wohnzimmer wärmer gestalten

sense and sensibilityby jane austen (1811) chapter 43 marianne got up the next morning at herusual time; to every inquiry replied that she was better, and tried to prove herselfso, by engaging in her accustomary employments. but a day spent in sitting shivering overthe fire with a book in her hand, which she was unable to read, or in lying, weary andlanguid, on a sofa, did not speak much in favour of her amendment; and when, at last, she went early to bed, more and moreindisposed, colonel brandon was only

astonished at her sister's composure, who,though attending and nursing her the whole day, against marianne's inclination, and forcing proper medicines on her at night,trusted, like marianne, to the certainty and efficacy of sleep, and felt no realalarm. a very restless and feverish night,however, disappointed the expectation of both; and when marianne, after persistingin rising, confessed herself unable to sit up, and returned voluntarily to her bed, elinor was very ready to adopt mrs.jennings's advice, of sending for the palmers' apothecary.

he came, examined his patient, and thoughencouraging miss dashwood to expect that a very few days would restore her sister tohealth, yet, by pronouncing her disorder to have a putrid tendency, and allowing the word "infection" to pass his lips, gaveinstant alarm to mrs. palmer, on her baby's account. mrs. jennings, who had been inclined fromthe first to think marianne's complaint more serious than elinor, now looked verygrave on mr. harris's report, and confirming charlotte's fears and caution, urged the necessity of her immediateremoval with her infant; and mr. palmer,

though treating their apprehensions asidle, found the anxiety and importunity of his wife too great to be withstood. her departure, therefore, was fixed on; andwithin an hour after mr. harris's arrival, she set off, with her little boy and hisnurse, for the house of a near relation of mr. palmer's, who lived a few miles on the other side of bath; whither her husbandpromised, at her earnest entreaty, to join her in a day or two; and whither she wasalmost equally urgent with her mother to accompany her. mrs. jennings, however, with a kindness ofheart which made elinor really love her,

declared her resolution of not stirringfrom cleveland as long as marianne remained ill, and of endeavouring, by her own attentive care, to supply to her the placeof the mother she had taken her from; and elinor found her on every occasion a mostwilling and active helpmate, desirous to share in all her fatigues, and often by her better experience in nursing, of materialuse. poor marianne, languid and low from thenature of her malady, and feeling herself universally ill, could no longer hope thattomorrow would find her recovered; and the idea of what tomorrow would have produced,

but for this unlucky illness, made everyailment severe; for on that day they were to have begun their journey home; and,attended the whole way by a servant of mrs. jennings, were to have taken their motherby surprise on the following forenoon. the little she said was all in lamentationof this inevitable delay; though elinor tried to raise her spirits, and make herbelieve, as she then really believed herself, that it would be a very short one. the next day produced little or noalteration in the state of the patient; she certainly was not better, and, except thatthere was no amendment, did not appear worse.

their party was now farther reduced; formr. palmer, though very unwilling to go as well from real humanity and good-nature, asfrom a dislike of appearing to be frightened away by his wife, was persuaded at last by colonel brandon to perform hispromise of following her; and while he was preparing to go, colonel brandon himself,with a much greater exertion, began to talk of going likewise.--here, however, the kindness of mrs. jennings interposed mostacceptably; for to send the colonel away while his love was in so much uneasiness onher sister's account, would be to deprive them both, she thought, of every comfort;

and therefore telling him at once that hisstay at cleveland was necessary to herself, that she should want him to play at piquetof an evening, while miss dashwood was above with her sister, &c. she urged him so strongly to remain, that he, who wasgratifying the first wish of his own heart by a compliance, could not long even affectto demur; especially as mrs. jennings's entreaty was warmly seconded by mr. palmer, who seemed to feel a relief to himself, inleaving behind him a person so well able to assist or advise miss dashwood in anyemergence. marianne was, of course, kept in ignoranceof all these arrangements.

she knew not that she had been the means ofsending the owners of cleveland away, in about seven days from the time of theirarrival. it gave her no surprise that she sawnothing of mrs. palmer; and as it gave her likewise no concern, she never mentionedher name. two days passed away from the time of mr.palmer's departure, and her situation continued, with little variation, the same. mr. harris, who attended her every day,still talked boldly of a speedy recovery, and miss dashwood was equally sanguine; butthe expectation of the others was by no means so cheerful.

mrs. jennings had determined very early inthe seizure that marianne would never get over it, and colonel brandon, who waschiefly of use in listening to mrs. jennings's forebodings, was not in a stateof mind to resist their influence. he tried to reason himself out of fears,which the different judgment of the apothecary seemed to render absurd; but themany hours of each day in which he was left entirely alone, were but too favourable for the admission of every melancholy idea, andhe could not expel from his mind the persuasion that he should see marianne nomore. on the morning of the third day however,the gloomy anticipations of both were

almost done away; for when mr. harrisarrived, he declared his patient materially better. her pulse was much stronger, and everysymptom more favourable than on the preceding visit. elinor, confirmed in every pleasant hope,was all cheerfulness; rejoicing that in her letters to her mother, she had pursued herown judgment rather than her friend's, in making very light of the indisposition which delayed them at cleveland; and almostfixing on the time when marianne would be able to travel.

but the day did not close so auspiciouslyas it began.-- towards the evening marianne became ill again, growing more heavy,restless, and uncomfortable than before. her sister, however, still sanguine, waswilling to attribute the change to nothing more than the fatigue of having sat up tohave her bed made; and carefully administering the cordials prescribed, saw her, with satisfaction, sink at last into aslumber, from which she expected the most beneficial effects. her sleep, though not so quiet as elinorwished to see it, lasted a considerable time; and anxious to observe the result ofit herself, she resolved to sit with her

during the whole of it. mrs. jennings, knowing nothing of anychange in the patient, went unusually early to bed; her maid, who was one of theprincipal nurses, was recreating herself in the housekeeper's room, and elinor remainedalone with marianne. the repose of the latter became more andmore disturbed; and her sister, who watched, with unremitting attention hercontinual change of posture, and heard the frequent but inarticulate sounds of complaint which passed her lips, was almostwishing to rouse her from so painful a slumber, when marianne, suddenly awakenedby some accidental noise in the house,

started hastily up, and, with feverishwildness, cried out,-- "is mama coming?--" "not yet," cried the other, concealing herterror, and assisting marianne to lie down again, "but she will be here, i hope,before it is long. it is a great way, you know, from hence tobarton." "but she must not go round by london,"cried marianne, in the same hurried manner. "i shall never see her, if she goes bylondon." elinor perceived with alarm that she wasnot quite herself, and, while attempting to soothe her, eagerly felt her pulse.

it was lower and quicker than ever! andmarianne, still talking wildly of mama, her alarm increased so rapidly, as to determineher on sending instantly for mr. harris, and despatching a messenger to barton forher mother. to consult with colonel brandon on the bestmeans of effecting the latter, was a thought which immediately followed theresolution of its performance; and as soon she had rung up the maid to take her place by her sister, she hastened down to thedrawing-room, where she knew he was generally to be found at a much later hourthan the present. it was no time for hesitation.

her fears and her difficulties wereimmediately before him. her fears, he had no courage, no confidenceto attempt the removal of:--he listened to them in silent despondence;--but herdifficulties were instantly obviated, for with a readiness that seemed to speak the occasion, and the service pre-arranged inhis mind, he offered himself as the messenger who should fetch mrs. dashwood.elinor made no resistance that was not easily overcome. she thanked him with brief, though ferventgratitude, and while he went to hurry off his servant with a message to mr. harris,and an order for post-horses directly, she

wrote a few lines to her mother. the comfort of such a friend at that momentas colonel brandon--or such a companion for her mother,--how gratefully was it felt!--acompanion whose judgment would guide, whose attendance must relieve, and whose friendship might soothe her!--as far as theshock of such a summons could be lessened to her, his presence, his manners, hisassistance, would lessen it. he, meanwhile, whatever he might feel,acted with all the firmness of a collected mind, made every necessary arrangement withthe utmost despatch, and calculated with exactness the time in which she might lookfor his return.

not a moment was lost in delay of any kind. the horses arrived, even before they wereexpected, and colonel brandon only pressing her hand with a look of solemnity, and afew words spoken too low to reach her ear, hurried into the carriage. it was then about twelve o'clock, and shereturned to her sister's apartment to wait for the arrival of the apothecary, and towatch by her the rest of the night. it was a night of almost equal suffering toboth. hour after hour passed away in sleeplesspain and delirium on marianne's side, and in the most cruel anxiety on elinor's,before mr. harris appeared.

her apprehensions once raised, paid bytheir excess for all her former security; and the servant who sat up with her, forshe would not allow mrs. jennings to be called, only tortured her more, by hints ofwhat her mistress had always thought. marianne's ideas were still, at intervals,fixed incoherently on her mother, and whenever she mentioned her name, it gave apang to the heart of poor elinor, who, reproaching herself for having trifled with so many days of illness, and wretched forsome immediate relief, fancied that all relief might soon be in vain, that everything had been delayed too long, and pictured to herself her suffering mother

arriving too late to see this darlingchild, or to see her rational. she was on the point of sending again formr. harris, or if he could not come, for some other advice, when the former--but nottill after five o'clock--arrived. his opinion, however, made some littleamends for his delay, for though acknowledging a very unexpected andunpleasant alteration in his patient, he would not allow the danger to be material, and talked of the relief which a fresh modeof treatment must procure, with a confidence which, in a lesser degree, wascommunicated to elinor. he promised to call again in the course ofthree or four hours, and left both the

patient and her anxious attendant morecomposed than he had found them. with strong concern, and with manyreproaches for not being called to their aid, did mrs. jennings hear in the morningof what had passed. her former apprehensions, now with greaterreason restored, left her no doubt of the event; and though trying to speak comfortto elinor, her conviction of her sister's danger would not allow her to offer thecomfort of hope. her heart was really grieved. the rapid decay, the early death of a girlso young, so lovely as marianne, must have struck a less interested person withconcern.

on mrs. jennings's compassion she had otherclaims. she had been for three months hercompanion, was still under her care, and she was known to have been greatly injured,and long unhappy. the distress of her sister too,particularly a favourite, was before her;-- and as for their mother, when mrs. jenningsconsidered that marianne might probably be to her what charlotte was to herself, her sympathy in her sufferings was verysincere. mr. harris was punctual in his secondvisit;--but he came to be disappointed in his hopes of what the last would produce.

his medicines had failed;--the fever wasunabated; and marianne only more quiet--not more herself--remained in a heavy stupor. elinor, catching all, and more than all,his fears in a moment, proposed to call in further advice. but he judged it unnecessary: he had stillsomething more to try, some more fresh application, of whose success he was asconfident as the last, and his visit concluded with encouraging assurances which reached the ear, but could not enter theheart of miss dashwood. she was calm, except when she thought ofher mother; but she was almost hopeless;

and in this state she continued till noon,scarcely stirring from her sister's bed, her thoughts wandering from one image of grief, one suffering friend to another, andher spirits oppressed to the utmost by the conversation of mrs. jennings, who scruplednot to attribute the severity and danger of this attack to the many weeks of previous indisposition which marianne'sdisappointment had brought on. elinor felt all the reasonableness of theidea, and it gave fresh misery to her reflections. about noon, however, she began--but with acaution--a dread of disappointment which

for some time kept her silent, even to herfriend--to fancy, to hope she could perceive a slight amendment in her sister's pulse;--she waited, watched, and examinedit again and again;--and at last, with an agitation more difficult to bury underexterior calmness, than all her foregoing distress, ventured to communicate herhopes. mrs. jennings, though forced, onexamination, to acknowledge a temporary revival, tried to keep her young friendfrom indulging a thought of its continuance;--and elinor, conning over every injunction of distrust, told herselflikewise not to hope.

