middleton took place the next day, and two of her daughters went with her, but Mary Ann excused herself from being of the party under some trifling pretext of employment, and her mother, who concluded that a promise had been made by Willoughby the night before of calling on her while they were absent, was perfectly satisfied with her remaining at home. On their returning from the park they found Willoughby's curacle and servant in waiting at the cottage, and Mrs. Dashwood was convinced that her conjecture had been just. So far it was all as she had foreseen. But on entering the house she beheld what no foresight had taught her to expect. They were no sooner in the passage than Mary Ann came hastily out of the parlour apparently in violent affliction, with her handkerchief at her eyes, and without noticing them ran upstairs. Surprised and alarmed they proceeded directly into the room she had just quitted, where they found only Willoughby, who was leaning against the mantle-piece with his back towards them. He turned round on their coming in, and his countenance showed that he strongly partook of the emotion which overpowered Mary Ann. Is anything the matter with her? cried Mrs. Dashwood as she entered. Is she ill? I hope not, he replied, trying to look cheerful, and with a forced smile presently added, it is I who may rather expect to be ill, for I am now suffering under a very heavy disappointment. Disappointment? Yes, for I am unable to keep my engagement with you. Mrs. Smith has this morning exercised the privilege of riches upon a poor dependent cousin, by sending me on business to London. I have just received my dispatchers and taken my farewell of Allynom, and by way of exhilaration I am now come to take my farewell of you. To London? And are you going this morning? Almost this moment. This is very unfortunate, but Mrs. Smith must be obliged, and her business will not detain you from us long, I hope. He coloured, as he replied, you are very kind, but I have no idea of returning to Devonshire immediately. My visits to Mrs. Smith are never repeated within the twelve months. And is Mrs. Smith your only friend? Is Allynom the only house in the neighbourhood to which you would be welcome? For shame will it be. Can you want for an invitation here? His colour increased, and with his eyes fixed on the ground he only replied, you are too good. Mrs. Dashwood looked at Allynor with surprise. Allynor felt equal amazement. For a few moments everyone was silent. Mrs. Dashwood first spoke. I have only to add, my dear Willoughby, that at Barton Cottage you will always be welcome, for I will not press you to return here immediately, because you only can judge how far that might be pleasing to Mrs. Smith, and on this head I shall be no more disposed to question your judgment than to doubt your inclination. My engagements at present, replied Willoughby confusedly, are of such a nature that I dare not flatter myself. He stopped. Mrs. Dashwood was too much astonished to speak, and another pause succeeded. This was broken by Willoughby, who said with a faint smile, it is folly to linger in this manner. I will not torment myself any longer by remaining among friends whose society it is impossible for me now to enjoy. He then hastily took leave of them all, and left the room. They saw him step into his carriage, and in a minute it was out of sight. Mrs. Dashwood felt too much for speech, and instantly quitted the parlour to give way in solitude to the concern and alarm which this sudden departure occasioned. Eleanor's uneasiness was at least equal to her mother's. She thought of what had just passed, with anxiety and distrust. Willoughby's behaviour in taking leave of them, his embarrassment and affectation of cheerfulness, and above all his willingness to accept her mother's invitation, a backwardness so unlike a lover, so unlike himself, greatly disturbed her. One moment she feared that no serious design had ever been formed on his side, and the next, that some unfortunate quarrel had taken place between him and her sister. The distress in which Mary Ann had quitted the room was such as a serious quarrel could most reasonably account for, though when she considered what Mary Ann's love for him was, a quarrel seemed almost impossible. But whatever might be the particulars of their separation, her sister's affliction was indubitable, and she thought with the tenderest compassion of that violent sorrow which Mary Ann was in all probability not merely giving way to as a relief, but feeding and encouraging as a duty. In about half an hour her mother returned, and though her eyes were red, her countenance was not uncearful. Our dear Willoughby is now some miles from Barton, Eleanor, said she as she sat down to work, and with how heavy a heart as he travelled. It is all very strange, so suddenly to be gone. It seems but the work of a moment, and last night he was with us so happy, so cheerful, so affectionate. And now after only ten minutes' notice, gone too without intending to return. Something more than what he owned to us must have happened. He did not speak, he did not behave like himself. You must have seen the difference as well as I. What can it be? Can they have quarrelled? Why else should he have shown such unwillingness to accept your invitation here? It was not that inclination that he wanted, Eleanor. I could plainly see that. He had not the power of accepting it. I have thought it all over, I assure you, and I can perfectly account for everything that at first seems strange to me as well as to you. Can you indeed? Yes. I have explained it to myself in the most satisfactory way. But you, Eleanor, who loved it out where you can, it will not satisfy you, I know. But you shall not talk me out of my trust in it. I am persuaded that Mrs. Smith suspects his regard for Marianne, disapproves of it, perhaps because she has other views for him. And on that account is he good to get him away. And that the business which he sends him off to transact is invented as an excuse to dismiss him. This is what I believe to have happened. He is moreover aware that she does disapprove the connection. He dares not therefore at present confess to her his engagement with Marianne, and he feels himself obliged from his depended situation to give into his schemes, and upset himself from Devonshire for a while. You will tell me I know that this may or may not have happened, but I will listen to no cavill, unless you can point out any other method of understanding the affair as satisfactory as this. And now, Eleanor, what have you to say? Nothing, for you have anticipated my answer. Then you would have told me that it might or might not have happened. Oh, Eleanor, how incomprehensible are your feelings! You would rather take evil upon credit than good. You would rather look out for misery from Marianne and guilt for poor Willoughby than an apology for the latter. You are resolved to think imblamable because you took leave of us with less affection than as usual behaviour is shown, and is no allowance to be made for inadvertence or for spirits depressed by recent disappointment, are no probabilities to be accepted merely because they are not certainties? Is nothing due to the man whom we have all such reason to love, and no reason in the world to think ill of? To the possibility of motives unanswerable in themselves, though unavoidably secret for a while? And after all, what is it you suspect him of? I can hardly tell myself. But suspicion of something unpleasant is the inevitable consequence of such an alteration as we just witnessed in him. There is great truth, however, and what you have now urged of the allowances which ought to be made for him, and it is my wish to be candid in my judgment of everybody. Willoughby may undoubtedly have very sufficient reasons for his conduct, and I will hope that he has. But it would have been more like Willoughby to acknowledge them at once. Secrecy may be advisable, but still I cannot help wondering its being practised by him. Do not blame him, however, for departing from his character where the deviation is necessary. But you really do admit the justice of what I have said in this defence. I am happy, and he is acquitted. Not entirely. It may be proper to conceal their engagement, if they are engaged, from Mrs. Smith, and if that is the case, it must be highly expedient for Willoughby to be but little endeavoured present. But this is no excuse for their concealing it from us. Concealing it from us, my dear child, do you accuse Willoughby and Marianne of concealment? This is strange indeed when your eyes have been reproaching them every day for incestuousness. I want no proof of their affection, said Eleanor, but of their engagement I do. I am perfectly satisfied of both. Yet not a syllable has been said to you on the subject by either of them. I have not wanted syllables where actions have spoken so plainly. Has not his behaviour to Marianne, and to all of us, for at least the last fortnight, declared that he loved and considered her as his future wife, and that he felt for us the attachment of nearest relation? Have we not perfectly understood each other? Has not my consent been daily asked by his looks, his manner, his attentive and affectionate respect? My Eleanor, is it possible to doubt their engagement? How could such a thought occur to you? How is it to be supposed that Willoughby, persuaded as he must be of your sister's love, should leave her, and leave her perhaps for months, without telling her of his affection, that they should part without a mutual exchange of confidence? I confess, replied Eleanor, that every circumstance except one is in favour of their engagement. But that one is the total silence of both on the subject, and with me it almost outweighs every other. How strange this is! You must think wretchedly indeed of Willoughby, if after all that is openly passed between them you can doubt the nature of the terms on which they are together. Has he been acting apart in his behaviour to your sister all this time? Do you suppose him really indifferent to her? No, I cannot think that. He must and does love her, I am sure. But with a strange kind of tenderness, if he can leave her with such indifference, such carelessness of the future as you attribute to him, you must remember, my dear mother, that I have never considered this matter as certain. I have had my doubts, I confess, but they are fainter than they were, and they may soon be entirely done away. If we find they correspond, every fear of mine will be removed. A mighty concession indeed. If you were to see them at the altar you would suppose they were going to be married, ungracious girl. But I require no such proof. Nothing, in my opinion, has ever passed a justified doubt. No secrecy has been attempted. All has been uniformly open and unreserved. You cannot doubt your sister's wishes. It must be Willoughby there for whom you suspect. But why? Is he not a man of honour and feeling? Has there been any inconsistency on his side to create alarm? Can he be deceitful? I hope not. I believe not, cried Eleanor. I love Willoughby, sincerely love him, and suspicion of his integrity cannot be more painful to yourself than to me. It has been involuntary, and I will not encourage it. I was snuttled, I confess, by the alteration in his manners this morning. He did not speak like himself, and did not return your kindness with any cordiality. But all this may be explained by such a situation of his affairs as you have supposed. He had just parted from my sister, had seen her leave him in the greatest affliction. And if he felt obliged, from a fear of offending Mrs. Smith, to resist the temptation of returning here soon, and yet aware that by declining your invitation, by saying that he was going away for some time, he should seem to act an ungenerous, a suspicious part by our family, he might well be embarrassed and disturbed. In such a case, a plain and open avowal of his difficulties would have been more to his honor, I think, as well as more consistent with his general character. But I will not raise objections against any one's conduct on so a liberal a foundation, as a difference in judgment from myself, or a deviation from what I may think right and consistent. You speak very properly. Willoughby certainly does not deserve to be suspected. Though we have not known him long, he is no stranger in this part of the world, and who has ever spoken to his disadvantage. Had he been in a situation to act independently and marry immediately, it might have been odd that he should leave us without acknowledging everything to me at once. But this is not the case. It is an engagement in some respects not prosperously begun, for their marriage must be at a very uncertain distance, and even secrecy, as far as it can be observed, may now be very advisable. They were