VOLUME II

　

　　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 Elinor had the satisfaction of seeing him soon become more like himself. His affections seemed to re-animate towards them all, and his interest in their welfare again became perceptible. He was not in spirits, however; he praised their house, admired its prospect, was attentive and kind; but still he was not in spirits. The whole family perceived it; and Mrs. Dashwood, attributing it to some want of liberality in his mother, sat down to table indignant against all selfish parents.

　　 "What are Mrs. Ferrars's views for you at present, Edward?" said she, when dinner was over, and they had drawn round the fire; "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 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 as those of the rest of the world, I believe. I wish, as well as every body else, to be perfectly happy; but, like every body else, it must be in my own way. Greatness will not make me so."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

　　 "Hunters!" repeated Edward- "but why must you have hunters? Every body does not hunt."

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

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

　　 "Oh that they would!" cried Marianne, 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 Elinor, "in spite of the insufficiency of wealth."

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

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

　　 "I should be puzzled to spend so large a fortune myself," said Mrs. Dashwood, "if my children were all to be rich my help."

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

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

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

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

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

　　 "Perhaps, then, you would bestow it as a reward on that person who wrote the ablest defence of your favourite maxim, that no one can ever be in love more than once in their life- 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 any thing to change them."

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

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

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

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

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

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

　　 "I have frequently detected myself in such kind of mistakes," said Elinor, "in a total misapprehension of character in some 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 in what the deception originated. Sometimes one is guided by what they say of themselves, and very frequently by what other people say of them, without giving one's self time to deliberate and judge."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

　　 Edward started- "Reserved! Am I reserved, Marianne?"

　　 "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?"

　　 Elinor looked surprised at his emotion; but trying to laugh off the subject, she said to him, "Do not you know my sister well enough to understand what she means? Do not you know she calls 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

　　

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

　　 He joined her and Marianne in the breakfast-room the next morning before the others were down; and Marianne, who was always eager to promote their happiness as far as she could, soon left them to themselves. But before she was half way up stairs 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 be, "as you are not yet ready for breakfast; I shall be back again presently."

　　 Edward returned to them with fresh admiration of the surrounding country; in his walk to the village he had seen many parts of the valley to advantage; and the village itself, in a much higher situation than the cottage, afforded a general view of the whole, which had exceedingly pleased him. This was a subject which ensured Marianne's attention; and she was beginning to describe her own admiration of these scenes, and to question him more minutely on the objects that had particularly struck him, when Edward interrupted her by saying, "You must not enquire too far, Marianne; remember I have no knowledge in the picturesque, and I shall offend you by my ignorance and want of taste if we come to 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 only to be indistinct through the soft medium of a hazy atmosphere. You must be satisfied with such admiration as I can honestly give. I call it a very fine country,- the hills are steep, the woods seem full of fine timber, and the valley looks comfortable and snug,- with rich meadows and several neat farm houses scattered here and there. It exactly answers my idea of a fine country, because it unites beauty with utility- and I dare- say it is a picturesque one too, because you admire it; I can easily believe it to be full of rocks and promontories, grey moss and brushwood, but these are all lost on me. I know nothing of the picturesque."

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

　　 "I suspect," said Elinor, "that to avoid one kind of affection, 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 Marianne, "that admiration of landscape scenery is become a mere jargon. Every body 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 farm-house than a watch-tower,- and a troop of tidy, happy villages please me better than the finest banditti in the world."

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

　　 The subject was continued no farther; and Marianne 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."

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

　　 Elinor had met his eye, and looked conscious likewise. That the hair was her own, she instantaneously felt as well satisfied as Marianne: the only difference in their conclusions was, that what Marianne considered as a free gift from her sister, Elinor 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. Marianne severely censured herself for what she had said; but her own forgiveness might have been more speedy, had she known how little offence it had given her sister.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

　　 She gave him a brief reply. Marianne's countenance was more communicative. Edward saw enough to comprehend, not only the meaning of others, but such of Marianne's expressions as had puzzled him before; and when their visitors left them he went immediately round 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."

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

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

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

　　

　　CHAPTER 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 environs- never spoke of going away without a sigh- declared his time to be wholly disengaged- even doubted to what place he should go when he left them- but still, go he must. Never had any week passed so quickly- he could hardly believe it to be gone. He said so repeatedly; other things he said, too, which marked the turn of his feelings, and gave the lie to his actions. He had no pleasure at Norland; lie detested being in town; but either to Norland or London he must go. He valued their kindness beyond any thing, and his greatest happiness was in being with them. Yet, he must leave them at the end of a week, in spite of their wishes and his own, and without any restraint on his time.