but it was too late. hope had already entered; and feeling allits anxious flutter, she bent over her sister to watch--she hardly knew for what.half an hour passed away, and the favourable symptom yet blessed her. others even arose to confirm it.her breath, her skin, her lips, all flattered elinor with signs of amendment;and marianne fixed her eyes on her with a rational, though languid, gaze. anxiety and hope now oppressed her in equaldegrees, and left her no moment of tranquillity till the arrival of mr. harrisat four o'clock;--when his assurances, his

felicitations on a recovery in her sister even surpassing his expectation, gave herconfidence, comfort, and tears of joy. marianne was in every respect materiallybetter, and he declared her entirely out of danger. mrs. jennings, perhaps satisfied with thepartial justification of her forebodings which had been found in their late alarm,allowed herself to trust in his judgment, and admitted, with unfeigned joy, and soon with unequivocal cheerfulness, theprobability of an entire recovery. elinor could not be cheerful.her joy was of a different kind, and led to

any thing rather than to gaiety. marianne restored to life, health, friends,and to her doting mother, was an idea to fill her heart with sensations of exquisitecomfort, and expand it in fervent gratitude;--but it led to no outwarddemonstrations of joy, no words, no smiles. all within elinor's breast wassatisfaction, silent and strong. she continued by the side of her sister,with little intermission the whole afternoon, calming every fear, satisfyingevery inquiry of her enfeebled spirits, supplying every succour, and watchingalmost every look and every breath. the possibility of a relapse would ofcourse, in some moments, occur to remind

her of what anxiety was--but when she saw,on her frequent and minute examination, that every symptom of recovery continued, and saw marianne at six o'clock sink into aquiet, steady, and to all appearance comfortable, sleep, she silenced everydoubt. the time was now drawing on, when colonelbrandon might be expected back. at ten o'clock, she trusted, or at leastnot much later her mother would be relieved from the dreadful suspense in which shemust now be travelling towards them. the colonel, too!--perhaps scarcely less anobject of pity!--oh!--how slow was the progress of time which yet kept them inignorance!

at seven o'clock, leaving marianne stillsweetly asleep, she joined mrs. jennings in the drawing-room to tea. of breakfast she had been kept by herfears, and of dinner by their sudden reverse, from eating much;--and the presentrefreshment, therefore, with such feelings of content as she brought to it, wasparticularly welcome. mrs. jennings would have persuaded her, atits conclusion, to take some rest before her mother's arrival, and allow her to takeher place by marianne; but elinor had no sense of fatigue, no capability of sleep at that moment about her, and she was not tobe kept away from her sister an unnecessary

instant. mrs. jennings therefore attending her upstairs into the sick chamber, to satisfy herself that all continued right, left herthere again to her charge and her thoughts, and retired to her own room to writeletters and sleep. the night was cold and stormy. the wind roared round the house, and therain beat against the windows; but elinor, all happiness within, regarded it not. marianne slept through every blast; and thetravellers--they had a rich reward in store, for every present inconvenience.the clock struck eight.

had it been ten, elinor would have beenconvinced that at that moment she heard a carriage driving up to the house; and sostrong was the persuasion that she did, in spite of the almost impossibility of their being already come, that she moved into theadjoining dressing-closet and opened a window shutter, to be satisfied of thetruth. she instantly saw that her ears had notdeceived her. the flaring lamps of a carriage wereimmediately in view. by their uncertain light she thought shecould discern it to be drawn by four horses; and this, while it told the excessof her poor mother's alarm, gave some

explanation to such unexpected rapidity. never in her life had elinor found it sodifficult to be calm, as at that moment. the knowledge of what her mother must befeeling as the carriage stopt at the door-- of her doubt--her dread--perhaps herdespair!--and of what she had to tell!-- with such knowledge it was impossible to becalm. all that remained to be done was to bespeedy; and, therefore staying only till she could leave mrs. jennings's maid withher sister, she hurried down stairs. the bustle in the vestibule, as she passedalong an inner lobby, assured her that they were already in the house.she rushed to the drawing-room,--she

entered it,--and saw only willoughby. > chapter 44 elinor, starting back with a look of horrorat the sight of him, obeyed the first impulse of her heart in turning instantlyto quit the room, and her hand was already on the lock, when its action was suspended by his hastily advancing, and saying, in avoice rather of command than supplication, "miss dashwood, for half an hour--for tenminutes--i entreat you to stay." "no, sir," she replied with firmness, "ishall not stay.

your business cannot be with me.the servants, i suppose, forgot to tell you that mr. palmer was not in the house." "had they told me," he cried withvehemence, "that mr. palmer and all his relations were at the devil, it would nothave turned me from the door. my business is with you, and only you." "with me!"--in the utmost amazement--"well,sir,--be quick--and if you can--less violent.""sit down, and i will be both." she hesitated; she knew not what to do. the possibility of colonel brandon'sarriving and finding her there, came across

her. but she had promised to hear him, and hercuriosity no less than her honor was engaged. after a moment's recollection, therefore,concluding that prudence required dispatch, and that her acquiescence would bestpromote it, she walked silently towards the table, and sat down. he took the opposite chair, and for half aminute not a word was said by either. "pray be quick, sir,"--said elinor,impatiently;--"i have no time to spare." he was sitting in an attitude of deepmeditation, and seemed not to hear her.

"your sister," said he, with abruptness, amoment afterwards--"is out of danger. i heard it from the servant. god be praised!--but is it true? is itreally true?" elinor would not speak.he repeated the inquiry with yet greater eagerness. "for god's sake tell me, is she out ofdanger, or is she not?" "we hope she is."he rose up, and walked across the room. "had i known as much half an hour ago--butsince i am here,"--speaking with a forced vivacity as he returned to his seat--"whatdoes it signify?--for once, miss dashwood--

it will be the last time, perhaps--let us be cheerful together.--i am in a fine moodfor gaiety.-- tell me honestly"--a deeper glow overspreading his cheeks--"do youthink me most a knave or a fool?" elinor looked at him with greaterastonishment than ever. she began to think that he must be inliquor;--the strangeness of such a visit, and of such manners, seemed no otherwiseintelligible; and with this impression she immediately rose, saying, "mr. willoughby, i advise you at present toreturn to combe--i am not at leisure to remain with you longer.-- whatever yourbusiness may be with me, will it be better

recollected and explained to-morrow." "i understand you," he replied, with anexpressive smile, and a voice perfectly calm; "yes, i am very drunk.-- a pint ofporter with my cold beef at marlborough was enough to over-set me." "at marlborough!"--cried elinor, more andmore at a loss to understand what he would be at. "yes,--i left london this morning at eighto'clock, and the only ten minutes i have spent out of my chaise since that timeprocured me a nuncheon at marlborough." the steadiness of his manner, and theintelligence of his eye as he spoke,

convincing elinor, that whatever otherunpardonable folly might bring him to cleveland, he was not brought there by intoxication, she said, after a moment'srecollection, "mr. willoughby, you ought to feel, and icertainly do--that after what has passed-- your coming here in this manner, andforcing yourself upon my notice, requires a very particular excuse.--what is it, thatyou mean by it?"-- "i mean,"--said he, with serious energy--"if i can, to make you hate me one degree less than you do now. i mean to offer some kind of explanation,some kind of apology, for the past; to open

my whole heart to you, and by convincingyou, that though i have been always a blockhead, i have not been always a rascal, to obtain something like forgiveness fromma--from your sister." "is this the real reason of your coming?" "upon my soul it is,"--was his answer, witha warmth which brought all the former willoughby to her remembrance, and in spiteof herself made her think him sincere. "if that is all, you may be satisfiedalready,--for marianne does--she has long forgiven you." "has she?"--he cried, in the same eagertone.-- "then she has forgiven me before

she ought to have done it. but she shall forgive me again, and on morereasonable grounds.--now will you listen to me?"elinor bowed her assent. "i do not know," said he, after a pause ofexpectation on her side, and thoughtfulness on his own,--"how you may have accountedfor my behaviour to your sister, or what diabolical motive you may have imputed to me.-- perhaps you will hardly think thebetter of me,--it is worth the trial however, and you shall hear every thing. when i first became intimate in yourfamily, i had no other intention, no other

view in the acquaintance than to pass mytime pleasantly while i was obliged to remain in devonshire, more pleasantly thani had ever done before. your sister's lovely person and interestingmanners could not but please me; and her behaviour to me almost from the first, wasof a kind--it is astonishing, when i reflect on what it was, and what she was, that my heart should have been soinsensible! but at first i must confess, my vanity onlywas elevated by it. careless of her happiness, thinking only ofmy own amusement, giving way to feelings which i had always been too much in thehabit of indulging, i endeavoured, by every

means in my power, to make myself pleasing to her, without any design of returning heraffection." miss dashwood, at this point, turning hereyes on him with the most angry contempt, stopped him, by saying, "it is hardly worth while, mr. willoughby,for you to relate, or for me to listen any longer. such a beginning as this cannot be followedby any thing.-- do not let me be pained by hearing any thing more on the subject." "i insist on you hearing the whole of it,"he replied, "my fortune was never large,

and i had always been expensive, always inthe habit of associating with people of better income than myself. every year since my coming of age, or evenbefore, i believe, had added to my debts; and though the death of my old cousin, mrs.smith, was to set me free; yet that event being uncertain, and possibly far distant, it had been for some time my intention tore-establish my circumstances by marrying a woman of fortune. to attach myself to your sister, therefore,was not a thing to be thought of;--and with a meanness, selfishness, cruelty--which noindignant, no contemptuous look, even of

yours, miss dashwood, can ever reprobate too much--i was acting in this manner,trying to engage her regard, without a thought of returning it.--but one thing maybe said for me: even in that horrid state of selfish vanity, i did not know the extent of the injury i meditated, because idid not then know what it was to love. but have i ever known it?--well may it bedoubted; for, had i really loved, could i have sacrificed my feelings to vanity, toavarice?--or, what is more, could i have sacrificed hers?-- but i have done it. to avoid a comparative poverty, which heraffection and her society would have

deprived of all its horrors, i have, byraising myself to affluence, lost every thing that could make it a blessing." "you did then," said elinor, a littlesoftened, "believe yourself at one time attached to her?" "to have resisted such attractions, to havewithstood such tenderness!--is there a man on earth who could have done it?--yes, ifound myself, by insensible degrees, sincerely fond of her; and the happiest hours of my life were what i spent with herwhen i felt my intentions were strictly honourable, and my feelings blameless.

even then, however, when fully determinedon paying my addresses to her, i allowed myself most improperly to put off, from dayto day, the moment of doing it, from an unwillingness to enter into an engagement while my circumstances were so greatlyembarrassed. i will not reason here--nor will i stop foryou to expatiate on the absurdity, and the worse than absurdity, of scrupling toengage my faith where my honour was already bound. the event has proved, that i was a cunningfool, providing with great circumspection for a possible opportunity of making myselfcontemptible and wretched for ever.