interrupted by the entrance of Margaret, and Eleanor was then at liberty to think over the representations of her mother, to acknowledge the probability of many and hope for the justice of all. They saw nothing of Mary Ann till dinnertime, when she entered the room and took her place at the table without saying a word. Her eyes were red and swollen, and it seemed as if her tears were even then restrained with difficulty. She avoided the looks of them all, could neither eat nor speak, and after some time, on her mother's silently pressing her hand with tender compassion, her small degree of fortitude was quite overcome. She burst into tears and left the room. This violent oppression of spirits continued the whole evening. She was without any power, because she was without any desire of command over herself. The slightest mention of anything relative to Willoughby overpowered her in an instant, and though her family were most anxiously attentive to her comfort, it was impossible for them, if they spoke at all, to keep clear of every subject which her feelings connected with him. CHAPTER XVI Mary Ann would have thought herself very inexcusable had she been able to sleep at all the first night after parting from Willoughby. She would have been ashamed to look her family in the face the next morning had she not risen from her bed in more need of repose than when she lay down in it. But the feelings which made such composure a disgrace left her in no danger of incurring it. She was awake the whole night, and she wept the greatest part of it. She got up with the headache, was unable to talk, and unwilling to take any nourishment, giving pain every moment to her mother and sisters, and forbidding all attempted consolation from either. Her sensibility was potent enough. When breakfast was over she walked out by herself, and wondered about the village of Allanham, indulging the recollection of past enjoyment, and crying over the present reverse for the chief of the morning. The evening passed off in the equal indulgence of feeling. She played over every favourite song that she had been used to play to Willoughby, every air in which their voices had been oftenest joined, and sat at the instrument gazing on every line of music that he had written out for her, till her heart was so heavy that no further sadness could be gained. And this nourishment of grief was every day applied. She spent whole hours at the Piano Forte, alternately singing and crying, her voice often totally suspended by her tears. In books, too, as well as in music, she courted the misery which a contrast between the past and present was certain of giving. She read nothing but what they had been used to read together. Such violence of affliction indeed could not be supported for ever. It sunk within a few days into a calmer melancholy, but these employments, to which she daily recurred, her solitary walks and silent meditations, still produced occasional effusions of sorrow, as lively as ever. No letter from Willoughby came, and none seemed expected by Marianne. Her mother was surprised, and Eleanor again became uneasy. But Mrs. Nashwood could find explanations whenever she wanted them, which at least satisfied herself. "'Remember, Eleanor,' said she, how very often Sir John fetches our letters himself from the post, and carries them to it. We have already agreed that secrecy may be necessary, and we must acknowledge that it could not be maintained if their correspondents were to pass through Sir John's hands.' Eleanor could not deny the truth of this, and she tried to find in it a motive sufficient for their silence. But there was one method so direct, so simple, and in her opinion so eligible of knowing the real state of the affair, and of instantly removing all mystery, that she could not help suggesting it to her mother. "'Why do you not ask Marianne at once?' said she, whether she is or she is not engaged to Willoughby. From you, her mother, and so kind, so indulgent a mother, the question could not give offence. It would be the natural result of your affection for her. She used to be all unreserved, and to you more especially. I would not think to ask such a question for the world, supposing it possible that they are not engaged. What distress would not such an inquiry inflict? At any rate, it would be most ungenerous. I should never deserve her confidence again after forcing from her a confession of what is meant at present to be unacknowledged to any one. I know Marianne's heart. I know that she dearly loves me, and that I shall not be the last to whom the affair is made known, when circumstances make the revealment of it eligible. I would not attempt to force the confidence of any one, of a child much less, because a sense of duty would prevent the denial which her wishes might direct." Eleanor thought this generosity overstrained, considering her sister's youth, and urged the matter farther but in vain. Common sense, common care, common prudence were all sunk in Mrs. Dashwood's romantic delicacy. It was several days before Willoughby's name was mentioned before Marianne by any of her family. Sir John and Mrs. Jennings indeed were not so nice. Their witticisms added pain to many a painful hour. But one evening Mrs. Dashwood accidentally taking up a volume of Shakespeare exclaimed, We have never finished Hamlet, Marianne. Our dear Willoughby went away before we could get through it. We will put it by, that when he comes again—but it may be months, perhaps, before that happens. Months! cried Marianne with strong surprise. No! nor many weeks. Mrs. Dashwood was sorry for what she had said. But it gave Eleanor pleasure, as it produced a reply from Marianne so expressive of confidence in Willoughby, and knowledge of his intentions. One morning, about a week after his leaving the country, Marianne was prevailed on to join her sisters in their usual walk, instead of wandering away by herself. Here the two she had carefully avoided every companion in her rambles. If her sisters intended to walk on the downs, she directly stole away towards the lanes. If they talked of the valley, she was as speedy in climbing the hills, and could never be found when the other set off. But at length she was secured by the exertions of Eleanor, who greatly disapproved such continual seclusion. They walked along the road through the valley, and chiefly in silence, for Marianne's mind could not be controlled, and Eleanor, satisfied with gaining one point, would not then attempt more. Beyond the entrance of the valley where the country, though still rich, was less wild and more open, a long stretch of the road which they had travelled on first coming to Barton lay before them, and on reaching that point they stopped to look around them, and examine a prospect which formed the distance of their view from the cottage, from a spot which they had never happened to reach in any of their walks before. Amongst the objects in the scene, they soon discovered an animated one. It was a man on horseback riding towards them. In a few minutes they could distinguish him to be a gentleman, and in a moment afterwards Marianne rapturously exclaimed, It is he! It is indeed! I know it is! and was hastening to meet him when Eleanor cried out, Indeed Marianne, I think you are mistaken. It is not Willoughby. The person is not tall enough for him, and has not his air. He has, he has!" cried Marianne. I am sure he has. His air, his coat, his horse—I knew how soon he would come. She walked eagerly on as she spoke, and Eleanor to screen Marianne from particularity, as she felt almost certain of its not being Willoughby, quickened her pace, and kept up with her. They were soon within thirty yards of the gentleman. Marianne looked again. Her heart sunk within her, and abruptly turning around she was hurrying back, when the voices of both her sisters were raised to detain her. A third, almost as well known as Willoughbys, joined them in begging her to stop, and she turned round with surprise to see and welcome Edward Ferris. He was the only person in the world who could at that moment be forgiven for not being Willoughby. The only one who could have gained a smile from her, but she dispersed her tears to smile on him, and in her sister's happiness forgot for a time her own disappointment. He dismounted, and giving his horse to his servant, walked back with them to Barton, with her he was purposely coming to visit them. He was welcomed by them all with great cordiality, but especially by Marianne, who showed more warmth of regard in her reception of him than even Eleanor herself. To Marianne, indeed, the meeting between Edward and her sister was but a continuation of that unaccountable coldness which she had often observed at Norland in their mutual behavior. On Edward's side more particularly, there was a deficiency of all that a lover ought to look and say on such an occasion. He was confused, seemed scarcely sensible of pleasure in seeing them, looked neither rapturous nor gay, said little but what was forced from him by questions, and distinguished Eleanor by no mark of affection. Marianne saw and listened with increasing surprise. She began almost to feel it is like of Edward, and it ended, as every feeling must end with her, by carrying back her thoughts to Willoughby, whose manners formed a contrast sufficiently striking to those of his brother-elect. After a short silence which succeeded the first surprise and inquiries of meeting, Marianne asked Edward if he came directly from London. No, he had been in Devonshire for a fortnight. A fortnight, she repeated, surprised at his being so long in the same county with Eleanor without seeing her before. He looked rather distressed as he added that he had been staying with some friends near Plymouth. "'Have you been lately in Sussex?' said Eleanor. "'I was at Norland about a month ago.' "'And how does dear, dear Norland look?' cried Marianne. "'Dear, dear Norland,' said Eleanor, probably looks much as it always does at this time of year. The woods and walks, thickly covered with dead leaves. "'Oh!' cried Marianne, with what transporting sensation have I formally seen them fall? How have I delighted as I walk to see them driven in showers about me by the wind? What feelings have they, the season, the air altogether inspired? Now there is no one to regard them. They are seen only as a nuisance, swept hastily off, and driven as much as possible from the sight.' "'It is not everyone,' said Eleanor, who has your passion for dead leaves.' "'No. My feelings are not often shared, not often understood. But sometimes they are.' As she said this, she sunk into a reverie for a few moments. But rousing herself again, "'Now, Edward,' said she, calling his attention to the prospect, here is Barton Valley. Look up to it, and be tranquil if you can. Look at those hills. Did you ever see their equals? To the left is Barton Park, amongst those woods and plantations. You may see the end of the house. And there, beneath that farthest hill which rises with such grandeur, is our cottage.' "'It is a beautiful country,' he replied. But these bottoms must be dirty in winter. "'How can you think of dirt with such objects before you?' "'Because,' replied he, smiling, "'among the rest of the objects before me, I see a very dirty lane.' "'How strange,' said Mary Ann to herself, as she walked on. "'Have you an agreeable neighborhood here? Are the Middleton's pleasant people?' "'No, not at all,' answered Mary Ann. We could not be more unfortunately situated.' "'Mary Ann,' cried her sister, "'how can you say so? How can you be so unjust? They are a very respectable family, Mr. Ferrose, and towards us have behaved in the friendliest manner. Have you forgot, Mary Ann, how many pleasant days we have owed to them?' "'No,' said Mary Ann in a low voice, nor how many painful moments.' Eleanor took no notice of this, and, erecting her attention to their visitor, endeavored to support something like discourse with him, by talking of their present residence, its conveniences, etc., extorting from him occasional questions and remarks. His coldness and reserve mortified her severely. She was vexed and half angry, but resolving to regulate her behaviour to him by the past rather than the present, she avoided every appearance of resentment or displeasure, and treated him as she thought he ought to be treated from the family connection. CHAPTER XVII Mrs. Dashwood was surprised only for a moment at seeing him, for his coming to Barton was, in her opinion, of all things the most natural. Her joy and expression of regard long outlived her wonder. He received the kindest welcome from her, and shyness, coldness, reserve, could not stand against such a reception. They had begun to fail him before he entered the house, and they were quite overcome by the captivating manners of Mrs. Dashwood. Indeed, a man could not