　　 Elinor placed all that was astonishing in this way of acting to his mother's account; and it was happy for her that he had a mother whose character was so imperfectly known to her, as to be the general excuse for every thing strange on the part of her son. Disappointed, however, and vexed as she was, and sometimes displeased with his uncertain behaviour to herself, she was very well disposed on the whole to regard his actions with all the candid allowances and generous qualifications, which had been rather more painfully extorted from her, for Willoughby's service, by her mother. His want of spirits, of openness, and of consistency, were most usually attributed to his want of independence, and his better knowledge of Mrs. Ferrars's dispositions and designs. The shortness of his visit, the steadiness of his purpose in leaving them, originated in the same fettered inclination, the same inevitable necessity of temporising with his mother. The old well-established grievance of duty against will, parent against child, was the cause of all. She would have been glad to know when these difficulties were to cease, this opposition was to yield,- when Mrs. Ferrars would be reformed, and her son be at liberty to be happy. But from such vain wishes she was forced to turn for comfort to the renewal of her 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 round his finger.

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

　　 "I do assure you," he replied, "that I have long thought on this point as you think now. It has been, and is, and probably will always be, a heavy misfortune to me, that I have had no necessary business to engage me, no profession to give me employment, or afford me any thing 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 in our choice of a profession. I always preferred the church, as I still do. But that was not smart enough for my family. They recommended the army. That was a great deal too smart for me. The law was allowed to be genteel enough: many young men, who had chambers in the Temple, made a very good appearance in the first circles, and drove about town in very knowing gigs. But I had no inclination for the law, even in this less abstruse study of it, which my family approved. As for the navy, it had fashion on its side, but I was too old when the subject was first started to enter it; and, at length, as there was no necessity for my having any profession at all, as I might be as dashing and expensive without a red coat on my back as with one, idleness was pronounced on the whole to be 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, professions, and trades as Columella's."

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

　　 "Come, come; this is all an effusion of immediate want of spirits, Edward. You are in a melancholy humour, and fancy that any one unlike yourself must be happy. But remember that the pain of parting from friends will be felt by every body at times, whatever be their education or state. Know your own happiness. You want nothing but patience- or give it a more fascinating name, call it hope. Your mother will secure to you, in time, that independence you are so anxious for; it is her duty, and it will, it must ere long become her happiness to prevent your whole youth from being wasted in discontent. How much may not a few months do?"

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

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

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

　　 Such behaviour as this, so exactly the reverse of her own, appeared no more meritorious to Marianne, than her own had seemed faulty to her. The business of self-command she settled very easily:- with strong 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, Elinor found every day afforded her leisure enough to think of Edward, and of Edward's behaviour, in every possible variety which the different state of her spirits at different times could produce,- with tenderness, pity, approbation, censure, and doubt. There were 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 Palmers. Charlotte is very pretty, I can tell you. You may see her if you look this way."

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

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

　　 "She is walking, I believe."

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

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

　　 Mrs. Palmer was several years younger than Lady Middleton, and totally unlike her in every respect. She was short and plump, had a very pretty face, and the finest expression of good humour in it that could possibly be. Her manners were by no means so elegant as her sister's, but they were much more prepossessing. She came in with a smile, smiled all the time of her visit, except when she laughed, and smiled when she went away. Her husband was a grave looking young man of five or six and twenty, with an air of more fashion and sense than his wife, but of less willingness to please or be pleased. He entered the room with a look of self-consequence, slightly bowed to the ladies, without speaking a word, and, after briefly surveying them and their apartments, took up a 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, ma'am! (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 Elinor, and speaking in a low voice, as if she meant to be heard by no one else, though they were seated on different sides of the room; "but, however, I can't help wishing they had not travelled quite so fast, nor made such a long journey of it, for they came all round by London upon account of some business, for you know (nodding significantly and pointing to her daughter) it 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, mamma, how sweet! I declare they are quite charming; I could look at them for ever." And then sitting down again, she very soon forgot that there were any such things in the room.

　　 When Lady Middleton rose to go away, Mr. Palmer rose also, laid down the newspaper, stretched himself and looked at them all 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 Marianne, as soon as they were gone. "The rent of this cottage is said to be low; but we have it on very hard terms, if we are to dine at the Park whenever any one is staying either with them or with us."

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

　　

　　CHAPTER XX

　　

　　 AS the Misses Dashwood entered the drawing room of the Park the next day, at one door, Mrs. Palmer came running in at the other, looking as good humoured and merry as before. She took them all most affectionately by the hand, and expressed great delight in seeing them again.