at last, however, my resolution was taken,and i had determined, as soon as i could engage her alone, to justify the attentionsi had so invariably paid her, and openly assure her of an affection which i hadalready taken such pains to display. but in the interim--in the interim of thevery few hours that were to pass, before i could have an opportunity of speaking withher in private--a circumstance occurred--an unlucky circumstance, to ruin all myresolution, and with it all my comfort. a discovery took place,"--here he hesitatedand looked down.--"mrs. smith had somehow or other been informed, i imagine by somedistant relation, whose interest it was to deprive me of her favour, of an affair, a

connection--but i need not explain myselffarther," he added, looking at her with an heightened colour and an enquiring eye--"your particular intimacy--you have probably heard the whole story long ago." "i have," returned elinor, colouringlikewise, and hardening her heart anew against any compassion for him, "i haveheard it all. and how you will explain away any part ofyour guilt in that dreadful business, i confess is beyond my comprehension.""remember," cried willoughby, "from whom you received the account. could it be an impartial one?i acknowledge that her situation and her

character ought to have been respected byme. i do not mean to justify myself, but at thesame time cannot leave you to suppose that i have nothing to urge--that because shewas injured she was irreproachable, and because i was a libertine, she must be asaint. if the violence of her passions, theweakness of her understanding--i do not mean, however, to defend myself. her affection for me deserved bettertreatment, and i often, with great self- reproach, recall the tenderness which, fora very short time, had the power of creating any return.

i wish--i heartily wish it had never been. but i have injured more than herself; and ihave injured one, whose affection for me-- (may i say it?) was scarcely less warm thanhers; and whose mind--oh! how infinitely superior!"-- "your indifference, however, towards thatunfortunate girl--i must say it, unpleasant to me as the discussion of such a subjectmay well be--your indifference is no apology for your cruel neglect of her. do not think yourself excused by anyweakness, any natural defect of understanding on her side, in the wantoncruelty so evident on yours.

you must have known, that while you wereenjoying yourself in devonshire pursuing fresh schemes, always gay, always happy,she was reduced to the extremest indigence." "but, upon my soul, i did not know it," hewarmly replied; "i did not recollect that i had omitted to give her my direction; andcommon sense might have told her how to find it out." "well, sir, and what said mrs. smith?""she taxed me with the offence at once, and my confusion may be guessed. the purity of her life, the formality ofher notions, her ignorance of the world--

every thing was against me.the matter itself i could not deny, and vain was every endeavour to soften it. she was previously disposed, i believe, todoubt the morality of my conduct in general, and was moreover discontented withthe very little attention, the very little portion of my time that i had bestowed onher, in my present visit. in short, it ended in a total breach.by one measure i might have saved myself. in the height of her morality, good woman!she offered to forgive the past, if i would marry eliza.that could not be--and i was formally dismissed from her favour and her house.

the night following this affair--i was togo the next morning--was spent by me in deliberating on what my future conductshould be. the struggle was great--but it ended toosoon. my affection for marianne, my thoroughconviction of her attachment to me--it was all insufficient to outweigh that dread ofpoverty, or get the better of those false ideas of the necessity of riches, which i was naturally inclined to feel, andexpensive society had increased. i had reason to believe myself secure of mypresent wife, if i chose to address her, and i persuaded myself to think thatnothing else in common prudence remained

for me to do. a heavy scene however awaited me, before icould leave devonshire;--i was engaged to dine with you on that very day; someapology was therefore necessary for my breaking this engagement. but whether i should write this apology, ordeliver it in person, was a point of long debate. to see marianne, i felt, would be dreadful,and i even doubted whether i could see her again, and keep to my resolution. in that point, however, i undervalued myown magnanimity, as the event declared; for

i went, i saw her, and saw her miserable,and left her miserable--and left her hoping never to see her again." "why did you call, mr. willoughby?" saidelinor, reproachfully; "a note would have answered every purpose.-- why was itnecessary to call?" "it was necessary to my own pride. i could not bear to leave the country in amanner that might lead you, or the rest of the neighbourhood, to suspect any part ofwhat had really passed between mrs. smith and myself--and i resolved therefore on calling at the cottage, in my way tohoniton.

the sight of your dear sister, however, wasreally dreadful; and, to heighten the matter, i found her alone.you were all gone i do not know where. i had left her only the evening before, sofully, so firmly resolved within my self on doing right! a few hours were to have engaged her to mefor ever; and i remember how happy, how gay were my spirits, as i walked from thecottage to allenham, satisfied with myself, delighted with every body! but in this, our last interview offriendship, i approached her with a sense of guilt that almost took from me the powerof dissembling.

her sorrow, her disappointment, her deepregret, when i told her that i was obliged to leave devonshire so immediately--i nevershall forget it--united too with such reliance, such confidence in me!--oh, god!--what a hard-hearted rascal i was!" they were both silent for a few moments.elinor first spoke. "did you tell her that you should soonreturn?" "i do not know what i told her," hereplied, impatiently; "less than was due to the past, beyond a doubt, and in alllikelihood much more than was justified by the future. i cannot think of it.--it won't do.--thencame your dear mother to torture me

farther, with all her kindness andconfidence. thank heaven! it did torture me. i was miserable.miss dashwood, you cannot have an idea of the comfort it gives me to look back on myown misery. i owe such a grudge to myself for thestupid, rascally folly of my own heart, that all my past sufferings under it areonly triumph and exultation to me now. well, i went, left all that i loved, andwent to those to whom, at best, i was only indifferent. my journey to town--travelling with my ownhorses, and therefore so tediously--no

creature to speak to--my own reflections socheerful--when i looked forward every thing so inviting!--when i looked back at barton, the picture so soothing!--oh, it was ablessed journey!" he stopped. "well, sir," said elinor, who, thoughpitying him, grew impatient for his departure, "and this is all?" "ah!--no,--have you forgot what passed intown?-- that infamous letter--did she shew it you?""yes, i saw every note that passed." "when the first of hers reached me (as itimmediately did, for i was in town the

whole time,) what i felt is--in the commonphrase, not to be expressed; in a more simple one--perhaps too simple to raise any emotion--my feelings were very, verypainful.--every line, every word was--in the hackneyed metaphor which their dearwriter, were she here, would forbid--a dagger to my heart. to know that marianne was in town was--inthe same language--a thunderbolt.-- thunderbolts and daggers!--what a reproofwould she have given me!--her taste, her opinions--i believe they are better known to me than my own,--and i am sure they aredearer."

elinor's heart, which had undergone manychanges in the course of this extraordinary conversation, was now softened again;--yetshe felt it her duty to check such ideas in her companion as the last. "this is not right, mr. willoughby.--remember that you are married. relate only what in your conscience youthink necessary for me to hear." "marianne's note, by assuring me that i wasstill as dear to her as in former days, that in spite of the many, many weeks wehad been separated, she was as constant in her own feelings, and as full of faith in the constancy of mine as ever, awakened allmy remorse.

i say awakened, because time and london,business and dissipation, had in some measure quieted it, and i had been growinga fine hardened villain, fancying myself indifferent to her, and chusing to fancy that she too must have become indifferentto me; talking to myself of our past attachment as a mere idle, triflingbusiness, shrugging up my shoulders in proof of its being so, and silencing every reproach, overcoming every scruple, bysecretly saying now and then, 'i shall be heartily glad to hear she is wellmarried.'-- but this note made me know myself better.

i felt that she was infinitely dearer to methan any other woman in the world, and that i was using her infamously.but every thing was then just settled between miss grey and me. to retreat was impossible.all that i had to do, was to avoid you both. i sent no answer to marianne, intending bythat to preserve myself from her farther notice; and for some time i was evendetermined not to call in berkeley street;- -but at last, judging it wiser to affect the air of a cool, common acquaintance thananything else, i watched you all safely out

of the house one morning, and left myname." "watched us out of the house!" "even so.you would be surprised to hear how often i watched you, how often i was on the pointof falling in with you. i have entered many a shop to avoid yoursight, as the carriage drove by. lodging as i did in bond street, there washardly a day in which i did not catch a glimpse of one or other of you; and nothingbut the most constant watchfulness on my side, a most invariably prevailing desire to keep out of your sight, could haveseparated us so long.

i avoided the middletons as much aspossible, as well as everybody else who was likely to prove an acquaintance in common. not aware of their being in town, however,i blundered on sir john, i believe, the first day of his coming, and the day afteri had called at mrs. jennings's. he asked me to a party, a dance at hishouse in the evening.--had he not told me as an inducement that you and your sisterwere to be there, i should have felt it too certain a thing, to trust myself near him. the next morning brought another short notefrom marianne--still affectionate, open, artless, confiding--everything that couldmake my conduct most hateful.

i could not answer it. i tried--but could not frame a sentence.but i thought of her, i believe, every moment of the day.if you can pity me, miss dashwood, pity my situation as it was then. with my head and heart full of your sister,i was forced to play the happy lover to another woman!--those three or four weekswere worse than all. well, at last, as i need not tell you, youwere forced on me; and what a sweet figure i cut!--what an evening of agony it was!--marianne, beautiful as an angel on one side, calling me willoughby in such a

tone!--oh, god!--holding out her hand tome, asking me for an explanation, with those bewitching eyes fixed in suchspeaking solicitude on my face!--and sophia, jealous as the devil on the other hand, looking all that was--well, it doesnot signify; it is over now.-- such an evening!--i ran away from you all as soonas i could; but not before i had seen marianne's sweet face as white as death.-- that was the last, last look i ever had ofher;--the last manner in which she appeared to me. it was a horrid sight!--yet when i thoughtof her to-day as really dying, it was a

kind of comfort to me to imagine that iknew exactly how she would appear to those, who saw her last in this world. she was before me, constantly before me, asi travelled, in the same look and hue." a short pause of mutual thoughtfulnesssucceeded. willoughby first rousing himself, broke itthus: "well, let me make haste and be gone.your sister is certainly better, certainly out of danger?" "we are assured of it.""your poor mother, too!--doting on marianne."

"but the letter, mr. willoughby, your ownletter; have you any thing to say about that?""yes, yes, that in particular. your sister wrote to me again, you know,the very next morning. you saw what she said. i was breakfasting at the ellisons,--andher letter, with some others, was brought to me there from my lodgings. it happened to catch sophia's eye before itcaught mine--and its size, the elegance of the paper, the hand-writing altogether,immediately gave her a suspicion. some vague report had reached her before ofmy attachment to some young lady in

devonshire, and what had passed within herobservation the preceding evening had marked who the young lady was, and made hermore jealous than ever. affecting that air of playfulness,therefore, which is delightful in a woman one loves, she opened the letter directly,and read its contents. she was well paid for her impudence. she read what made her wretched.her wretchedness i could have borne, but her passion--her malice--at all events itmust be appeased. and, in short--what do you think of mywife's style of letter-writing?--delicate-- tender--truly feminine--was it not?""your wife!--the letter was in your own

hand-writing." "yes, but i had only the credit ofservilely copying such sentences as i was ashamed to put my name to.the original was all her own--her own happy thoughts and gentle diction. but what could i do!--we were engaged,every thing in preparation, the day almost fixed--but i am talking like a fool. preparation!--day!--in honest words, hermoney was necessary to me, and in a situation like mine, any thing was to bedone to prevent a rupture. and after all, what did it signify to mycharacter in the opinion of marianne and

her friends, in what language my answer wascouched?--it must have been only to one end. my business was to declare myself ascoundrel, and whether i did it with a bow or a bluster was of little importance.-- 'iam ruined for ever in their opinion--' said i to myself--'i am shut out for ever from their society, they already think me anunprincipled fellow, this letter will only make them think me a blackguard one.' such were my reasonings, as, in a sort ofdesperate carelessness, i copied my wife's words, and parted with the last relics ofmarianne.

her three notes--unluckily they were all inmy pocketbook, or i should have denied their existence, and hoarded them for ever--i was forced to put them up, and could not even kiss them. and the lock of hair--that too i had alwayscarried about me in the same pocket-book, which was now searched by madam with themost ingratiating virulence,--the dear lock--all, every memento was torn from me." "you are very wrong, mr. willoughby, veryblamable," said elinor, while her voice, in spite of herself, betrayed hercompassionate emotion; "you ought not to speak in this way, either of mrs.willoughby or my sister.

you had made your own choice.it was not forced on you. your wife has a claim to your politeness,to your respect, at least. she must be attached to you, or she wouldnot have married you. to treat her with unkindness, to speak ofher slightingly is no atonement to marianne--nor can i suppose it a relief toyour own conscience." "do not talk to me of my wife," said hewith a heavy sigh.-- "she does not deserve your compassion.--she knew i had no regardfor her when we married.--well, married we were, and came down to combe magna to be happy, and afterwards returned to town tobe gay.--and now do you pity me, miss

dashwood?--or have i said all this to nopurpose?-- am i--be it only one degree--am i less guilty in your opinion than i was before?--my intentions were not alwayswrong. have i explained away any part of myguilt?" "yes, you have certainly removed something--a little.-- you have proved yourself, on the whole, less faulty than i had believedyou. you have proved your heart less wicked,much less wicked. but i hardly know--the misery that you haveinflicted--i hardly know what could have made it worse."