very well be in love with either of her daughters, without extending the passion to her. And Eleanor had the satisfaction of seeing him soon become more like himself. His affections seemed to reanimate towards them all, and his interest in their welfare again became perceptible. He was not in spirits, however. He praised their house, admired its prospect, was attentive and kind, but still he was not in spirits. The whole family perceived it, and Mrs. Dashwood, attributing it to some want of liberality in his mother, sat down to table indignant against all selfish parents. But are Mrs. Ferris's views for you at present, Edward?" said she when dinner was over and they had drawn round the fire. Are you still to be a great orator in spite of yourself? No. I hope my mother is now convinced that I have no more talents than inclination for a public life. But how is your fame to be established? For famous you must be to satisfy all your family, and with no inclination for expense, no affection for strangers, no profession, and no assurance, you may find it a difficult matter. I shall not attempt it. I have no wish to be distinguished, and have every reason to hope I never shall. Thank heaven, I cannot be forced into genius and eloquence. You have no ambition, I well know. Your wishes are all moderate. As moderate is those of the rest of the world, I believe. I wish as well as everybody else to be perfectly happy. But, like everybody else, it must be in my own way. Greatness will not make me so. Strange that it would, cried Mary Ann, what have wealth or grandeur to do with happiness? Grandeur has but little, said Eleanor, but wealth has much to do with it. Eleanor, for shame, said Mary Ann, money can only give happiness where there is nothing else to give it. Beyond a competence it can afford no real satisfaction as far as mere self is concerned. Perhaps, said Eleanor, smiling, we may come to the same point. Your competence and my wealth are very much alike, I daresay, and without them, as the world goes now, we shall both agree that every kind of external comfort must be wanting. Your ideas are only more noble than mine. Come, what is your competence? About eighteen hundred or two thousand a year? Not more than that. Eleanor laughed, two thousand a year, one is my wealth. I guessed how it would end. And yet two thousand a year is a very moderate income, said Mary Ann, a family cannot well be maintained on a smaller. I am sure I am not extravagant in my demands. A proper establishment of servants, a carriage, perhaps two, and hunters, cannot be supported on less. Eleanor smiled again, to hear her sister describing so accurately their future expenses at Coug Magna. Hunters, repeated Edward, but why must you have hunters? Everybody does not hunt. Ann colored, as she replied. But most people do. I wish, said Margaret, striking out a novel thought, that somebody would give us all a large fortune apiece. Oh! that they would, cried Mary Ann, her eyes sparkling with animation, and her cheeks glowing with the delight of such imaginary happiness. We are all unanimous in that wish, I suppose, said Eleanor, in spite of the insufficiency of wealth. Oh! dear! cried Margaret, how happy I should be! I wonder what I should do with it. Helen looked as if she had no doubt on that point. I should be puzzled to spend so large a fortune myself, said Mrs. Dashwood, if my children were all to be rich without my help. You must begin your improvements on this house, observed Eleanor, and your difficulties will soon vanish. What magnificent orders would travel from this family to London, said Edward, in such an event. What a happy day for book-sellers, music-sellers, and print-shops. You, Mrs. Dashwood, would give a general commission for every new print of merit to be sent to you. And as for Mary Ann, I know her greatness of soul, there would not be music enough in London to content her. And books, Thompson, Cowper, Scott, she would buy them all over and over again. She would buy up every copy, I believe, to prevent their falling into unworthy hands. And she would have every book that tells her how to admire an old twisted tree. Should you not, Mary Ann? Forgive me if I am very saucy, but I was willing to show you that I had not forgot our old disputes. I love to be reminded of the past, Edward, whether it be melancholy or gay. I love to recall it, and you will never offend me by talking of former times. You are very right in supposing how my money would be spent, some of it at least. My loose cash would certainly be employed in improving my collection of music and books. And the bulk of your fortune would be laid out in annuities on the offers or their heirs. No, Edward, I should have something else to do with it. Perhaps then you would bestow it as a reward on that person who wrote the ablest defense of your favourite maxim, that no one can ever be in love more than once in their life. Your opinion on that point is unchanged, I presume. Undoubtedly. At my time of life, opinions are tolerably fixed. It is not likely that I should now see or hear anything to change them. Mary Ann is as steadfast as ever, you see, said Eleanor. She is not at all altered. She has only grown a little more grave than she was. Nay, Edward, said Mary Ann, you need not reproach me. You are not very gay yourself. Why should you think so? replied he with a sigh. But gayity never was part of my character. Nor do I think it a part of Mary Ann's, said Eleanor. I should hardly call her a lively girl. She is very earnest, very eager in all she does, sometimes talks a great deal and always with animation, but she is not often really merry. I believe you are right, he replied, and yet I have always set her down as a lively girl. I have frequently detected myself in such kind of mistakes, said Eleanor, in a total misapprehension of character, in some point or other, fancying people so much more gay or grave or ingenious or stupid than they really are, and I can hardly tell why or emot the deception originated. Sometimes one is guided by what they say of themselves, and very frequently by what other people say of them, without giving oneself time to deliberate and judge. But I thought it was right, Eleanor, said Mary Ann, to be guided wholly by the opinion of other people. I thought our judgments were given us merely to be subservient to those of neighbours. This has always been your doctrine, I am sure. No, Mary Ann, never. My doctrine has never aimed at the subjection of the understanding. All I have ever attempted to influence has been the behaviour. You must not confound my meaning. I am guilty, I confess, of having often wished you to treat our acquaintance in general with greater attention, but when have I advised you to adopt their sentiments, or to conform to their judgment in serious matters? You have not been able to bring your sister over to your plan of general civility, said Edward to Eleanor. Do you gain no ground? Quite the contrary, replied Eleanor, looking expressively at Mary Ann. My judgment, he returned, is all on your side of the question. But I am afraid my practice is much more on your sisters. I never wish to offend, but I am so foolishly shy that I often seem negligent, when I am only kept back by my natural awkwardness. I have frequently thought that I must have been intended by nature to be fond of low company, I am so little at my ease among strangers of gentility. Mary Ann has not shyness to excuse any inattention of hers, said Eleanor. She knows her own worth too well for false shame, replied Edward. Shyness is only the effect of a sense of inferiority in some way or other. If I could persuade myself that my manners were perfectly easy and graceful, I should not be shy. But you would still be reserved, said Mary Ann, and that is worse. Edward started. Reserved? Am I reserved, Mary Ann? Yes, very. I do not understand you, replied he, colouring. Reserved? How? In what manner? What am I to tell you? What can you suppose? Eleanor looked surprised at his emotion, but trying to laugh off the subject, she said to him, Do not you know my sister well enough to understand what she means? Do not you know she calls every one reserved who does not talk as fast and admire what she admires as rapturously as herself? Edward made no answer. His gravity and thoughtfulness returned on him in their fullest extent, and he sat for some time silent and dull. CHAPTER XVIII Eleanor saw with great uneasiness the low spirits of her friend. His visit afforded her but a very partial satisfaction, while his own enjoyment in it appeared so imperfect. It was evident that he was unhappy. She wished it were equally evident that he still distinguished her by the same affection, which once she had felt no doubt of inspiring, but hitherto the continuance of his preference seemed very uncertain, and the reservedness of his manner towards her contradicted one moment what a more animated look had intimated the preceding one. He joined her and Mary Ann in the breakfast room the next morning before the others were down, and Mary Ann, who was always eager to promote their happiness as far as she could, soon left them to themselves. But before she was halfway upstairs, she heard the parlour door open, and turning round was astonished to see Edward himself come out. I am going into the village to see my horses, said he, as you are not yet ready for breakfast, I shall be back again presently. Edward returned to them with fresh admiration of the surrounding country. In his walk to the village he had seen many parts of the valley to advantage, and the village itself, in a much higher situation than the cottage, afforded a general view of the whole, which had exceedingly pleased him. This was a subject which ensured Mary Ann's attention, and she was beginning to describe her own admiration of these scenes, and to question him more minutely on the objects that had particularly struck him, when Edward interrupted her by saying, You must not inquire too far, Mary Ann. Remember, I have no knowledge in the picturesque, and I shall offend you by my ignorance and want of taste if we come to particulars. I shall call hills steep, which ought to be bold, surfaces strange and uncouth, which ought to be irregular and rugged, and distant objects out of sight, which ought to be only indistinct through the soft medium of a hazy atmosphere. You must be satisfied with such admiration as I can honestly give. I call it a very fine country. The hills are steep, the woods seem full of fine timber, and the valley looks comfortable in snug, with rich meadows and several neat farmhouses scattered here and there. It exactly answers my idea of a fine country, because it unites beauty with utility, and I dare say it is a picturesque one, too, because you admire it. I can easily believe it to be full of rocks and promontries—grey, moss, and brushwood—but these are all lost on me. I know nothing of the picturesque. I am afraid it is but too true, said Mary Ann, but why should you boast of it? I suspect, said Eleanor, that to avoid one kind of affectation, Edward here falls into another. Because he believes many people pretend to more admiration of the beauties of nature than they really feel, and is disgusted with such pretensions, he affects greater indifference and less discrimination in viewing them himself than he possesses. He is fastidious, and will have an affectation of his own. It is very true, said Mary Ann, that admiration of landscape scenery has become a mere jargon. Everybody pretends to feel and tries to describe with the taste and elegance of him who first defined what picturesque beauty was. I detest jargon of every kind, and sometimes I have kept my feelings to myself, because I could find no language to describe them in, but what was worn and hackneyed out of all sense and meaning. I am convinced, said Edward, that you really feel all the delight in a fine prospect which you profess to feel. But in return, your sister must allow me to feel no more than I profess. I like a fine prospect, but not on picturesque principles. I do not like crooked, twisted, blasted trees. I admire them much more if they are tall, straight, and flourishing. I do not like ruined, tattered cottages. I am not fond of nettles or thistles or heath-blossoms. I have more pleasure in a snug farmhouse than a watchtower, and a troop of tidy, happy villages please me better than the finest bandit in the world. Mary Ann looked with amazement at Edward, with compassion at her sister. Eleanor only laughed. The subject was continued no further, and Mary Ann remained thoughtfully silent till a new object suddenly engaged her attention. She was sitting by Edward, and in taking his tea from Mrs. Dashwood, his hand passed so directly before her as to make a ring with a plait of hair in the centre, very conspicuous on one of his fingers. I never saw you