　　 "I am so glad to see you!" said she, seating herself between Elinor and Marianne; "for it is so bad a day I was afraid you might not come, which would be a shocking thing, as we go away again to-morrow. We must go, for the Westons come to us next week, you know. It was quite a sudden thing our coming at all; and I knew nothing of it till the 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 any thing! I am so sorry we cannot stay longer; however we shall meet again in town very soon, I hope."

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

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

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

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

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

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

　　 The rest of the company soon dropped in.

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

　　 Marianne looked very grave, and said nothing.

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

　　 "Much nearer thirty," said her husband.

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

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

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

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

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

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

　　 "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."

　　 "Ay, 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 Elinor. "He is always out of humour."

　　 Elinor was not inclined, after a little observation, to give him credit for being so genuinely and unaffectedly ill-natured or ill-bred as he wished to appear. His temper might perhaps be a little soured by finding, like many others of his sex, that through some unaccountable bias in favour of beauty, he was the husband of a very silly woman,- but she knew that this kind of blunder was too common for any sensible man to be lastingly hurt by it. It was rather a wish of distinction, she believed, which 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 Misses Dashwood 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 came to dine with us that I never saw before, it is quite charming! But, poor fellow! it is very fatiguing to him, for he is forced to make every body like him."

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

　　 Mr. Palmer took no notice of her.

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

　　 "No," said he, "I never said any thing 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! Sometimes he won't speak to me for half a day together, and then he comes out with something so droll- all about any thing in the world."

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

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

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

　　 Elinor was again obliged to decline her invitation; and, by changing the subject, put a stop to her entreaties. She thought it probable that as they lived in the same county, Mrs. Palmer might be able to give some more particular account of Willoughby's general character than could be gathered from the Middletons' partial acquaintance with him; and she was eager to gain from any one such a confirmation of his merits as might remove the possibility of fear from Marianne. She began by enquiring 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. Some how or other I never happened to be staying at Barton while he was at Allenham. Mamma saw him here once before; but I was with my uncle at Weymouth. However, I dare say we should have seen a great deal of him in Somersetshire, if it had not happened very unluckily that we should never have been in the country together. He is very little at Combe, I believe; but if he were ever so much there, I do not think Mr. Palmer would visit him, for he is in the opposition, you know, and besides it is such a way off. I know why you enquire about him, very well; your sister is to marry him. I am monstrous glad of it, for then I shall have her for a neighbour you know."

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

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

　　 "My dear Mrs. Palmer!"

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

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

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

　　 "And what did the Colonel say?"

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

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

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

　　 "I am flattered by his commendation. He seems an excellent man; and 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. Mamma says he was in love with your sister too. I assure you it was a great compliment if he was, for he hardly ever falls in love with any body."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

　　

　　CHAPTER XXI

　　

　　 THE Palmers returned to Cleveland the next day, and the two families at Barton were again left to entertain each other. But this did not last long; Elinor had hardly got their last visitors out of her head,- had hardly done wondering at Charlotte's being so happy without a cause, at Mr. Palmer's acting so simply, with good abilities, and at the strange unsuitableness which often existed between husband and wife,- before Sir John's and Mrs. Jennings's active zeal in the cause of society 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 relation 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 ungenteel or unfashionable. Their dress was very smart, their manners very civil: they were delighted with the house, and in raptures with the furniture; and they happened to be so doatingly 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 Misses Dashwood of the Misses Steele's arrival, and to assure them of their being the sweetest girls in the world. From such commendation as this, however, there was not much to be learned: Elinor well knew that the sweetest girls in the world were to be met with in every part of England, under every possible variation of form, face, temper, and understanding. Sir John wanted the whole family to walk to the Park directly and look at his guests. Benevolent, philanthropic man! It was painful to him even to keep a third cousin to himself.

　　 "Do come now," said he- "pray come- you must come- I declare you shall come. You can't think how you will like them. Lucy is monstrous pretty, and so good humoured and agreeable! The children are all 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 wife's; 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 Misses Steele, as he had been already boasting of the Misses Steele to them.

　　 When their promised visit to the Park, and consequent introduction to these young ladies, took place, they found in the appearance of the eldest, who was nearly thirty, with a very plain and not a sensible face, nothing to admire; but in the other, who was not more than two or three and twenty, they acknowledged considerable beauty: her features were pretty, and she had a sharp quick eye, and a smartness of air, which, though it did not give actual elegance or grace, gave distinction to her person. Their manners were particularly civil, and Elinor soon allowed them credit for 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 humouring their whims; and such of their time as could be spared from the importunate 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 foibles, 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 any thing; and the excessive affection and endurance of the Misses Steele 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 Elinor and Marianne should sit so composedly by, without claiming a share in what was passing.