"will you repeat to your sister when she isrecovered, what i have been telling you?-- let me be a little lightened too in heropinion as well as in yours. you tell me that she has forgiven mealready. let me be able to fancy that a betterknowledge of my heart, and of my present feelings, will draw from her a morespontaneous, more natural, more gentle, less dignified, forgiveness. tell her of my misery and my penitence--tell her that my heart was never inconstant to her, and if you will, that at thismoment she is dearer to me than ever." "i will tell her all that is necessary towhat may comparatively be called, your

justification. but you have not explained to me theparticular reason of your coming now, nor how you heard of her illness." "last night, in drury lane lobby, i ranagainst sir john middleton, and when he saw who i was--for the first time these twomonths--he spoke to me.--that he had cut me ever since my marriage, i had seen withoutsurprise or resentment. now, however, his good-natured, honest,stupid soul, full of indignation against me, and concern for your sister, could notresist the temptation of telling me what he knew ought to--though probably he did notthink it would--vex me horridly.

as bluntly as he could speak it, therefore,he told me that marianne dashwood was dying of a putrid fever at cleveland--a letterthat morning received from mrs. jennings declared her danger most imminent--the palmers are all gone off in a fright, &c.--i was too much shocked to be able to pass myself off as insensible even to theundiscerning sir john. his heart was softened in seeing minesuffer; and so much of his ill-will was done away, that when we parted, he almostshook me by the hand while he reminded me of an old promise about a pointer puppy. what i felt on hearing that your sister wasdying--and dying too, believing me the

greatest villain upon earth, scorning,hating me in her latest moments--for how could i tell what horrid projects might nothave been imputed? one person i was sure would represent me ascapable of any thing-- what i felt was dreadful!--my resolution was soon made, andat eight o'clock this morning i was in my carriage. now you know all."elinor made no answer. her thoughts were silently fixed on theirreparable injury which too early an independence and its consequent habits ofidleness, dissipation, and luxury, had made in the mind, the character, the happiness,

of a man who, to every advantage of personand talents, united a disposition naturally open and honest, and a feeling,affectionate temper. the world had made him extravagant andvain--extravagance and vanity had made him cold-hearted and selfish. vanity, while seeking its own guiltytriumph at the expense of another, had involved him in a real attachment, whichextravagance, or at least its offspring, necessity, had required to be sacrificed. each faulty propensity in leading him toevil, had led him likewise to punishment. the attachment, from which against honour,against feeling, against every better

interest he had outwardly torn himself,now, when no longer allowable, governed every thought; and the connection, for the sake of which he had, with little scruple,left her sister to misery, was likely to prove a source of unhappiness to himself ofa far more incurable nature. from a reverie of this kind she wasrecalled at the end of some minutes by willoughby, who, rousing himself from areverie at least equally painful, started up in preparation for going, and said-- "there is no use in staying here; i must beoff." "are you going back to town?""no--to combe magna.

i have business there; from thence to townin a day or two. good bye."he held out his hand. she could not refuse to give him hers;--hepressed it with affection. "and you do think something better of methan you did?"--said he, letting it fall, and leaning against the mantel-piece as ifforgetting he was to go. elinor assured him that she did;--that sheforgave, pitied, wished him well--was even interested in his happiness--and added somegentle counsel as to the behaviour most likely to promote it. his answer was not very encouraging."as to that," said he, "i must rub through

the world as well as i can.domestic happiness is out of the question. if, however, i am allowed to think that youand yours feel an interest in my fate and actions, it may be the means--it may put meon my guard--at least, it may be something to live for. marianne to be sure is lost to me for ever.were i even by any blessed chance at liberty again--"elinor stopped him with a reproof. "well,"--he replied--"once more good bye. i shall now go away and live in dread ofone event." "what do you mean?""your sister's marriage."

"you are very wrong. she can never be more lost to you than sheis now." "but she will be gained by some one else. and if that some one should be the very hewhom, of all others, i could least bear-- but i will not stay to rob myself of allyour compassionate goodwill, by shewing that where i have most injured i can leastforgive. good bye,--god bless you!"and with these words, he almost ran out of the room. chapter 45

elinor, for some time after he left her,for some time even after the sound of his carriage had died away, remained too muchoppressed by a crowd of ideas, widely differing in themselves, but of which sadness was the general result, to thinkeven of her sister. willoughby, he, whom only half an hour agoshe had abhorred as the most worthless of men, willoughby, in spite of all hisfaults, excited a degree of commiseration for the sufferings produced by them, which made her think of him as now separated forever from her family, with a tenderness, a regret, rather in proportion, as she soonacknowledged within herself--to his wishes

than to his merits. she felt that his influence over her mindwas heightened by circumstances which ought not in reason to have weight; by thatperson of uncommon attraction, that open, affectionate, and lively manner which it was no merit to possess; and by that stillardent love for marianne, which it was not even innocent to indulge.but she felt that it was so, long, long before she could feel his influence less. when at last she returned to theunconscious marianne, she found her just awaking, refreshed by so long and sweet asleep to the extent of her hopes.

elinor's heart was full. the past, the present, the future,willoughby's visit, marianne's safety, and her mother's expected arrival, threw heraltogether into an agitation of spirits which kept off every indication of fatigue, and made her only fearful of betrayingherself to her sister. short was the time, however, in which thatfear could affect her, for within half an hour after willoughby's leaving the house,she was again called down stairs by the sound of another carriage.--eager to save her mother from every unnecessary moment'shorrible suspense, she ran immediately into

the hall, and reached the outward door justin time to receive and support her as she entered it. mrs. dashwood, whose terror as they drewnear the house had produced almost the conviction of marianne's being no more, hadno voice to inquire after her, no voice even for elinor; but she, waiting neither for salutation nor inquiry, instantly gavethe joyful relief;--and her mother, catching it with all her usual warmth, wasin a moment as much overcome by her happiness, as she had been before by herfears. she was supported into the drawing-roombetween her daughter and her friend;--and

there, shedding tears of joy, though stillunable to speak, embraced elinor again and again, turning from her at intervals to press colonel brandon's hand, with a lookwhich spoke at once her gratitude, and her conviction of his sharing with herself inthe bliss of the moment. he shared it, however, in a silence evengreater than her own. as soon as mrs. dashwood had recoveredherself, to see marianne was her first desire; and in two minutes she was with herbeloved child, rendered dearer to her than ever by absence, unhappiness, and danger. elinor's delight, as she saw what each feltin the meeting, was only checked by an

apprehension of its robbing marianne offarther sleep;--but mrs. dashwood could be calm, could be even prudent, when the life of a child was at stake, and marianne,satisfied in knowing her mother was near her, and conscious of being too weak forconversation, submitted readily to the silence and quiet prescribed by every nursearound her. mrs. dashwood would sit up with her allnight; and elinor, in compliance with her mother's entreaty, went to bed. but the rest, which one night entirelysleepless, and many hours of the most wearing anxiety seemed to make requisite,was kept off by irritation of spirits.

willoughby, "poor willoughby," as she nowallowed herself to call him, was constantly in her thoughts; she would not but haveheard his vindication for the world, and now blamed, now acquitted herself forhaving judged him so harshly before. but her promise of relating it to hersister was invariably painful. she dreaded the performance of it, dreadedwhat its effect on marianne might be; doubted whether after such an explanationshe could ever be happy with another; and for a moment wished willoughby a widower. then, remembering colonel brandon, reprovedherself, felt that to his sufferings and his constancy far more than to his rival's,the reward of her sister was due, and

wished any thing rather than mrs.willoughby's death. the shock of colonel brandon's errand atbarton had been much softened to mrs. dashwood by her own previous alarm; for sogreat was her uneasiness about marianne, that she had already determined to set out for cleveland on that very day, withoutwaiting for any further intelligence, and had so far settled her journey before hisarrival, that the careys were then expected every moment to fetch margaret away, as her mother was unwilling to take her wherethere might be infection. marianne continued to mend every day, andthe brilliant cheerfulness of mrs.

dashwood's looks and spirits proved her tobe, as she repeatedly declared herself, one of the happiest women in the world. elinor could not hear the declaration, norwitness its proofs without sometimes wondering whether her mother everrecollected edward. but mrs. dashwood, trusting to thetemperate account of her own disappointment which elinor had sent her, was led away bythe exuberance of her joy to think only of what would increase it. marianne was restored to her from a dangerin which, as she now began to feel, her own mistaken judgment in encouraging theunfortunate attachment to willoughby, had

contributed to place her;--and in her recovery she had yet another source of joyunthought of by elinor. it was thus imparted to her, as soon as anyopportunity of private conference between them occurred. "at last we are alone.my elinor, you do not yet know all my happiness.colonel brandon loves marianne. he has told me so himself." her daughter, feeling by turns both pleasedand pained, surprised and not surprised, was all silent attention."you are never like me, dear elinor, or i

should wonder at your composure now. had i sat down to wish for any possiblegood to my family, i should have fixed on colonel brandon's marrying one of you asthe object most desirable. and i believe marianne will be the mosthappy with him of the two." elinor was half inclined to ask her reasonfor thinking so, because satisfied that none founded on an impartial considerationof their age, characters, or feelings, could be given;--but her mother must always be carried away by her imagination on anyinteresting subject, and therefore instead of an inquiry, she passed it off with asmile.

"he opened his whole heart to me yesterdayas we travelled. it came out quite unawares, quiteundesignedly. i, you may well believe, could talk ofnothing but my child;--he could not conceal his distress; i saw that it equalled myown, and he perhaps, thinking that mere friendship, as the world now goes, would not justify so warm a sympathy--or rather,not thinking at all, i suppose--giving way to irresistible feelings, made meacquainted with his earnest, tender, constant, affection for marianne. he has loved her, my elinor, ever since thefirst moment of seeing her."

here, however, elinor perceived,--not thelanguage, not the professions of colonel brandon, but the natural embellishments ofher mother's active fancy, which fashioned every thing delightful to her as it chose. "his regard for her, infinitely surpassinganything that willoughby ever felt or feigned, as much more warm, as more sincereor constant--which ever we are to call it-- has subsisted through all the knowledge of dear marianne's unhappy prepossession forthat worthless young man!--and without selfishness--without encouraging a hope!--could he have seen her happy with another-- such a noble mind!--such openness, suchsincerity!--no one can be deceived in him."