wear a ring before, Edward, she cried. Is that Fanny's hair? I remember her promising to give you some, but I should have thought her hair had been darker. Mary Ann spoken considerably what she really felt. But when she saw how much she had pained Edward, her own vexation at her want of thought could not be surpassed by his. He coloured very deeply, and giving a momentary glance at Eleanor replied, Yes, it is my sister's hair. The setting always casts a different shade on it, you know. Eleanor had met his eye, and looked conscious otherwise. That the hair was her own, she instantaneously felt as well satisfied as Mary Ann. The only difference in their conclusions was, that what Mary Ann considered as a free gift from her sister, Eleanor was conscious must have been procured by some theft or contrivance unknown to herself. She was not in a humour, however, to regard it as an affront, and affecting to take no notice of what passed by instantly talking of something else, she internally resolved henceforward to catch every opportunity of eyeing the hair, and of satisfying herself beyond all doubt that it was exactly the shade of her own. Edward's embarrassment lasted some time, and it ended in an absence of mind still more settled. He was particularly grave the whole morning. Mary Ann severely censured herself for what she had said, but her own forgiveness might have been more speedy had she known how little offence it had given her sister. Before the middle of the day, they were visited by Sir John and Mrs. Jennings, who having heard of the arrival of a gentleman at the cottage, came to take a survey of the guest. With the assistance of his mother-in-law, Sir John was not long in discovering that the name of Ferris began with an F, and this prepared a future mine of railway against the devoted Eleanor, which nothing but the newness of their acquaintance with Edward could have prevented from being immediately sprung. But as it was, she only learned from some very significant looks how far their penetration founded on Margaret's instructions extended. Sir John never came to the dashwoods without either inviting them to dine at the park the next day, or to drink tea with them that evening. On the present occasion, for the better entertainment of their visitor, towards whose amusement he felt himself bound to contribute, he wished to engage them for both. "'You must drink tea with us to-night,' said he, for we shall be quite alone, and to-morrow you must absolutely dine with us, for we shall be a large party.' Mrs. Jennings enforced the necessity. "'And who knows, but you may raise a dance,' said she, and that will tempt you, Miss Mary Ann.' "'A dance!' cried Mary Ann. "'Impossible! Who is to dance? Who? Why yourselves, and the carries, and Whittakers, to be sure? What, you thought nobody could dance because a certain person that shall be nameless is gone?' "'I wish with all my soul,' cried Sir John, that Willoughby were among us again.' This and Mary Ann's blushing gave new suspicions to Edward. "'And who is Willoughby?' said he, in a low voice to Miss Dashwood by whom he was sitting. She gave him a brief reply. Mary Ann's countenance was more communicative. Edward's sure enough to comprehend not only the meaning of others, but such of Mary Ann's expressions as had puzzled him before, and when their visitors left them, he went immediately round her and said in a whisper, "'I have been guessing. Shall I tell you my guess?' "'What do you mean?' "'Shall I tell you?' "'Certainly.' "'Well, then.' "'I guess that Mr. Willoughby hunts.' Mary Ann was surprised and confused, yet she could not help smiling at the quiet archeness of his manner, and after a moment's silence said, "'Oh, Edward, how can you? But the time will come, my hope. I am sure you will like him.' "'I do not doubt it,' replied he, rather astonished at her earnestness and warmth. For had he not imagined it to be a joke for the good of her acquaintance in general, founded only on a something or a nothing between Mr. Willoughby and herself, he would not have ventured to mention it.' CHAPTER XIX Edward remained a week at the cottage. He was earnestly pressed by Mrs. Dashwood to stay longer, but, as if he were bent only on self-mortification, he seemed resolved to be gone when his enjoyment among his friends was at the height. His spirits during the last two or three days, though still very unequal, were greatly improved. He grew more and more partial to the house and embarrass, never spoke of going away without a sigh, declared his time to be wholly disengaged, even doubted to what place he should go when he left them. But still, go, he must. Never had any week passed so quickly. He could hardly believe it to be gone. He said so repeatedly. Other things, he said, too, which marked the turn of his feelings and gave the lie to his actions. He had no pleasure at Norland. He detested being in town, but either to Norland or London he must go. He valued their kindness beyond anything, and his greatest happiness was in being with them. Yet, he must leave them at the end of a week, in spite of their wishes and his own, and without any restraint on his time. Eleanor placed all that was astonishing in this way of acting to his mother's account, and it was happy for her that he had a mother, whose character was so imperfectly known to her, must to be the general excuse for everything strange on the part of her son. Disappointed, however, and vexed as she was, and sometimes displeased with his uncertain behaviour to herself, she was very well disposed on the whole to regard his actions with all the candid allowances and generous qualifications which had been rather more painfully extorted from her for Willoughby's service by her mother. His want of spirits, of openness and of consistency were most usually attributed to his want of independence, and his better knowledge of Mrs. Ferrer's disposition and designs. The shortness of his visit, the steadiness of his purpose in leaving them, originated in some fetid inclination, the same inevitable necessity of temporizing with his mother. The old, well-established grievance of duty against Will, parent against child, was the cause of all. She would have been glad to know when these difficulties were to cease, this opposition was to yield, when Mrs. Ferrer's would be reformed, and her son be at liberty to be happy. But from such vain wishes she was forced to turn for comfort to the renewal of her confidence in Edward's affection, to the remembrance of every mark of regard in look or word which fell from him while at Barton, and above all, to that flattering proof of it which he constantly wore around his finger. I think, Edward, said Mrs. Nathwood, as they were at breakfast the last morning, you would be a happier man if you had any profession to engage your time and give an interest to your plans and actions. Some inconvenience to your friends indeed might result from it. You would not be able to give them so much of your time, but, with a smile, you would be materially benefited in one particular at least. You would know where to go when you left them. I do assure you, he replied, that I have long thought on this point as you think now. It has been and is, and probably will always be a heavy misfortune to me, that I have had no necessary business to engage me, no profession to give me employment, or afford me anything like independence. But, unfortunately, my own nicety, and the nicety of my friends, have made me what I am, an idle, helpless being. We never could agree on our choice of a profession. I always preferred the church, as I still do, but that was not smart enough for my family. They recommended the army. That was a great deal too smart for me. The law was allowed to be genteel enough. Many young men who had chambers in the temple made a very good appearance in the first circles, and drove about town in very knowing gigs. But I had no inclination for the law, even in this less obstruous study of it, which my family approved. As for the navy, it had fashion on its side, but I was too old when the subject was first started to enter it, and at length, as there was no necessity for my having any profession at all, as I might be as dashing and expensive without a red coat on my back as with one, idleness was pronounced on the whole to be most advantageous and honourable, and a young man of eighteen is not in general so earnestly bent on being busy as to resist the solicitations of his friends to do nothing. I was therefore entered at Oxford, and have been properly idle ever since. The consequence of which I suppose will be, said Mrs. Dashwood, since leisure has not promoted your own happiness, that your sons will be brought up to as many pursuits, employments, and trades as collumelors. They will be brought up, said he in a serious accent, to be as unlike myself as is possible, in feeling, in action, in condition, in everything. Come, come! This is all in a fusion of immediate want of spirits, Edward. You are in a melancholy humour, and fancy that any one unlike yourself must be happy. But remember that the pain of parting from friends will be felt by everybody at times, whatever be their education or state. Know your own happiness. You want nothing but patience, or give it a more fascinating name, call it hope. Your mother will secure to you in time that independence you are so anxious for. It is her duty, and it will, it must, ere long, become her happiness to prevent your whole youth from being wasted in discontent. How much may not a few months do? I think, replied Edward, that I may defy many months to produce any good to me. This desponding turn of mind, though it could not be communicated to Mrs. Dashwood, gave additional pain to them all in the parting, which shortly took place, and left an uncomfortable impression on Eleanor's feelings especially, which required some trouble and time to subdue. But as it was her determination to subdue it, and to prevent herself from appearing to suffer more than what all her family suffered on his going away, she did not adopt the method so judiciously employed by Mary Ann on a similar occasion, to augment and fix her sorrow by seeking silence, solitude, and idleness. Their means were as different as their objects, and equally suited to the advancement of each. Eleanor sat down to her drawing-table as soon as he was out of the house, busily employed herself the whole day, neither sought nor avoided the mention of his name, appeared to interest herself almost as much as ever in the general concerns of the family, and if, by this conduct, she did not lessen her own grief, it was at least prevented from unnecessary increase, and her mother and sisters were spared much solicitude on her account. Such behaviour as this, so exactly the reverse of her own, appeared no more meritorious to Mary Ann than her own had seemed faulty to her. The business of self-command she settled very easily. With strong affections it was impossible. With calm ones it could have no merit. That her sister's affections were calm she dared not deny, though she blushed to acknowledge it, and of the strength of her own she gave a very striking proof, by still loving and respecting that sister, in spite of this mortifying conviction. Without shutting herself up from her family, or leaving the house in determined solitude to avoid them, or lying awake the whole night to indulge meditation, Eleanor found every day afforded her leisure enough to think of Edward, and of Edward's behaviour, in every possible variety which the different state of her spirits at different times could produce, with tenderness, pity, approbation, censure, and doubt. There were moments in abundance when, if not by the absence of her mother and sisters, at least by the nature of their employments, conversation was forbidden among them, and every effect of solitude was produced. Her mind was inevitably at liberty, her thoughts could not be chained elsewhere, and the past and the future, on a subject so interesting, must be before her, must force her attention and engross her memory, her reflection, and her fancy. From a reverie of this kind, as she sat at her drawing-table, she was roused one morning, soon after Edward's leaving them, by the arrival of company. She happened to be quite alone. The closing of the little gate, at the entrance of the green court in front of the house, drew her eyes to the window, and she saw a large party walking up to the door. Amongst them were Sir John and Lady Middleton and Mrs. Jennings. But there were two others, a gentleman and lady, who were quite unknown to her. She was sitting near the window, and as soon as Sir John perceived her, he left the rest of the party to the ceremony of knocking at the door, and stepping across the turf, obliged her to open the casement to speak to him, though the space was so short between