　　 "John is in such spirits to-day!" said she, on his taking Miss Steele's pocket handkerchief, and throwing it out of window- "he is full of 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 scratching the child's neck, produced from this pattern of gentleness such violent screams, as could hardly be outdone by any creature professedly noisy. The mother's consternation was excessive; but it could not surpass the alarm of the Misses Steele, and every thing was done by all three, in so critical an emergency, which affection could suggest, as likely to assauge 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 Misses Steele, 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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

　　 "I should guess so," said Elinor, with a smile, "from what I have 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 Elinor, "that while I am at Barton Park I never think of tame and quiet children with any abhorrence."

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

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

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

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

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

　　 "And had you a great many smart beaux there? I suppose you have not so many in this part of the world. For my part, I think they are a vast addition always."

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

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

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

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

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

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

　　 Not so the Misses Steele. 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, Elinor soon found was their inevitable lot; for as Sir Jack was entirely on the side of the Misses Steele, their party would be too strong for opposition, and that kind of intimacy must be submitted to, which consists of sitting an hour or two together in the same room almost every day. Sir John could do no more; but he did not know that any more was required: to be together was, in his opinion, to be intimate; and while his continual schemes for their meeting were effectual, he had not a doubt of their being established friends.

　　 To do him justice, he did every thing in his power to promote their unreserve, by making the Misses Steele acquainted with whatever he knew or supposed of his cousins' situations in the most delicate particulars; and Elinor had not seen them more than twice, before the eldest of them wished her joy on her sister's having been so lucky as to make a conquest of a very smart beau since she came to Barton.

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

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

　　 The Misses Steele, 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 Steele had in hearing it.

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

　　 "Ferrars!" repeated Miss Steele; "Mr. Ferrars is the happy man, is he? What! your sister-in-law's brother, Miss Dashwood? a very 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."

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

　　

　　CHAPTER XXII

　　

　　 MARIANNE, who had never much toleration for any thing like impertinence, 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 Misses Steele, or to encourage their advances; and to the invariable coldness of her behaviour towards them, which checked every endeavour at intimacy on their side, Elinor 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 Elinor 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. Elinor saw, and pitied her for the neglect of abilities which education might have rendered so respectable; but she saw, with less tenderness of feeling, the thorough want of delicacy, of rectitude, and integrity of mind, which her attentions, her assiduities, her flatteries at the Park betrayed; and she could have no lasting satisfaction in the company of a person who joined insincerity with ignorance; whose want of instruction prevented their meeting in conversation on terms of equality, and whose conduct toward others made every show of attention and deference towards 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. Ferrars?"

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

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

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

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

　　 Elinor made her a civil reply, and they walked on 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 impertinently curious. I am sure I would rather do any thing 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 and uncomfortable situation as I am; but, however, there is no occasion to trouble you. I am sorry you do not happen to know Mrs. Ferrars."

　　 "I am sorry I do not," said Elinor, in great astonishment, "if it could be of any use to you to know my opinion of her. But really I never 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. Ferrars is certainly nothing to me at present; but the time may come- how soon it will come must depend upon herself- when we may be very intimately connected."

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

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

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

　　 What felt Elinor at that moment? Astonishment, that would have been as painful as it was strong, had not an immediate disbelief of the assertion attended it. She turned towards Lucy in silent amazement, unable to divine the reason or object of such a declaration; and though her 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; because it was always meant to be a great secret, and I am sure has been faithfully kept so by me to this hour. Not a soul of all my relations know of it but Anne, and I never should have mentioned it to you, if I had not felt the greatest dependence in the world upon your secrecy; and I really thought my behaviour in asking so many questions about Mrs. Ferrars must seem so odd, that it ought to be explained. And I do not think Mr. Ferrars can be displeased, when he knows I have trusted you, because I know he has the highest opinion in the world of all your family, and looks upon yourself and the other Misses Dashwood quite as his own sisters." She paused.

　　 Elinor 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."

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

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

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

　　 "Your uncle!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

　　 She put it into her hands as she spoke; and when Elinor saw the 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 in return, which I am very much vexed at, for he has been always so anxious to get it! But I am determined to sit for it the very first opportunity."

　　 "You are quite in the right," replied Elinor,