"colonel brandon's character," said elinor,"as an excellent man, is well established." "i know it is,"--replied her motherseriously, "or after such a warning, i should be the last to encourage suchaffection, or even to be pleased by it. but his coming for me as he did, with suchactive, such ready friendship, is enough to prove him one of the worthiest of men." "his character, however," answered elinor,"does not rest on one act of kindness, to which his affection for marianne, werehumanity out of the case, would have prompted him. to mrs. jennings, to the middletons, he hasbeen long and intimately known; they

equally love and respect him; and even myown knowledge of him, though lately acquired, is very considerable; and so highly do i value and esteem him, that ifmarianne can be happy with him, i shall be as ready as yourself to think ourconnection the greatest blessing to us in the world. what answer did you give him?--did youallow him to hope?" "oh! my love, i could not then talk of hopeto him or to myself. marianne might at that moment be dying. but he did not ask for hope orencouragement.

his was an involuntary confidence, anirrepressible effusion to a soothing friend--not an application to a parent. yet after a time i did say, for at first iwas quite overcome--that if she lived, as i trusted she might, my greatest happinesswould lie in promoting their marriage; and since our arrival, since our delightful security, i have repeated it to him morefully, have given him every encouragement in my power. time, a very little time, i tell him, willdo everything;--marianne's heart is not to be wasted for ever on such a man aswilloughby.-- his own merits must soon

secure it." "to judge from the colonel's spirits,however, you have not yet made him equally sanguine." "no.--he thinks marianne's affection toodeeply rooted for any change in it under a great length of time, and even supposingher heart again free, is too diffident of himself to believe, that with such a difference of age and disposition he couldever attach her. there, however, he is quite mistaken. his age is only so much beyond hers as tobe an advantage, as to make his character

and principles fixed;--and his disposition,i am well convinced, is exactly the very one to make your sister happy. and his person, his manners too, are all inhis favour. my partiality does not blind me; hecertainly is not so handsome as willoughby- -but at the same time, there is somethingmuch more pleasing in his countenance.-- there was always a something,--if you remember,--in willoughby's eyes at times,which i did not like." elinor could not remember it;--but hermother, without waiting for her assent, continued,

"and his manners, the colonel's manners arenot only more pleasing to me than willoughby's ever were, but they are of akind i well know to be more solidly attaching to marianne. their gentleness, their genuine attentionto other people, and their manly unstudied simplicity is much more accordant with herreal disposition, than the liveliness-- often artificial, and often ill-timed ofthe other. i am very sure myself, that had willoughbyturned out as really amiable, as he has proved himself the contrary, marianne wouldyet never have been so happy with him, as she will be with colonel brandon."

she paused.--her daughter could not quiteagree with her, but her dissent was not heard, and therefore gave no offence. "at delaford, she will be within an easydistance of me," added mrs. dashwood, "even if i remain at barton; and in allprobability,--for i hear it is a large village,--indeed there certainly must be some small house or cottage close by, thatwould suit us quite as well as our present situation." poor elinor!--here was a new scheme forgetting her to delaford!--but her spirit was stubborn.

"his fortune too!--for at my time of lifeyou know, everybody cares about that;--and though i neither know nor desire to know,what it really is, i am sure it must be a good one." here they were interrupted by the entranceof a third person, and elinor withdrew to think it all over in private, to wishsuccess to her friend, and yet in wishing it, to feel a pang for willoughby. chapter 46 marianne's illness, though weakening in itskind, had not been long enough to make her recovery slow; and with youth, naturalstrength, and her mother's presence in aid,

it proceeded so smoothly as to enable her to remove, within four days after thearrival of the latter, into mrs. palmer's dressing-room. when there, at her own particular request,for she was impatient to pour forth her thanks to him for fetching her mother,colonel brandon was invited to visit her. his emotion on entering the room, in seeingher altered looks, and in receiving the pale hand which she immediately held out tohim, was such, as, in elinor's conjecture, must arise from something more than his affection for marianne, or theconsciousness of its being known to others;

and she soon discovered in his melancholyeye and varying complexion as he looked at her sister, the probable recurrence of many past scenes of misery to his mind, broughtback by that resemblance between marianne and eliza already acknowledged, and nowstrengthened by the hollow eye, the sickly skin, the posture of reclining weakness, and the warm acknowledgment of peculiarobligation. mrs. dashwood, not less watchful of whatpassed than her daughter, but with a mind very differently influenced, and thereforewatching to very different effect, saw nothing in the colonel's behaviour but what

arose from the most simple and self-evidentsensations, while in the actions and words of marianne she persuaded herself to thinkthat something more than gratitude already dawned. at the end of another day or two, mariannegrowing visibly stronger every twelve hours, mrs. dashwood, urged equally by herown and her daughter's wishes, began to talk of removing to barton. on her measures depended those of her twofriends; mrs. jennings could not quit cleveland during the dashwoods' stay; andcolonel brandon was soon brought, by their united request, to consider his own abode

there as equally determinate, if notequally indispensable. at his and mrs. jennings's united requestin return, mrs. dashwood was prevailed on to accept the use of his carriage on herjourney back, for the better accommodation of her sick child; and the colonel, at the joint invitation of mrs. dashwood and mrs.jennings, whose active good-nature made her friendly and hospitable for other people aswell as herself, engaged with pleasure to redeem it by a visit at the cottage, in thecourse of a few weeks. the day of separation and departurearrived; and marianne, after taking so particular and lengthened a leave of mrs.jennings, one so earnestly grateful, so

full of respect and kind wishes as seemed due to her own heart from a secretacknowledgment of past inattention, and bidding colonel brandon farewell with acordiality of a friend, was carefully assisted by him into the carriage, of which he seemed anxious that she should engrossat least half. mrs. dashwood and elinor then followed, andthe others were left by themselves, to talk of the travellers, and feel their owndullness, till mrs. jennings was summoned to her chaise to take comfort in the gossip of her maid for the loss of her two youngcompanions; and colonel brandon immediately

afterwards took his solitary way todelaford. the dashwoods were two days on the road,and marianne bore her journey on both, without essential fatigue. every thing that the most zealousaffection, the most solicitous care could do to render her comfortable, was theoffice of each watchful companion, and each found their reward in her bodily ease, andher calmness of spirits. to elinor, the observation of the latterwas particularly grateful. she, who had seen her week after week soconstantly suffering, oppressed by anguish of heart which she had neither courage tospeak of, nor fortitude to conceal, now saw

with a joy, which no other could equally share, an apparent composure of mind,which, in being the result as she trusted of serious reflection, must eventually leadher to contentment and cheerfulness. as they approached barton, indeed, andentered on scenes of which every field and every tree brought some peculiar, somepainful recollection, she grew silent and thoughtful, and turning away her face from their notice, sat earnestly gazing throughthe window. but here, elinor could neither wonder norblame; and when she saw, as she assisted marianne from the carriage, that she hadbeen crying, she saw only an emotion too

natural in itself to raise any thing less tender than pity, and in itsunobtrusiveness entitled to praise. in the whole of her subsequent manner, shetraced the direction of a mind awakened to reasonable exertion; for no sooner had theyentered their common sitting-room, than marianne turned her eyes around it with a look of resolute firmness, as if determinedat once to accustom herself to the sight of every object with which the remembrance ofwilloughby could be connected.--she said little, but every sentence aimed at cheerfulness, and though a sigh sometimesescaped her, it never passed away without

the atonement of a smile.after dinner she would try her piano-forte. she went to it; but the music on which hereye first rested was an opera, procured for her by willoughby, containing some of theirfavourite duets, and bearing on its outward leaf her own name in his hand-writing.-- that would not do.--she shook her head, putthe music aside, and after running over the keys for a minute, complained of feeblenessin her fingers, and closed the instrument again; declaring however with firmness as she did so, that she should in futurepractice much. the next morning produced no abatement inthese happy symptoms.

on the contrary, with a mind and body alikestrengthened by rest, she looked and spoke with more genuine spirit, anticipating thepleasure of margaret's return, and talking of the dear family party which would then be restored, of their mutual pursuits andcheerful society, as the only happiness worth a wish. "when the weather is settled, and i haverecovered my strength," said she, "we will take long walks together every day. we will walk to the farm at the edge of thedown, and see how the children go on; we will walk to sir john's new plantations atbarton cross, and the abbeyland; and we

will often go the old ruins of the priory, and try to trace its foundations as far aswe are told they once reached. i know we shall be happy.i know the summer will pass happily away. i mean never to be later in rising thansix, and from that time till dinner i shall divide every moment between music andreading. i have formed my plan, and am determined toenter on a course of serious study. our own library is too well known to me, tobe resorted to for any thing beyond mere amusement. but there are many works well worth readingat the park; and there are others of more

modern production which i know i can borrowof colonel brandon. by reading only six hours a-day, i shallgain in the course of a twelve-month a great deal of instruction which i now feelmyself to want." elinor honoured her for a plan whichoriginated so nobly as this; though smiling to see the same eager fancy which had beenleading her to the extreme of languid indolence and selfish repining, now at work in introducing excess into a scheme of suchrational employment and virtuous self- control. her smile however changed to a sigh whenshe remembered that promise to willoughby

was yet unfulfilled, and feared she hadthat to communicate which might again unsettle the mind of marianne, and ruin at least for a time this fair prospect of busytranquillity. willing therefore to delay the evil hour,she resolved to wait till her sister's health were more secure, before sheappointed it. but the resolution was made only to bebroken. marianne had been two or three days athome, before the weather was fine enough for an invalid like herself to venture out. but at last a soft, genial morningappeared; such as might tempt the

daughter's wishes and the mother'sconfidence; and marianne, leaning on elinor's arm, was authorised to walk as long as she could without fatigue, in thelane before the house. the sisters set out at a pace, slow as thefeebleness of marianne in an exercise hitherto untried since her illnessrequired;--and they had advanced only so far beyond the house as to admit a full view of the hill, the important hillbehind, when pausing with her eyes turned towards it, marianne calmly said, "there, exactly there,"--pointing with onehand, "on that projecting mound,--there i

fell; and there i first saw willoughby."her voice sunk with the word, but presently reviving she added, "i am thankful to find that i can look withso little pain on the spot!--shall we ever talk on that subject, elinor?"--hesitatingly it was said.--"or will it be wrong?--i can talk of it now, i hope, as iought to do."-- elinor tenderly invited her to be open."as for regret," said marianne, "i have done with that, as far as he is concerned. i do not mean to talk to you of what myfeelings have been for him, but what they are now.--at present, if i could besatisfied on one point, if i could be

allowed to think that he was not always acting a part, not always deceiving me;--but above all, if i could be assured that he never was so very wicked as my fearshave sometimes fancied him, since the story of that unfortunate girl"-- she stopt.elinor joyfully treasured her words as she answered,"if you could be assured of that, you think you should be easy." "yes. my peace of mind is doubly involvedin it;--for not only is it horrible to suspect a person, who has been what he hasbeen to me, of such designs,--but what must

it make me appear to myself?--what in a situation like mine, but a most shamefullyunguarded affection could expose me to"-- "how then," asked her sister, "would youaccount for his behaviour?" "i would suppose him,--oh, how gladly wouldi suppose him, only fickle, very, very fickle."elinor said no more. she was debating within herself on theeligibility of beginning her story directly, or postponing it till mariannewere in stronger health;--and they crept on for a few minutes in silence. "i am not wishing him too much good," saidmarianne at last with a sigh, "when i wish

his secret reflections may be no moreunpleasant than my own. he will suffer enough in them." "do you compare your conduct with his?""no. i compare it with what it ought to have been; i compare it with yours.""our situations have borne little resemblance." "they have borne more than our conduct.--donot, my dearest elinor, let your kindness defend what i know your judgment mustcensure. my illness has made me think-- it has givenme leisure and calmness for serious recollection.long before i was enough recovered to talk,

i was perfectly able to reflect. i considered the past: i saw in my ownbehaviour, since the beginning of our acquaintance with him last autumn, nothingbut a series of imprudence towards myself, and want of kindness to others. i saw that my own feelings had prepared mysufferings, and that my want of fortitude under them had almost led me to the grave. my illness, i well knew, had been entirelybrought on by myself by such negligence of my own health, as i had felt even at thetime to be wrong. had i died,--it would have been self-destruction.