the door and the window, as to make it hardly possible to speak at one, without being heard at the other. Well, said he, we have brought you some strangers. How do you like them? Hush, they will hear you. Never mind if they do. It is only the Parmas. Charlotte is very pretty, I can tell you. You may see her if you look this way. As Eleanor was certain of seeing her in a couple of minutes without taking that liberty, she begged to be excused. Where is Mary Ann? Has she run away because we are come? I see her instrument is open. She is walking, I believe. They were now joined by Mrs. Jennings, who had not patience enough to wait till the door was opened before she told her story. She became hallowing to the window. How do you do, my dear? How does Mrs. Dashwood do? And where are your sisters? What? All alone? You will be glad of a little company to sit with you. I have brought my other son and daughter to see you. Only think of their coming so suddenly. I thought I heard a carriage last night, while we were drinking our tea, but it never entered my head that it could be them. I thought of nothing but whether it might not be Colonel Brandon come back again. So I said to Sir John, I do think I hear a carriage. Perhaps it is Colonel Brandon come back again. Eleanor was obliged to turn from her in the middle of her story to receive the rest of the party. Lady Middleton introduced the two strangers. Mrs. Dashwood and Margaret came downstairs at the same time, and they all sat down to look at one another, while Mrs. Jennings continued her story as she walked through the passage into the parlour, attended by Sir John. Mrs. Palmer was several years younger than Lady Middleton, and totally unlike her in every respect. She was short and plump, had a very pretty face, and the finest expression of good humour in it that could possibly be. Her manners were by no means so elegant as her sisters, but they were much more pre-possessing. She came in with a smile, smiled all the time of her visit, except when she laughed, and smiled when she went away. Her husband was a grave-looking young man of five or six and twenty, with an air of more fashion and sense than his wife, but of less willingness to please or be pleased. He entered the room with a look of self-consequence, slightly bowed to the ladies without speaking a word, and after briefly surveying them and their apartments, took up a newspaper from the table, and continued to read it as long as he stayed. Mrs. Palmer, on the contrary, who was strongly endowed by nature with a turn for being uniformly civil and happy, was hardly seated before her admiration of the parlour and everything in it burst forth. Well, what a delightful room this is! I never saw anything so charming! Only think, mamma, how it is improved since I was here last. I always thought it such a sweet place, mam, turning to Mrs. Dashwood, but you have made it so charming! Only look, sister, how delightful everything is! How I should like such a house for myself! Should not you, Mr. Palmer?" Mr. Palmer made her no answer, and did not even raise his eyes from the newspaper. "'Mr. Palmer does not hear me,' said she, laughing, "'he never does sometimes. It is so ridiculous.'" This was quite a new idea to Mrs. Dashwood. She had never been used to find wit in the inattention of any one, and could not help looking with surprise at them both. Mrs. Jennings, in the meantime, talked on as loud as she could, and continued her account of their surprise the evening before, on seeing their friends, without ceasing till everything was told. Mrs. Palmer laughed heartily at the recollection of their astonishment, and everybody agreed, two or three times over, that it had been quite an agreeable surprise. You may believe how glad we all were to see them, added Mrs. Jennings leaning forward towards Eleanor, and speaking in a low voice as if she meant to be heard by no one else, though they were seated on different sides of the room. But, however, I can't help wishing they had not travelled quite so fast, nor made such a long journey of it. For they came all round by London upon account of some business, for you know, nodding significantly and pointing to her daughter, it was wrong in her situation. I wanted her to stay at home and rest this morning, but she would come with us. She longed so much to see you all. Mrs. Palmer laughed and said it would not do her any harm. She expects to be confined in February, continued Mrs. Jennings. Lady Middleton could no longer endure such a conversation, and therefore exerted herself to ask Mr. Palmer if there was any news in the paper. No, none at all, he replied, and read on. Here comes Marianne, cried Sir John. Now, Palmer, you shall see a monstrous pretty girl. He immediately went into the passage, opened the front door, and ushered her in himself. Mrs. Jennings asked her as soon as she appeared, if she had not been to Allenham, and Mrs. Palmer laughed so heartily at the question, as to show she understood it. Mr. Palmer looked up on her entering the room, stared at her some minutes, and then returned to his newspaper. Mrs. Palmer's eye was now caught by the drawings which hung round the room. She got up to examine them. Oh, dear! How beautiful these are! Well, how delightful! Do but look, Mama! How sweet! I declare they are quite charming. I could look at them for ever. And then, sitting down again, she very soon forgot that there were any such things in the room. When Lady Middleton rose to go away, Mr. Palmer rose also, laid down the newspaper, stretched himself, and looked at them all around. My love! Have you been asleep? said his wife, laughing. He made her no answer, and only observed, after again examining the room, that it was very low-pitched, and that the ceiling was crooked. He then made his bow and departed with the rest. Sir John had been very urgent with them all to spend the next day at the park. Mrs. Dashwood, who did not choose to dine with them oftener than they dined at the cottage, absolutely refused on her own account. Her daughters might do as they pleased. But they had no curiosity to see how Mr. and Mrs. Palmer ate their dinner, and no expectation of pleasure from them in any other way. They attempted, therefore likewise, to excuse themselves. The weather was uncertain, and not likely to be good. But Sir John would not be satisfied. The carriage should be sent for them, and they must come. Lady Middleton, too, though she did not press their mother, pressed them. Mrs. Jennings and Mrs. Palmer joined their entreaties. All seemed equally anxious to avoid a family party, and the young ladies were obliged to yield. Why should they ask us, said Mary Ann, as soon as they were gone? The rent of this cottage is said to be low, but we have it on very hard terms, if we are to dine at the park whenever any one is staying either with them or with us. They mean no less to be civil and kind to us now, said Eleanor, by these frequent invitations, than by those which we received from them a few weeks ago. The alteration is not in them, if their parties are grown tedious and dull. We must look for the change elsewhere. CHAPTER 20 As the Miss Dashwoods entered the drawing-room of the park the next day at one door, Mrs. Palmer came running in at the other, looking as good-humored and merry as before. She took them all most affectionately by the hand, and expressed great delight in seeing them again. "'I am so glad to see you,' said she, seating herself between Eleanor and Mary Ann. For it is so bad a day, I was afraid you might not come, which would be a shocking thing, as we go away again to-morrow. We must go, for the westerns come to us next week, you know. It was quite a sudden thing, our coming at all, and I knew nothing of it till the carriage was coming to the door, and then Mr. Palmer asked me if I would go with him to Barton. He is so droll. He never tells me anything. I am so sorry we cannot stay longer. However, we shall meet again in town very soon, I hope." They were obliged to put an end to such an expectation. "'Not coated town,' cried Mrs. Palmer, with a laugh. I shall be quite disappointed if you do not. I could get the nicest house in the world for you next door to ours, in Hanover Square. You must come, indeed. I am sure I shall be very happy to chaperone you at any time till I am confined, if Mrs. Dashwood should not like to go into public." They thanked her, but were obliged to resist all her entreaties. "'Oh, my love!' cried Mrs. Palmer to her husband, who just then entered the room. You must help me to persuade the Miss Dashwoods to go to town this winter." Her love made no answer, and after slightly bowing to the ladies began complaining of the weather. "'How horrid all this is!' said he. Such weather makes everything and everybody disgusting. Dullness is as much produced within doors as without by rain. It makes one detest all one's acquaintance. What the devil does Sir John mean by not having a billiard room in his house? How few people know what comfort is. Sir John is as stupid as the weather. The rest of the company soon dropped in." "'I am afraid, Miss Mary Ann,' said Sir John, "'you have not been able to take your usual walk to Allanham to-day.' Mary Ann looked very grave and said nothing. "'Oh, don't be so sly before us,' said Mrs. Palmer. "'For we know all about it, I assure you, and I admire your taste very much, for I think he is extremely handsome. We do not live a great way from him in the country, you know. Not above ten miles, I dare say." "'Much nearer thirty,' said our husband. "'Ah, well, there is not much difference. I never was at his house, but they say it is a sweet, pretty place.' "'As vile a spot as I ever saw in my life,' said Mr. Palmer. Mary Ann remained perfectly silent, though her countenance betrayed her interest in what was said. "'Is it very ugly?' continued Mrs. Palmer. "'Then it must be some other place that is so pretty, I suppose.' When they were seated in the dining-room, Sir John observed with regret that they were only eight altogether. "'My dear,' said he to his lady, "'it is very provoking that we should be so few. Why did not you ask the Gilberts to come to us to-day? "'Did not I tell you, Sir John, when you spoke to me about it before, that it could not be done? They dined with us last.' "'You and I, Sir John,' said Mrs. Jennings, "'should not stand upon such ceremony. Then you would be very ill-bred,' cried Mr. Palmer. "'My love, you contradict everybody,' said his wife with her usual laugh. "'Do you know that you are quite rude?' "'I did not know I contradicted anybody in calling your mother ill-bred.' "'Aye, you may abuse me as you please,' said the good-natured old lady. "'You have taken Charlotte off my hands and cannot give her back again. So there I have the whip-hand of you.' Charlotte laughed heartily, to think that her husband could not get rid of her, and exultingly said she did not care how cross he was to her, as they must live together. It was impossible for any one to be more thoroughly good-natured, or more determined to be happy than Mrs. Palmer. The studied indifference, insolence, and discontent of her husband gave her no pain, and when he scolded or abused her, she was highly diverted. "'Mr. Palmer is so droll,' said she in a whisper to Eleanor, he is always out of humor.' Eleanor was not inclined, after a little observation, to give him credit for being so genuinely and unaffectedly ill-natured or ill-bred as he wished to appear. His temper might perhaps be a little soured by finding, like many others of his sex, that through some unaccountable bias in favour of beauty he was the husband of a very silly woman. But she knew that this kind of blunder was too common for any sensible man to be lastingly hurt by it. It was rather a wish of distinction, she believed, which produced his contemptuous treatment of everybody, and his general abuse of everything before him. It was the desire of appearing superior to other people. The motive was too common to be wondered at, but the means, however they might succeed by establishing his superiority in ill-breeding, were not likely to attach any one to him except his wife. "'Oh! my dear Miss Dashwood,' said Mrs. Palmer, soon afterwards, "'I have got such a favour to ask of you and your sister. Will you come and spend some time at Cleveland this Christmas? Now pray do, and come while the Westons are with us. You cannot think how happy I shall be. It will be quite delightful. My love,' applying to her husband, "'don't you long to have the Miss Dashwoods come to Cleveland?' "'Certainly,' he replied with a sneer, "'I came into Devonshire with no other view.' "'There now,' said his lady, "'you see, Mr. Palmer expects you, so you cannot refuse to come.' They both eagerly and resolutely declined her invitation. "'But indeed you must and shall come. I am sure you will