i did not know my danger till the dangerwas removed; but with such feelings as these reflections gave me, i wonder at myrecovery,--wonder that the very eagerness of my desire to live, to have time for atonement to my god, and to you all, didnot kill me at once. had i died,--in what peculiar misery shouldi have left you, my nurse, my friend, my sister!--you, who had seen all the fretfulselfishness of my latter days; who had known all the murmurings of my heart!--how should i have lived in your remembrance!--my mother too! how could you have consoled her!--i cannotexpress my own abhorrence of myself.

whenever i looked towards the past, i sawsome duty neglected, or some failing indulged.every body seemed injured by me. the kindness, the unceasing kindness ofmrs. jennings, i had repaid with ungrateful contempt. to the middletons, to the palmers, thesteeles, to every common acquaintance even, i had been insolent and unjust; with aheart hardened against their merits, and a temper irritated by their very attention.-- to john, to fanny,--yes, even to them,little as they deserve, i had given less than their due.but you,--you above all, above my mother,

had been wronged by me. i, and only i, knew your heart and itssorrows; yet to what did it influence me?-- not to any compassion that could benefityou or myself.--your example was before me; but to what avail?--was i more considerateof you and your comfort? did i imitate your forbearance, or lessenyour restraints, by taking any part in those offices of general complaisance orparticular gratitude which you had hitherto been left to discharge alone?--no;--not less when i knew you to be unhappy, thanwhen i had believed you at ease, did i turn away from every exertion of duty orfriendship; scarcely allowing sorrow to

exist but with me, regretting only that heart which had deserted and wronged me,and leaving you, for whom i professed an unbounded affection, to be miserable for mysake." here ceased the rapid flow of her self-reproving spirit; and elinor, impatient to soothe, though too honest to flatter, gaveher instantly that praise and support which her frankness and her contrition so welldeserved. marianne pressed her hand and replied,"you are very good.--the future must be my proof. i have laid down my plan, and if i amcapable of adhering to it--my feelings

shall be governed and my temper improved.they shall no longer worry others, nor torture myself. i shall now live solely for my family.you, my mother, and margaret, must henceforth be all the world to me; you willshare my affections entirely between you. from you, from my home, i shall never againhave the smallest incitement to move; and if i do mix in other society, it will beonly to shew that my spirit is humbled, my heart amended, and that i can practise the civilities, the lesser duties of life, withgentleness and forbearance. as for willoughby--to say that i shall soonor that i shall ever forget him, would be

idle. his remembrance can be overcome by nochange of circumstances or opinions. but it shall be regulated, it shall bechecked by religion, by reason, by constant employment." she paused--and added in a low voice, "if icould but know his heart, everything would become easy." elinor, who had now been for some timereflecting on the propriety or impropriety of speedily hazarding her narration,without feeling at all nearer decision than at first, heard this; and perceiving that

as reflection did nothing, resolution mustdo all, soon found herself leading to the fact. she managed the recital, as she hoped, withaddress; prepared her anxious listener with caution; related simply and honestly thechief points on which willoughby grounded his apology; did justice to his repentance, and softened only his protestations ofpresent regard. marianne said not a word.--she trembled,her eyes were fixed on the ground, and her lips became whiter than even sickness hadleft them. a thousand inquiries sprung up from herheart, but she dared not urge one.

she caught every syllable with pantingeagerness; her hand, unknowingly to herself, closely pressed her sister's, andtears covered her cheeks. elinor, dreading her being tired, led hertowards home; and till they reached the door of the cottage, easily conjecturingwhat her curiosity must be though no question was suffered to speak it, talked of nothing but willoughby, and theirconversation together; and was carefully minute in every particular of speech andlook, where minuteness could be safely indulged. as soon as they entered the house, mariannewith a kiss of gratitude and these two

words just articulate through her tears,"tell mama," withdrew from her sister and walked slowly up stairs. elinor would not attempt to disturb asolitude so reasonable as what she now sought; and with a mind anxiously pre-arranging its result, and a resolution of reviving the subject again, should marianne fail to do it, she turned into the parlourto fulfill her parting injunction. chapter 47 mrs. dashwood did not hear unmoved thevindication of her former favourite. she rejoiced in his being cleared from somepart of his imputed guilt;--she was sorry

for him;--she wished him happy. but the feelings of the past could not berecalled.--nothing could restore him with a faith unbroken--a character unblemished, tomarianne. nothing could do away the knowledge of whatthe latter had suffered through his means, nor remove the guilt of his conduct towardseliza. nothing could replace him, therefore, inher former esteem, nor injure the interests of colonel brandon. had mrs. dashwood, like her daughter, heardwilloughby's story from himself--had she witnessed his distress, and been under theinfluence of his countenance and his

manner, it is probable that her compassionwould have been greater. but it was neither in elinor's power, norin her wish, to rouse such feelings in another, by her retailed explanation, ashad at first been called forth in herself. reflection had given calmness to herjudgment, and sobered her own opinion of willoughby's deserts;--she wished,therefore, to declare only the simple truth, and lay open such facts as were really due to his character, without anyembellishment of tenderness to lead the fancy astray. in the evening, when they were all threetogether, marianne began voluntarily to

speak of him again;--but that it was notwithout an effort, the restless, unquiet thoughtfulness in which she had been for some time previously sitting--her risingcolour, as she spoke,--and her unsteady voice, plainly shewed. "i wish to assure you both," said she,"that i see every thing--as you can desire me to do." mrs. dashwood would have interrupted herinstantly with soothing tenderness, had not elinor, who really wished to hear hersister's unbiased opinion, by an eager sign, engaged her silence.

marianne slowly continued-- "it is a great relief to me--what elinortold me this morning--i have now heard exactly what i wished to hear."--for somemoments her voice was lost; but recovering herself, she added, and with greater calmness than before--"i am now perfectlysatisfied, i wish for no change. i never could have been happy with him,after knowing, as sooner or later i must have known, all this.--i should have had noconfidence, no esteem. nothing could have done it away to myfeelings." "i know it--i know it," cried her mother.

"happy with a man of libertine practices!--with one who so injured the peace of the dearest of our friends, and the best ofmen!--no--my marianne has not a heart to be made happy with such a man!--her conscience, her sensitive conscience, wouldhave felt all that the conscience of her husband ought to have felt."marianne sighed, and repeated, "i wish for no change." "you consider the matter," said elinor,"exactly as a good mind and a sound understanding must consider it; and i daresay you perceive, as well as myself, not only in this, but in many other

circumstances, reason enough to beconvinced that your marriage must have involved you in many certain troubles anddisappointments, in which you would have been poorly supported by an affection, onhis side, much less certain. had you married, you must have been alwayspoor. his expensiveness is acknowledged even byhimself, and his whole conduct declares that self-denial is a word hardlyunderstood by him. his demands and your inexperience together,on a small, very small income, must have brought on distresses which would not bethe less grievous to you, from having been entirely unknown and unthought of before.

your sense of honour and honesty would haveled you, i know, when aware of your situation, to attempt all the economy thatwould appear to you possible: and, perhaps, as long as your frugality retrenched only on your own comfort, you might have beensuffered to practice it, but beyond that-- and how little could the utmost of yoursingle management do to stop the ruin which had begun before your marriage?-- beyond that, had you endeavoured, howeverreasonably, to abridge his enjoyments, is it not to be feared, that instead ofprevailing on feelings so selfish to consent to it, you would have lessened your

own influence on his heart, and made himregret the connection which had involved him in such difficulties?" marianne's lips quivered, and she repeatedthe word "selfish?" in a tone that implied- -"do you really think him selfish?" "the whole of his behaviour," repliedelinor, "from the beginning to the end of the affair, has been grounded onselfishness. it was selfishness which first made himsport with your affections; which afterwards, when his own were engaged, madehim delay the confession of it, and which finally carried him from barton.

his own enjoyment, or his own ease, was, inevery particular, his ruling principle." "it is very true.my happiness never was his object." "at present," continued elinor, "he regretswhat he has done. and why does he regret it?--because hefinds it has not answered towards himself. it has not made him happy. his circumstances are now unembarrassed--hesuffers from no evil of that kind; and he thinks only that he has married a woman ofa less amiable temper than yourself. but does it follow that had he married you,he would have been happy?--the inconveniences would have been different.

he would then have suffered under thepecuniary distresses which, because they are removed, he now reckons as nothing. he would have had a wife of whose temper hecould make no complaint, but he would have been always necessitous--always poor; andprobably would soon have learned to rank the innumerable comforts of a clear estate and good income as of far more importance,even to domestic happiness, than the mere temper of a wife." "i have not a doubt of it," said marianne;"and i have nothing to regret--nothing but my own folly."

"rather say your mother's imprudence, mychild," said mrs. dashwood; "she must be answerable." marianne would not let her proceed;--andelinor, satisfied that each felt their own error, wished to avoid any survey of thepast that might weaken her sister's spirits; she, therefore, pursuing the firstsubject, immediately continued, "one observation may, i think, be fairlydrawn from the whole of the story--that all willoughby's difficulties have arisen fromthe first offence against virtue, in his behaviour to eliza williams. that crime has been the origin of everylesser one, and of all his present

discontents." marianne assented most feelingly to theremark; and her mother was led by it to an enumeration of colonel brandon's injuriesand merits, warm as friendship and design could unitedly dictate. her daughter did not look, however, as ifmuch of it were heard by her. elinor, according to her expectation, sawon the two or three following days, that marianne did not continue to gain strengthas she had done; but while her resolution was unsubdued, and she still tried to appear cheerful and easy, her sister couldsafely trust to the effect of time upon her

health. margaret returned, and the family wereagain all restored to each other, again quietly settled at the cottage; and if notpursuing their usual studies with quite so much vigour as when they first came to barton, at least planning a vigorousprosecution of them in future. elinor grew impatient for some tidings ofedward. she had heard nothing of him since herleaving london, nothing new of his plans, nothing certain even of his present abode. some letters had passed between her and herbrother, in consequence of marianne's

illness; and in the first of john's, therehad been this sentence:-- "we know nothing of our unfortunate edward, and can make no enquiries on so prohibited a subject, butconclude him to be still at oxford;" which was all the intelligence of edward affordedher by the correspondence, for his name was not even mentioned in any of the succeedingletters. she was not doomed, however, to be long inignorance of his measures. their man-servant had been sent one morningto exeter on business; and when, as he waited at table, he had satisfied theinquiries of his mistress as to the event of his errand, this was his voluntarycommunication--

"i suppose you know, ma'am, that mr.ferrars is married." marianne gave a violent start, fixed hereyes upon elinor, saw her turning pale, and fell back in her chair in hysterics. mrs. dashwood, whose eyes, as she answeredthe servant's inquiry, had intuitively taken the same direction, was shocked toperceive by elinor's countenance how much she really suffered, and a moment afterwards, alike distressed by marianne'ssituation, knew not on which child to bestow her principal attention. the servant, who saw only that missmarianne was taken ill, had sense enough to

call one of the maids, who, with mrs.dashwood's assistance, supported her into the other room. by that time, marianne was rather better,and her mother leaving her to the care of margaret and the maid, returned to elinor,who, though still much disordered, had so far recovered the use of her reason and voice as to be just beginning an inquiry ofthomas, as to the source of his intelligence. mrs. dashwood immediately took all thattrouble on herself; and elinor had the benefit of the information without theexertion of seeking it.

"who told you that mr. ferrars was married,thomas?" "i see mr. ferrars myself, ma'am, thismorning in exeter, and his lady too, miss steele as was. they was stopping in a chaise at the doorof the new london inn, as i went there with a message from sally at the park to herbrother, who is one of the post-boys. i happened to look up as i went by thechaise, and so i see directly it was the youngest miss steele; so i took off my hat,and she knew me and called to me, and inquired after you, ma'am, and the young ladies, especially miss marianne, and bidme i should give her compliments and mr.

ferrars's, their best compliments andservice, and how sorry they was they had not time to come on and see you, but they was in a great hurry to go forwards, forthey was going further down for a little while, but howsever, when they come back,they'd make sure to come and see you." "but did she tell you she was married,thomas?" "yes, ma'am.she smiled, and said how she had changed her name since she was in these parts. she was always a very affable and free-spoken young lady, and very civil behaved. so, i made free to wish her joy.""was mr. ferrars in the carriage with her?"

"yes, ma'am, i just see him leaning back init, but he did not look up;--he never was a gentleman much for talking." elinor's heart could easily account for hisnot putting himself forward; and mrs. dashwood probably found the sameexplanation. "was there no one else in the carriage?" "no, ma'am, only they two.""do you know where they came from?" "they come straight from town, as misslucy--mrs. ferrars told me." "and are they going farther westward?" "yes, ma'am--but not to bide long.they will soon be back again, and then

they'd be sure and call here."mrs. dashwood now looked at her daughter; but elinor knew better than to expect them. she recognised the whole of lucy in themessage, and was very confident that edward would never come near them. she observed in a low voice, to her mother,that they were probably going down to mr. pratt's, near plymouth.thomas's intelligence seemed over. elinor looked as if she wished to hearmore. "did you see them off, before you cameaway?" "no, ma'am--the horses were just comingout, but i could not bide any longer; i was

afraid of being late.""did mrs. ferrars look well?" "yes, ma'am, she said how she was verywell; and to my mind she was always a very handsome young lady--and she seemed vastlycontented." mrs. dashwood could think of no otherquestion, and thomas and the tablecloth, now alike needless, were soon afterwardsdismissed. marianne had already sent to say, that sheshould eat nothing more. mrs. dashwood's and elinor's appetites wereequally lost, and margaret might think herself very well off, that with so muchuneasiness as both her sisters had lately experienced, so much reason as they had

often had to be careless of their meals,she had never been obliged to go without her dinner before. when the dessert and the wine werearranged, and mrs. dashwood and elinor were left by themselves, they remained longtogether in a similarity of thoughtfulness and silence. mrs. dashwood feared to hazard any remark,and ventured not to offer consolation. she now found that she had erred in relyingon elinor's representation of herself; and justly concluded that every thing had beenexpressly softened at the time, to spare her from an increase of unhappiness,

suffering as she then had suffered formarianne. she found that she had been misled by thecareful, the considerate attention of her daughter, to think the attachment, whichonce she had so well understood, much slighter in reality, than she had been wont to believe, or than it was now proved tobe. she feared that under this persuasion shehad been unjust, inattentive, nay, almost unkind, to her elinor;--that marianne'saffliction, because more acknowledged, more immediately before her, had too much engrossed her tenderness, and led her awayto forget that in elinor she might have a

daughter suffering almost as much,certainly with less self-provocation, and greater fortitude. chapter 48 elinor now found the difference between theexpectation of an unpleasant event, however certain the mind may be told to considerit, and certainty itself. she now found, that in spite of herself,she had always admitted a hope, while edward remained single, that somethingwould occur to prevent his marrying lucy; that some resolution of his own, some mediation of friends, or some more eligibleopportunity of establishment for the lady,

would arise to assist the happiness of all. but he was now married; and she condemnedher heart for the lurking flattery, which so much heightened the pain of theintelligence. that he should be married soon, before (asshe imagined) he could be in orders, and consequently before he could be inpossession of the living, surprised her a little at first. but she soon saw how likely it was thatlucy, in her self-provident care, in her haste to secure him, should overlook everything but the risk of delay. they were married, married in town, and nowhastening down to her uncle's.

what had edward felt on being within fourmiles from barton, on seeing her mother's servant, on hearing lucy's message! they would soon, she supposed, be settledat delaford.--delaford,--that place in which so much conspired to give her aninterest; which she wished to be acquainted with, and yet desired to avoid. she saw them in an instant in theirparsonage-house; saw in lucy, the active, contriving manager, uniting at once adesire of smart appearance with the utmost frugality, and ashamed to be suspected of half her economical practices;--pursuingher own interest in every thought, courting

the favour of colonel brandon, of mrs.jennings, and of every wealthy friend. in edward--she knew not what she saw, norwhat she wished to see;--happy or unhappy -,-nothing pleased her; she turned away herhead from every sketch of him. elinor flattered herself that some one oftheir connections in london would write to them to announce the event, and givefarther particulars,--but day after day passed off, and brought no letter, notidings. though uncertain that any one were toblame, she found fault with every absent friend. they were all thoughtless or indolent."when do you write to colonel brandon,

ma'am?" was an inquiry which sprung fromthe impatience of her mind to have something going on. "i wrote to him, my love, last week, andrather expect to see, than to hear from him again. i earnestly pressed his coming to us, andshould not be surprised to see him walk in today or tomorrow, or any day."this was gaining something, something to look forward to. colonel brandon must have some informationto give. scarcely had she so determined it, when thefigure of a man on horseback drew her eyes

to the window. he stopt at their gate.it was a gentleman, it was colonel brandon himself.now she could hear more; and she trembled in expectation of it. but--it was not colonel brandon--neitherhis air--nor his height. were it possible, she must say it must beedward. she looked again. he had just dismounted;--she could not bemistaken,--it was edward. she moved away and sat down."he comes from mr. pratt's purposely to see

us. i will be calm; i will be mistress ofmyself." in a moment she perceived that the otherswere likewise aware of the mistake. she saw her mother and marianne changecolour; saw them look at herself, and whisper a few sentences to each other. she would have given the world to be ableto speak--and to make them understand that she hoped no coolness, no slight, wouldappear in their behaviour to him;--but she had no utterance, and was obliged to leaveall to their own discretion. not a syllable passed aloud.they all waited in silence for the

appearance of their visitor. his footsteps were heard along the gravelpath; in a moment he was in the passage, and in another he was before them.his countenance, as he entered the room, was not too happy, even for elinor. his complexion was white with agitation,and he looked as if fearful of his reception, and conscious that he merited nokind one. mrs. dashwood, however, conforming, as shetrusted, to the wishes of that daughter, by whom she then meant in the warmth of herheart to be guided in every thing, met with a look of forced complacency, gave him herhand, and wished him joy.

he coloured, and stammered out anunintelligible reply. elinor's lips had moved with her mother's,and, when the moment of action was over, she wished that she had shaken hands withhim too. but it was then too late, and with acountenance meaning to be open, she sat down again and talked of the weather. marianne had retreated as much as possibleout of sight, to conceal her distress; and margaret, understanding some part, but notthe whole of the case, thought it incumbent on her to be dignified, and therefore took a seat as far from him as she could, andmaintained a strict silence.

when elinor had ceased to rejoice in thedryness of the season, a very awful pause took place. it was put an end to by mrs. dashwood, whofelt obliged to hope that he had left mrs. ferrars very well.in a hurried manner, he replied in the affirmative. another pause.elinor resolving to exert herself, though fearing the sound of her own voice, nowsaid, "is mrs. ferrars at longstaple?" "at longstaple!" he replied, with an air ofsurprise.-- "no, my mother is in town."

"i meant," said elinor, taking up some workfrom the table, "to inquire for mrs. edward ferrars." she dared not look up;--but her mother andmarianne both turned their eyes on him. he coloured, seemed perplexed, lookeddoubtingly, and, after some hesitation, said,-- "perhaps you mean--my brother--you meanmrs.--mrs. robert ferrars." "mrs. robert ferrars!"--was repeated bymarianne and her mother in an accent of the utmost amazement;--and though elinor couldnot speak, even her eyes were fixed on him with the same impatient wonder.

he rose from his seat, and walked to thewindow, apparently from not knowing what to do; took up a pair of scissors that laythere, and while spoiling both them and their sheath by cutting the latter to pieces as he spoke, said, in a hurriedvoice, "perhaps you do not know--you may not haveheard that my brother is lately married to- -to the youngest--to miss lucy steele." his words were echoed with unspeakableastonishment by all but elinor, who sat with her head leaning over her work, in astate of such agitation as made her hardly know where she was.

"yes," said he, "they were married lastweek, and are now at dawlish." elinor could sit it no longer. she almost ran out of the room, and as soonas the door was closed, burst into tears of joy, which at first she thought would nevercease. edward, who had till then looked any where,rather than at her, saw her hurry away, and perhaps saw--or even heard, her emotion;for immediately afterwards he fell into a reverie, which no remarks, no inquiries, no affectionate address of mrs. dashwood couldpenetrate, and at last, without saying a word, quitted the room, and walked outtowards the village--leaving the others in

the greatest astonishment and perplexity on a change in his situation, so wonderful andso sudden;--a perplexity which they had no means of lessening but by their ownconjectures. chapter 49 unaccountable, however, as thecircumstances of his release might appear to the whole family, it was certain thatedward was free; and to what purpose that freedom would be employed was easily pre- determined by all;--for after experiencingthe blessings of one imprudent engagement, contracted without his mother's consent, ashe had already done for more than four

years, nothing less could be expected of him in the failure of that, than theimmediate contraction of another. his errand at barton, in fact, was a simpleone. it was only to ask elinor to marry him;--and considering that he was not altogether inexperienced in such a question, it mightbe strange that he should feel so uncomfortable in the present case as he really did, so much in need ofencouragement and fresh air. how soon he had walked himself into theproper resolution, however, how soon an opportunity of exercising it occurred, inwhat manner he expressed himself, and how

he was received, need not be particularlytold. this only need be said;--that when they allsat down to table at four o'clock, about three hours after his arrival, he hadsecured his lady, engaged her mother's consent, and was not only in the rapturous profession of the lover, but, in thereality of reason and truth, one of the happiest of men.his situation indeed was more than commonly joyful. he had more than the ordinary triumph ofaccepted love to swell his heart, and raise his spirits.