like it of all things. The Westons will be with us, and it will be quite delightful. You cannot think what a sweet place Cleveland is. And we are so gay now, for Mr. Palmer is always going about the country canvassing against the election, and so many people come to dine with us that I never saw before. It is quite charming. But poor fellow, it is very fatiguing for him, for he is forced to make everybody like him.' Eleanor could hardly keep her countenance, as she assented to the hardship of such an obligation. "'How charming it will be,' said Charlotte, when he is in Parliament. "'How I shall laugh. It will be so ridiculous to see all his letters directed to him with an MP. But you know, he says, he will never frank for me. He declares he won't. Don't you, Mr. Palmer?' Mr. Palmer took no notice of her. "'He cannot bear writing, you know,' she continued. He says it is quite shocking.' "'No,' said he. "'I never said anything so irrational. Don't palm all your abuses of languages upon me.' "'There now. You see how droll he is. This is always the way with him. He won't speak to me for half a day together, and then he comes out with something so droll, all about anything in the world.' She surprised Eleanor very much as they returned into the drawing-room, by asking her whether she did not like Mr. Palmer excessively. "'Certainly,' said Eleanor, he seems very agreeable. "'Well, I am so glad you do. I thought you would. He is so pleasant, and Mr. Palmer is excessively pleased with you and your sisters, I can tell you, and you can't think how disappointed he will be if you don't come to Cleveland. I can't imagine why you should object to it.' Eleanor was again obliged to decline her invitation, and by changing the subject, put a stop to her entreaties. She thought it probable that as they lived in the same county, Mrs. Palmer might be able to give some more particular account of Willoughby's general character, than could be gathered from the Middleton's partial acquaintance with him, and she was eager to gain from any one such a confirmation of his merits, as might remove the possibility of fear from Marianne. She began by inquiring if they saw much of Mr. Willoughby at Cleveland, and whether they were intimately acquainted with him. "'Oh, dear, yes, I know him extremely well,' replied Mrs. Palmer. "'Not that I ever spoke to him, indeed, but I have seen him for ever in town. Somehow or other, I never happened to be staying at Barton while he was at Allanham. Mama saw him here once before, but I was with my uncle at Weymouth. However, I daresay we should have seen a great deal of him at Somersetshire, if it had not happened very unknuckly, that we should never have been in the country together. He is very little at coom, I believe, but if he were ever so much there, I do not think Mr. Palmer would visit him, for he is in the opposition, you know, and besides, it is such a way off. I know why you inquire about him very well. Your sister is to marry him. I am monstrous glad of it, for then I shall have her for a neighbor, you know." "'Upon my word,' replied Eleanor, you know, much more of the matter than I do, if you have any reason to expect such a match. Don't pretend to deny it, because you know it is what everybody talks of. I assure you I heard of it in my way through town. My dear Mrs. Palmer, upon my honour I did. I met Colonel Brandon Monday morning in Bond Street, just before we left town, and he told me of it directly. You surprise me very much. Colonel Brandon tell you of it? Surely you must be mistaken. To give such intelligence to a person who could not be interested in it, even if it were true, is not what I should expect Colonel Brandon to do. But I do assure you it was so, for all that, and I will tell you how it happened. When we met him, he turned back and walked with us, and so we began talking of my brother and sister and one thing and another, and I said to him, so, Colonel, there is a new family come to Barton Cottage I hear, and Mamar sends me word that they are very pretty, and that one of them is going to be married to Mr. Willoughby of Coombe Magna. Is it true, pray? For, of course, you must know, as you have been in Devonshire so lately." And what did the Colonel say? Oh, he did not say very much, but he looked as if he knew it to be true. So from that moment I set it down a certain. It will be quite delightful, I declare. When is it to take place? Mr. Brandon was very well, I hope. Oh, yes, quite well, and so full of your praises, he did nothing but say fine things of you. I am flattered by his commendation. He seems an excellent man, and I think him uncommonly pleasing. So do I. He is such a charming man that it is quite a pity he should be so grave and so dull. Mamar says he was in love with your sister, too. I assure you it was a great compliment if he was, for he hardly ever falls in love with anybody. Is Mr. Willoughby much known in your part of Summersetshire? said Eleanor. Oh, yes, extremely well. That is, I do not believe many people are acquainted with him, because Coombe Magna is so far off, but they all think him extremely agreeable, I assure you. Nobody is more liked than Mr. Willoughby wherever he goes, and so you may tell your sister. She is a monstrous lucky girl to get him upon my honor. Not but that he is much more lucky in getting her, because she is so very handsome and agreeable, that nothing can be good enough for her. However, I don't think her hardly at all handsomer than you, I assure you, for I think you both excessively pretty, and so does Mr. Palmer, too, I am sure, though we could not get him to own it last night. Mrs. Palmer's information respecting Willoughby was not very material. But any testimony in his favor, however small, was pleasing to her. I am so glad we are got acquainted at last, continued Charlotte, and now I hope we shall always be great friends. You can't think how much I long to see you. It is so delightful that you should live at the cottage. Nothing can be like it, to be sure. And I am so glad your sister is going to be well married. I hope you will be a great deal at Coombe Magna. It is a sweet place by all accounts. You have been long acquainted with Colonel Brandon, have you not? Yes, a great while, ever since my sister married. He was a particular friend of Sir John's, I believe. She added in a low voice. He would have been very glad to have had me, if he could. Sir John and Lady Middleton wished it very much. But Mamar did not think the match good enough for me, otherwise Sir John would have mentioned it to the Colonel, and we should have been married immediately. Did not Colonel Brandon know of Sir John's proposal to your mother before it was made? Had he never owned his affection to yourself? Oh, no! But if Mamar had not objected to it, I dare say he would have liked it of all things. He had not seen me then above twice, for it was before I left school. However I am much happier as I am, Mr. Palmer is the kind of man I like. CHAPTER XXI The Parmas returned to Cleveland the next day, and the two families at Barton were again left to entertain each other. But this did not last long. Eleanor had hardly got their last visitors out of her head, had hardly done wandering at Charlotte's being so happy without a cause, at Mr. Palmer's acting so simply, with good abilities, and at the strange unsuitableness which often existed between husband and wife, before Sir John's and Mrs. Jennings's active zeal in the cause of society, procured her some other new acquaintance to see and observe. In a morning's excursion to Exeter, they had met with two young ladies, whom Mrs. Jennings had the satisfaction of discovering to be her relations. And this was enough for Sir John to invite them directly to the park, as soon as their present engagements at Exeter were over. Their engagements at Exeter instantly gave way before such an invitation, and Lady Middleton was thrown into no little alarm on the return of Sir John by hearing that she was very soon to receive a visit from two girls whom she had never seen in her life, and of whose elegance—whose tolerable gentility even—she could have no proof, for the assurances of her husband and mother on that subject went for nothing at all. Their being her relations, too, made it so much the worse. And Mrs. Jennings's attempts at consolation were therefore unfortunately founded, when she advised her daughter not to care about their being so fashionable, because they were all cousins, and must put up with one another. As it was impossible, however, now to prevent their coming, Lady Middleton resigned herself to the idea of it, with all the philosophy of a well-bred woman, contenting herself with merely giving her husband a gentle reprimand on the subject five or six times every day. The young ladies arrived. Their appearance was by no means ungentile or unfashionable. Their dress was very smart, their manners very civil. They were delighted with the house, and in raptures with the furniture, and they happened to be so dotingly fond of children, that Lady Middleton's good opinion was engaged in their favour before they had been an hour at the park. She declared them to be very agreeable girls indeed, which for her ladyship was enthusiastic admiration. Sir John's confidence in his own judgment rose with this animated praise, and he set off directly for the cottage, to tell the Miss Dashwoods of the Miss Steel's arrival, and to assure them of their being the sweetest girls in the world. From such commendation as this, however, there was not much to be learned. Eleanor well knew that the sweetest girls in the world were to be met within every part of England, under every possible variation of form, face, temper and understanding. Sir John wanted the whole family to walk to the park directly and look at his guests. Benevolent philanthropic man! It was painful to him even to keep a third cousin to himself. "'Do come now,' said he, "'Pray come, you must come, I declare you shall come. You can't think how you will like them. Lucy is monstrous pretty, and so good-humoured and agreeable. The children are all hanging about her already, as if she was an old acquaintance. And they both long to see you of all things, for they have heard at Exeter that you are the most beautiful creatures in the world, and I have told them it is all very true and a great deal more. You will be delighted with them, I am sure. They have brought the whole coach full of playthings for the children. How can you be so cross as not to come? Why they are your cousins, you know, after a fashion. You are my cousins, and they are my wives, so you must be related." But Sir John could not prevail. He could only obtain a promise of their calling at the park within a day or two, and then left them in amazement at their indifference, to walk home and boast anew of their attractions to the Miss Steals, as he had been already boasting of the Miss Steals to them. When their promised visit to the park, and consequent introduction to these young ladies took place, they found in the appearance of the eldest, who was nearly thirty, with a very plain and not a sensible face, nothing to admire. But in the other, who was not more than two or three and twenty, they acknowledged considerable beauty. Her features were pretty, and she had a sharp, quick eye, and a smartness of air, which, though it did not give actual elegance or grace, gave distinction to her person. Their manners were particularly civil, and Eleanor soon allowed them credit for some kind of sense, when she saw with what constant and judicious attention they were making themselves agreeable to Lady Middleton. With her children they were in continual raptures, extolling their beauty, courting their notice, and humoring their whims, and such of their time as could be spared from the important demands which this politeness made on it, was spent in admiration of whatever her ladyship was doing, if she happened to be doing anything, or in taking patterns of some elegant new dress, in which her appearance the day before had thrown them into unceasing delight. Fortunately for those who pay their court through such voibles, a fond mother, though in pursuit of praise for her children the most rapacious of human beings, is likewise the most credulous. Her demands are exorbitant, but she will swallow anything, and the excessive affection and endurance of the misteels towards her offspring were viewed, therefore, by Lady Middleton, without the smallest surprise or distrust. She saw with maternal complacency all the impertinent encroachments and mischievous tricks to which her cousins submitted. She saw their sashes untied, their hair pulled about their ears, their work bags searched, and their knives and scissors stolen away, and felt no doubt of its being a reciprocal enjoyment. It suggested no other surprise than that Eleanor and Marianne should sit so composedly by, without claiming a share in what was passing. "'John is in such spirits to-day,' said she, on his taking Miss Steel's pocket-handkerchief and throwing it out of window, he is full of monkey tricks. And soon afterwards, on the second boy's violently pinching one of the same lady's fingers, she fondly observed, "'How playful, William is!' And here is my sweet little Anna Maria,' she added, tenderly caressing a little girl of three years old, who had not made a noise for the last two minutes. And she is always so gentle and quiet. Never was there such a quiet little thing. But unfortunately, in bestowing these embraces, a pin in her ladyship's head-dress slightly scratched the child's neck, produced from this pattern of gentleness such violent screams as could hardly be outdone by any creature professedly noisy. The mother's consternation was excessive, but it could not surpass the alarm of the Miss Steel's, and everything was done by all three in so critical an emergency, which affection could suggest as likely to assuage the agonies of the little sufferer. She was seated in her mother's lap, covered with kisses, her wound bathed with lavender water, by one of the Miss Steel's, who was on her knees to attend her, and her mouth stuffed with sugar-plums by the other. With such a reward for her tears, the child was too wise to cease crying. She still screamed and sobbed lustily, kicked her two brothers for offering to touch her, and all their united soothings were ineffectual, till Lady Middleton luckily remembering that in a scene of similar distress last week some apricot marmalade had been successfully applied for a bruised temple, the same remedy was eagerly proposed for this unfortunate scratch, and a slight intermission of screams in the young lady on hearing it gave them reason to hope that it would not be rejected. She was carried out of the room, therefore, in her mother's arms, in quest of this medicine, and as the two boys chose to follow, though earnestly entreated by their mother to stay behind, the four young ladies were left in a quietness which the room had not known for many hours. More little creatures, said Miss Steele, as soon as they were gone, it might have been a very sad accident. Yet I hardly know how, cried Mary Ann, unless it had been under totally different circumstances. But this is the usual way of heightening alarm where there is nothing to be alarmed at in reality. What a sweet woman, Lady Middleton is, said Lucy Steele. Mary Ann was silent. It was impossible for her to say what she did not feel, however trivial the occasion, and upon Eleanor, therefore, the whole task of telling lies when politeness required it, always fell. She did her best, when thus called on, by speaking of Lady Middleton with more warmth than she felt, though with far less than Miss Lucy. And Sir John, too, cried the elder sister, what a charming man he is. Here, too, Miss Dashwood's commendation, being only simple and just, came in without any acclaim. She merely observed that he was perfectly good-humored and friendly. And what a charming little family they have. I never saw such fine children in my life. I declare I quite dot upon them already, and indeed I am always distractedly fond of children. I should guess so, said Eleanor with a smile, from what I have witnessed this morning. I have a notion, said Lucy, you think the little Middletons rather too much indulged. Perhaps they may be the outside of enough, but it is so natural in Lady Middleton, and for my part I love to see children full of life and spirits. I cannot bear them if they are tame and quiet. I confess, replied Eleanor, that while I am at Barton Park I never think of tame and quiet children with any abhorrence. A short pause succeeded this speech, which was first broken by Miss Steel, who seemed very much disposed for conversation, and who now said rather abruptly, and how do you like Devonshire, Miss Dashwood? I suppose you were very sorry to leave Sussex. In some surprise at the familiarity of this question, or at least of the manor in which it was spoken, Eleanor replied that she was. Norland is a prodigious beautiful place, is not it? added Miss Steel. We have heard Sir John admire it excessively, said Lucy, who seemed to think some apology necessary for the freedom of her sister. I think everyone must admire it, replied Eleanor, who ever saw the place, though it is not to be supposed that anyone can estimate its beauties as we do. And you had a great many smart bows there! I suppose you have not so many in this part of the world. For my part, I think they are a vast addition always. But why should you think, said Lucy, looking ashamed of her sister, that there are not as many gentile young men in Devonshire as Sussex? Nay, my dear, I am sure I don't pretend to say that there aren't. I am sure there is a vast many smart bows in Exeter, but you know, how could I tell what smart bows there might be about Norland? And I was only afraid that Miss Dashwoods might find it dull at Barton, if they had not so many as they used to have. But perhaps you young ladies may not care about the bows, and had as leaf be without them as with them. For my part, I think they are vastly agreeable, provided they dress smart and behave civil. But I can't bear to see them dirty and nasty. Now there's Mr. Rose at Exeter, a prodigious smart young man, quite a bow, clenched to Mr. Simpson, you know, and yet if you do but meet him of a morning, he is not fit to be seen. I suppose your brother was quite a bowist, Dashwood, before he married, as he was so rich? Upon my word, replied Eleanor, I cannot tell you, for I do not perfectly comprehend the meaning of the word. But this I can say, that if he ever was a bow before he married, he is one still, for there is not the smallest alteration in him. Oh, dear! One never thinks of married men's being bows. They have something else to do. Lord Anne! cried her sister, you can talk of nothing but bows. She will make Miss Dashwood believe you think of nothing else. And then to turn the discourse, she began admiring the house and the furniture. This specimen of the Miss Steals was enough. The vulgar freedom and folly of the eldest sister left her no recommendation, and as Eleanor was not blinded by the beauty or the shrewd look of the youngest, to her want of real elegance and artlessness, she left the house without any wish of knowing them better. Not so the Miss Steals. They came from Exeter, well provided with admiration for the use of Sir John Middleton, his family, and all his relations, and no niggardly proportion was now dealt out to his fair cousins, whom they declared to be the most beautiful, elegant, accomplished, and agreeable girls they had ever beheld, and with whom they were particularly anxious to be better acquainted. And to be better acquainted, therefore, Eleanor soon found was their inevitable lot. For as Sir John was entirely on the side of the Miss Steals, the party would be too strong for opposition, and that kind of intimacy must be submitted to, which consists of sitting an hour or two together in the same room almost every day. Sir John could do no more, but he did not know that any more was required. To be together was, in his opinion, to be intimate, and while his continual schemes for their meeting were effectual, he had not a doubt of their being established friends. To do him justice, he did everything in his power to promote their unreserve, by making the Miss Steals acquainted with whatever he knew or supposed of his cousin's situations in the most delicate particulars. And Eleanor had not seen them more than twice, before the eldest of them wished her joy on her sisters having been so lucky as to make a conquest of a very smart beau since she came to Barton. "'Twill be a fine thing to have her married so young to be sure,' said she, and I hear he is quite a beau, and prodigious handsome, and I hope you may have as good luck yourself soon, but perhaps you may have a friend in the corner already." Eleanor could not suppose that Sir John would be more nice in proclaiming his suspicions of a regard for Edward than he had been with respect to Mary Ann. Indeed it was rather his favourite joke of the two, as being somewhat newer and more conjectural, and since Edward's visit they had never dined together without his drinking to her best affections with so much significance, and so many nods and winks as to excite general attention. The letter F had been likewise invariably brought forward and found productive of such countless jokes that its character as the wittiest letter in the alphabet had been long established with Eleanor. The Miss Steals, as she expected, had now all the benefit of these jokes, and in the eldest of them they raised a curiosity to know the name of the gentleman alluded to, which, though often impertinently expressed, was perfectly of a piece with her general inquisitiveness into the concerns of their family. But Sir John did not sport long with the curiosity which he delighted to raise, for he had at least as much pleasure in telling the name, as Miss Steal had in hearing it. "'His name is Ferris,' said he, in a very audible whisper, "'but pray do not tell it, for it's a great secret.' "'Ferris!' repeated Miss Steal. "'Mr. Ferris is the happy man, is he? What? Your sister-in-law's brother, Miss Stathford, a very agreeable young man, to be sure. I know him very well.' "'How can you say so, Anne?' cried Lucy, who generally made an amendment to all her sister's assertions, though we have seen him once or twice at my uncle's. It is rather too much to pretend to know him very well.' Eleanor heard all this with attention and surprise. "'And who was this uncle? Where did he live? How came they acquainted? She wished very much to have the subject continued, though she did not choose to join in it herself. But nothing more of it was said. And for the first time in her life, she thought Mrs. Jennings deficient either in curiosity after petty information, or in a disposition to communicate it. The manner in which Miss Steele had spoken of Edward increased her curiosity, for it struck her as being rather ill-natured, and suggested the suspicion of that lady's knowing, or fancying herself to know, something to his disadvantage. But her curiosity was unavailing, for no farther notice was taken of Mr. Ferris' name by Miss Steele when eluded to, or even openly mentioned by Sir John. CHAPTER XXII Marianne, who had never much toleration for anything like impertence, vulgarity, inferiority of parts, or even difference of taste from herself, was at this time particularly ill-disposed, from the state of her spirits, to be pleased with the Miss Steele's, or to encourage their advances, and to the invariable coldness of her behaviour towards them, which checked every endeavourate intimacy on their side, Eleanor principally attributed that preference of herself, which soon became evident in the manners of both, but especially of Lucy, who missed no opportunity of engaging her in conversation, or of striving to improve their acquaintance by an easy and frank communication of her sentiments. Lucy was naturally clever. Her remarks were often just and amusing, and as a companion for half an hour, Eleanor frequently found her agreeable. But her powers had received no aid from education. She was ignorant and illiterate, and her deficiency of all mental improvement, her want of information in the most common particulars, could not be concealed from Miss Dashwood, in spite of her constant endeavour to appear to advantage. Eleanor saw and pitied her for the neglect of abilities which education might have rendered so respectable. But she saw, with less tenderness of feeling, the thorough want of delicacy, of rectitude, and integrity of mind, which her attentions, her aciduities, her flatteries at the park, betrayed, and she could have no lasting satisfaction in the company of a person who joined in sincerity with ignorance, whose want of instruction prevented their meeting in conversation on terms of equality, and whose conduct toward others made every show of attention and deference toward herself perfectly valueless. "'You will think my question an odd one, I dare say,' said Lucy to her one day, as they were walking together from the park to the cottage, but pray, are you personally acquainted with your sister-in-law's mother, Mrs. Ferris?' Eleanor did think the question a very odd one, and her countenance expressed it as she answered that she had never seen Mrs. Ferris. "'Indeed,' replied Lucy, I wonder at that, for I thought you must have seen her at Norland sometimes. Then, perhaps, you cannot tell me what sort of a woman she is.' "'No,' returned Eleanor, cautious of giving her real opinion of Edward's mother, and not very desirous of satisfying what seemed impertinent curiosity. I know nothing of her. "'I am sure you think me very strange for inquiring about her in such a way,' said Lucy, eyeing Eleanor attentively as she spoke. "'But perhaps there may be reasons. I wish I might venture. But, however, I hope you will do me the justice of believing that I do not mean to be impertinent.'" Eleanor made her a civil reply, and they walked on for a few minutes in silence. It was broken by Lucy, who renewed the subject again by saying, with some hesitation, "'I cannot bear to have you think me impertinentally curious. I am sure I would rather do anything in the world than be thought so by a person whose good opinion is so well worth having as yours. And I am sure I should not have the smallest fear of trusting you. Indeed, I should be very glad of your advice how to manage in such an uncomfortable situation as I am. But, however, there is no occasion to trouble you. I am sorry you do not happen to know Mrs. Ferris." "'I am sorry I do not,' said Eleanor, in great astonishment, if it could be of any use to you, to know my opinion of her. But really, I never understood that you were at all connected with that family, and therefore I am a little surprised, I confess, at so serious an inquiry into her character. I dare say you are, and I am sure I do not at all wonder at it. But if I dared tell you all, you would not be so much surprised. Mrs. Ferris is certainly nothing to me at present. But the time may come—how soon it will come must depend upon herself, when we may be very intimately connected." She looked down as she said this, amiably bashful, with only one side-glance at her companion to observe its effect on her. "'Good heavens,' cried Eleanor, what do you mean? Are you acquainted with Mr. Robert Ferris? Can you be?' And she did not feel much delighted with the idea of such a sister-in-law. "'No,' replied Lucy, not to Mr. Robert Ferris, I never saw him in my life, but—fixing her eyes upon Eleanor—to his eldest brother.' "'What!' felt Eleanor at that moment. Astonishment, that would have been as painful as it was strong, had not an immediate disbelief at the assertion attended it. She turned towards Lucy in silent amazement, unable to divine the reason or object of such a declaration. And though her complexion varied, she stood firm in incredulity, and felt in no danger of an hysterical fit or a swoon. "'You may well be surprised,' continued Lucy, for to be sure you could have had no idea of it before, for I dare say he never dropped the smallest hint of it to you or any of your family, as it was always meant to be a great secret, and I am sure has been faithfully kept so by me to this hour. Not a soul of all my relations know of it, but Anne. And I should never have mentioned it to you, if I had not felt the greatest dependence in the world upon your secrecy. And I really thought my behaviour in asking so many questions about Mrs. Ferris must seem odd, that it ought to be explained. And I do not think Mr. Ferris can be displeased, when he knows I have trusted you, because I know he has the highest opinion in the world of all your family, and looks upon yourself and the other Miss Dashwoods quite as his own sisters." She paused. Eleanor, for a few moments, remained silent. Her astonishment at what she heard was at first too great for words. But at length, forcing herself to speak, and to speak cautiously, she said, with calmness of manner, which tolerably well concealed her surprise and solicitude, "'May I ask if your engagement is of long standing?' We have been engaged these four years." "'Four years?' "'Yes.'" Eleanor, though greatly shocked, still felt unable to believe it. "'I did not know,' said she, that you were even acquainted till the other day." "'Our acquaintance, however, is of many years' date. He was under my uncle's care, you know, a considerable while.' "'Your uncle?' "'Yes, Mr. Pratt. Did you never hear him talk of Mr. Pratt?' "'I think I have,' replied Eleanor, with an exertion of spirits which increased with her increase of emotion. He was four years with my uncle, who lives at Longstable, near Plymouth. It was there our acquaintance begun, for my sister and me was often staying with my uncle, and it was there our engagement was formed, though not till a year after he had quitted as a pupil. But he was almost always with us afterwards. I was very unwilling to enter into it, as you may imagine, without the knowledge and approbation of his mother, but I was too young and loved him too well to be so prudent as I ought to have been. Though you do not know him so well as me, Miss Dashwood, you must have seen enough of him to be sensible, he is very capable of making a woman sincerely attached to him." "'Certainly,' answered Eleanor, without knowing what she said, but after a moment's reflection she added, with revived security of Edward's honour and love, and her companion's forcehood, engaged to Mr. Edward Ferris. I confess myself so totally surprised at what you tell me, that really—I beg your pardon, but surely there must be some mistake of person or name. We cannot mean the same, Mr. Ferris." "'We can mean no other,' cried Lucy, smiling. Mr. Edward Ferris, the eldest son of Mrs. Ferris of Park Street, and brother of your sister-in-law, Mrs. John Dashwood, is the person I mean. You must allow that I am not likely to be deceived as to the name of the man on whom all my happiness depends.' "'It is strange,' replied Eleanor, in a most painful perplexity, that I should never have heard him even mention your name. No, considering our situation it was not strange. Our first care has been to keep the matter secret. You knew nothing of me or my family, and therefore there could be no occasion for ever mentioning my name to you. And as he was always particularly afraid of his sister suspecting anything, that was reason enough for his not mentioning it.' She was silent. Eleanor's security sunk, but her self-command did not sink with it. "'Four years you have been engaged,' said she, with a firm voice. Yes, and heaven knows how much longer we may have to wait. Poor Edward, it puts him quite out of heart. Then taking a small miniature from her pocket, she added, to prevent the possibility of mistake, be so good as to look at this face. It does not do him justice, to be sure, but yet I think you cannot be deceived as to the person it was drew for. I have had it above these three years.' She put it into her hands as she spoke, and when Eleanor saw the painting, whatever other doubts her fear of a too hasty decision, or her wish of detecting falsehood might suffer to linger in her mind, she could have none of its being Edward's face. She returned it almost instantly, acknowledging the likeness. "'I have never been able,' continued Lucy, to give him my picture and return, which I am very much vexed at, for he has been always so anxious to get it. But I am determined to set for it the very first opportunity.' "'You are quite in the right,' replied Eleanor calmly. They then proceeded a few paces in silence. Lucy spoke first. "'I am sure,' said she, "'I have no doubt in the world of your faithfully keeping this secret, because you must know of what importance it is to us, not to have it reach his mother, for she would never approve of it, I daresay. I shall have no fortune, and I fancy she is an exceeding proud woman.' "'I certainly did not seek your confidence,' said Eleanor. "'But you do me no more than justice in imagining that I may be depended on. Your secret is safe with me. But pardon me if I express some surprise at so unnecessary a communication. You must at least have felt that my being acquainted with it could not add to its safety.' As she said this, she looked earnestly at Lucy, hoping to discover something in her countenance—perhaps the falsehood of the greatest part of what she had been saying—but Lucy's countenance suffered no change. "'I was afraid you would think I was taking a great liberty with you,' said she, in telling you all this. "'I have not known you long to be sure, personally at least, but I have known you and all your family by description a great while, and as soon as I saw you I felt almost as if I was an old acquaintance. Besides in the present case I really thought some explanation was due to you, after my making such particular inquiries about Edward's mother, and I am so unfortunate that I have not a creature whose advice I can ask. Anne is the only person that knows of it, and she has no judgment at all. Indeed she does me a great deal more harm than good, for I am in constant fear of her betraying me. She does not know how to hold her tongue as you must perceive, and I am sure I was in the greatest fright in the world other day, when Edward's name was mentioned by Sir John, lest she should outwith it all. You can't think how much I go through in my mind from it altogether. I only wonder that I am alive after what I have suffered for Edward's sake these last four years. Everything in such suspense and uncertainty, and seeing him so seldom, we can hardly meet above twice a year. I am sure I wonder my heart is not quite broke. Here she took out her handkerchief, but Eleanor did not feel very compassionate. Sometimes, continued Lucy after wiping her eyes, I think whether it would not be better for us both to break off the matter entirely. As she said this, she looked directly at her companion. But then at other times I have not resolution enough for it. I cannot bear the thoughts of making him so miserable, as I know the very mention of such a thing would do. And on my own account, too, so dear as he is to me, I don't think I could be equal to it. What would you advise me to do in such a case, Miss Dashwood? What would you do yourself?" "'Pardon me,' replied Eleanor, startled by the question, but I can give you no advice under such circumstances. Your own judgment must direct you." "'To be sure,' continued Lucy after a few minutes' silence on both sides, his mother must provide for him some time or other. But poor Edward is so cast down by it. Did you not think him dreadful low-spirited when he was at Barton? He was so miserable when he left us at Longstable to go to you, that I was afraid you would think him quite ill. Did he come from your uncle's then when he visited us? Oh, yes! He had been staying a fortnight with us. Did you think he came directly from town?' "'No,' replied Eleanor, most feelingly sensible of every fresh circumstance in favour of Lucy's veracity. I remember he told us that he had been staying a fortnight with some friends near Plymouth. She remembered, too, her own surprise at the time, at his mentioning nothing farther of those friends, at his total silence with respect even to their names. "'Did not you think him sadly out of spirits?' repeated Lucy. We did indeed, particularly so when he first arrived. "'I begged him to exert himself, for fear you should suspect what was the matter. But it made him so melancholy, not being able to stay more than a fortnight with us, and seeing me so much affected. Poor fellow! I am afraid it is just the same with him now, for he writes in wretched spirits. I heard from him just before I left Exeter, taking a letter from her pocket and carelessly showing the direction to Eleanor. You know his hand, I dare say, a charming one it is. But that is not written so well as usual. He was tired, I dare say, for he had just filled the sheet to me as full as possible. Eleanor saw that it was his hand, and she could doubt no longer. This picture she had allowed herself to believe might have been accidentally obtained. It might not have been Edward's gift. But a correspondence between them by letter could subsist only under a positive engagement, could be authorised by nothing else. For a few moments she was almost overcome. Her heart sunk within her, and she could hardly stand. But exertion was indispensably necessary, and she struggled so resolutely against the oppression of her feelings that her success was speedy, and for the time complete. "'Writing to each other,' said Lucy, returning the letter into her pocket, is the only comfort we have in such long separations. Yes, I have one other comfort in his picture, but poor Edward has not even that. If he had but my picture he says he should be easy. I gave him a lock of my hair set in a ring when he was at longstable last, and that was some comfort to him, he said, but not equal to a picture. Perhaps you might notice the ring when you saw him.' "'I did,' said Eleanor, with a composure of voice, under which was concealed an emotion and distress beyond anything she had ever felt before. She was mortified, shocked, confounded. Fortunately for her, they had now reached the cottage, and the conversation could be continued no further. After sitting with them a few minutes, the Miss Steele's returned to the park, and Eleanor was then at liberty to think and be wretched.