he was released without any reproach tohimself, from an entanglement which had long formed his misery, from a woman whomhe had long ceased to love;--and elevated at once to that security with another, which he must have thought of almost withdespair, as soon as he had learnt to consider it with desire. he was brought, not from doubt or suspense,but from misery to happiness;--and the change was openly spoken in such a genuine,flowing, grateful cheerfulness, as his friends had never witnessed in him before. his heart was now open to elinor, all itsweaknesses, all its errors confessed, and

his first boyish attachment to lucy treatedwith all the philosophic dignity of twenty- four. "it was a foolish, idle inclination on myside," said he, "the consequence of ignorance of the world--and want ofemployment. had my brother given me some activeprofession when i was removed at eighteen from the care of mr. pratt, i think--nay, iam sure, it would never have happened; for though i left longstaple with what i thought, at the time, a most unconquerablepreference for his niece, yet had i then had any pursuit, any object to engage mytime and keep me at a distance from her for

a few months, i should very soon have outgrown the fancied attachment, especiallyby mixing more with the world, as in such case i must have done. but instead of having any thing to do,instead of having any profession chosen for me, or being allowed to chuse any myself, ireturned home to be completely idle; and for the first twelvemonth afterwards i had not even the nominal employment, whichbelonging to the university would have given me; for i was not entered at oxfordtill i was nineteen. i had therefore nothing in the world to do,but to fancy myself in love; and as my

mother did not make my home in everyrespect comfortable, as i had no friend, no companion in my brother, and disliked new acquaintance, it was not unnatural for meto be very often at longstaple, where i always felt myself at home, and was alwayssure of a welcome; and accordingly i spent the greatest part of my time there from eighteen to nineteen: lucy appearedeverything that was amiable and obliging. she was pretty too--at least i thought sothen; and i had seen so little of other women, that i could make no comparisons,and see no defects. considering everything, therefore, i hope,foolish as our engagement was, foolish as

it has since in every way been proved, itwas not at the time an unnatural or an inexcusable piece of folly." the change which a few hours had wrought inthe minds and the happiness of the dashwoods, was such--so great--as promisedthem all, the satisfaction of a sleepless night. mrs. dashwood, too happy to be comfortable,knew not how to love edward, nor praise elinor enough, how to be enough thankfulfor his release without wounding his delicacy, nor how at once to give them leisure for unrestrained conversationtogether, and yet enjoy, as she wished, the

sight and society of both.marianne could speak her happiness only by tears. comparisons would occur--regrets wouldarise;--and her joy, though sincere as her love for her sister, was of a kind to giveher neither spirits nor language. but elinor--how are her feelings to bedescribed?--from the moment of learning that lucy was married to another, thatedward was free, to the moment of his justifying the hopes which had so instantly followed, she was every thing by turns buttranquil. but when the second moment had passed, whenshe found every doubt, every solicitude

removed, compared her situation with whatso lately it had been,--saw him honourably released from his former engagement, saw him instantly profiting by the release, toaddress herself and declare an affection as tender, as constant as she had eversupposed it to be,--she was oppressed, she was overcome by her own felicity;--and happily disposed as is the human mind to beeasily familiarized with any change for the better, it required several hours to givesedateness to her spirits, or any degree of tranquillity to her heart. edward was now fixed at the cottage atleast for a week;--for whatever other

claims might be made on him, it wasimpossible that less than a week should be given up to the enjoyment of elinor's company, or suffice to say half that was tobe said of the past, the present, and the future;--for though a very few hours spentin the hard labor of incessant talking will despatch more subjects than can really be in common between any two rationalcreatures, yet with lovers it is different. between them no subject is finished, nocommunication is even made, till it has been made at least twenty times over. lucy's marriage, the unceasing andreasonable wonder among them all, formed of

course one of the earliest discussions ofthe lovers;--and elinor's particular knowledge of each party made it appear to her in every view, as one of the mostextraordinary and unaccountable circumstances she had ever heard. how they could be thrown together, and bywhat attraction robert could be drawn on to marry a girl, of whose beauty she hadherself heard him speak without any admiration,--a girl too already engaged to his brother, and on whose account thatbrother had been thrown off by his family-- it was beyond her comprehension to makeout.

to her own heart it was a delightfulaffair, to her imagination it was even a ridiculous one, but to her reason, herjudgment, it was completely a puzzle. edward could only attempt an explanation bysupposing, that, perhaps, at first accidentally meeting, the vanity of the onehad been so worked on by the flattery of the other, as to lead by degrees to all therest. elinor remembered what robert had told herin harley street, of his opinion of what his own mediation in his brother's affairsmight have done, if applied to in time. she repeated it to edward. "that was exactly like robert,"--was hisimmediate observation.--"and that," he

presently added, "might perhaps be in hishead when the acquaintance between them first began. and lucy perhaps at first might think onlyof procuring his good offices in my favour. other designs might afterward arise." how long it had been carrying on betweenthem, however, he was equally at a loss with herself to make out; for at oxford,where he had remained for choice ever since his quitting london, he had had no means of hearing of her but from herself, and herletters to the very last were neither less frequent, nor less affectionate than usual.

not the smallest suspicion, therefore, hadever occurred to prepare him for what followed;--and when at last it burst on himin a letter from lucy herself, he had been for some time, he believed, half stupified between the wonder, the horror, and the joyof such a deliverance. he put the letter into elinor's hands. "dear sir, "being very sure i have long lost youraffections, i have thought myself at liberty to bestow my own on another, andhave no doubt of being as happy with him as i once used to think i might be with you;

but i scorn to accept a hand while theheart was another's. sincerely wish you happy in your choice,and it shall not be my fault if we are not always good friends, as our nearrelationship now makes proper. i can safely say i owe you no ill-will, andam sure you will be too generous to do us any ill offices. your brother has gained my affectionsentirely, and as we could not live without one another, we are just returned from thealtar, and are now on our way to dawlish for a few weeks, which place your dear brother has great curiosity to see, butthought i would first trouble you with

these few lines, and shall always remain,"your sincere well-wisher, friend, and sister, "lucy ferrars. "i have burnt all your letters, and willreturn your picture the first opportunity. please to destroy my scrawls--but the ringwith my hair you are very welcome to keep." elinor read and returned it without anycomment. "i will not ask your opinion of it as acomposition," said edward.--"for worlds would not i have had a letter of hers seenby you in former days.--in a sister it is bad enough, but in a wife!--how i have blushed over the pages of her writing!--andi believe i may say that since the first

half year of our foolish--business--this isthe only letter i ever received from her, of which the substance made me any amendsfor the defect of the style." "however it may have come about," saidelinor, after a pause,--"they are certainly married. and your mother has brought on herself amost appropriate punishment. the independence she settled on robert,through resentment against you, has put it in his power to make his own choice; andshe has actually been bribing one son with a thousand a-year, to do the very deed which she disinherited the other forintending to do.

she will hardly be less hurt, i suppose, byrobert's marrying lucy, than she would have been by your marrying her." "she will be more hurt by it, for robertalways was her favourite.--she will be more hurt by it, and on the same principle willforgive him much sooner." in what state the affair stood at presentbetween them, edward knew not, for no communication with any of his family hadyet been attempted by him. he had quitted oxford within four andtwenty hours after lucy's letter arrived, and with only one object before him, thenearest road to barton, had had no leisure to form any scheme of conduct, with which

that road did not hold the most intimateconnection. he could do nothing till he were assured ofhis fate with miss dashwood; and by his rapidity in seeking that fate, it is to besupposed, in spite of the jealousy with which he had once thought of colonel brandon, in spite of the modesty with whichhe rated his own deserts, and the politeness with which he talked of hisdoubts, he did not, upon the whole, expect a very cruel reception. it was his business, however, to say thathe did, and he said it very prettily. what he might say on the subject atwelvemonth after, must be referred to the

imagination of husbands and wives. that lucy had certainly meant to deceive,to go off with a flourish of malice against him in her message by thomas, was perfectlyclear to elinor; and edward himself, now thoroughly enlightened on her character, had no scruple in believing her capable ofthe utmost meanness of wanton ill-nature. though his eyes had been long opened, evenbefore his acquaintance with elinor began, to her ignorance and a want of liberalityin some of her opinions--they had been equally imputed, by him, to her want of education; and till her last letter reachedhim, he had always believed her to be a

well-disposed, good-hearted girl, andthoroughly attached to himself. nothing but such a persuasion could haveprevented his putting an end to an engagement, which, long before thediscovery of it laid him open to his mother's anger, had been a continual sourceof disquiet and regret to him. "i thought it my duty," said he,"independent of my feelings, to give her the option of continuing the engagement ornot, when i was renounced by my mother, and stood to all appearance without a friend inthe world to assist me. in such a situation as that, where thereseemed nothing to tempt the avarice or the vanity of any living creature, how could isuppose, when she so earnestly, so warmly

insisted on sharing my fate, whatever it might be, that any thing but the mostdisinterested affection was her inducement? and even now, i cannot comprehend on whatmotive she acted, or what fancied advantage it could be to her, to be fettered to a manfor whom she had not the smallest regard, and who had only two thousand pounds in theworld. she could not foresee that colonel brandonwould give me a living." "no; but she might suppose that somethingwould occur in your favour; that your own family might in time relent. and at any rate, she lost nothing bycontinuing the engagement, for she has

proved that it fettered neither herinclination nor her actions. the connection was certainly a respectableone, and probably gained her consideration among her friends; and, if nothing moreadvantageous occurred, it would be better for her to marry you than be single." edward was, of course, immediatelyconvinced that nothing could have been more natural than lucy's conduct, nor more self-evident than the motive of it. elinor scolded him, harshly as ladiesalways scold the imprudence which compliments themselves, for having spent somuch time with them at norland, when he must have felt his own inconstancy.

"your behaviour was certainly very wrong,"said she; "because--to say nothing of my own conviction, our relations were all ledaway by it to fancy and expect what, as you were then situated, could never be." he could only plead an ignorance of his ownheart, and a mistaken confidence in the force of his engagement. "i was simple enough to think, that becausemy faith was plighted to another, there could be no danger in my being with you;and that the consciousness of my engagement was to keep my heart as safe and sacred asmy honour. i felt that i admired you, but i toldmyself it was only friendship; and till i

began to make comparisons between yourselfand lucy, i did not know how far i was got. after that, i suppose, i was wrong inremaining so much in sussex, and the arguments with which i reconciled myself tothe expediency of it, were no better than these:--the danger is my own; i am doing noinjury to anybody but myself." elinor smiled, and shook her head. edward heard with pleasure of colonelbrandon's being expected at the cottage, as he really wished not only to be betteracquainted with him, but to have an opportunity of convincing him that he no longer resented his giving him the livingof delaford--"which, at present," said he,

"after thanks so ungraciously delivered asmine were on the occasion, he must think i have never forgiven him for offering." now he felt astonished himself that he hadnever yet been to the place. but so little interest had he taken in thematter, that he owed all his knowledge of the house, garden, and glebe, extent of theparish, condition of the land, and rate of the tithes, to elinor herself, who had heard so much of it from colonel brandon,and heard it with so much attention, as to be entirely mistress of the subject. one question after this only remainedundecided, between them, one difficulty

only was to be overcome. they were brought together by mutualaffection, with the warmest approbation of their real friends; their intimateknowledge of each other seemed to make their happiness certain--and they onlywanted something to live upon. edward had two thousand pounds, and elinorone, which, with delaford living, was all that they could call their own; for it wasimpossible that mrs. dashwood should advance anything; and they were neither of them quite enough in love to think thatthree hundred and fifty pounds a-year would supply them with the comforts of life.

edward was not entirely without hopes ofsome favourable change in his mother towards him; and on that he rested for theresidue of their income. but elinor had no such dependence; forsince edward would still be unable to marry miss morton, and his chusing herself hadbeen spoken of in mrs. ferrars's flattering language as only a lesser evil than his chusing lucy steele, she feared thatrobert's offence would serve no other purpose than to enrich fanny. about four days after edward's arrivalcolonel brandon appeared, to complete mrs. dashwood's satisfaction, and to give herthe dignity of having, for the first time

since her living at barton, more companywith her than her house would hold. edward was allowed to retain the privilegeof first comer, and colonel brandon therefore walked every night to his oldquarters at the park; from whence he usually returned in the morning, early enough to interrupt the lovers' first tete-a-tete before breakfast. a three weeks' residence at delaford,where, in his evening hours at least, he had little to do but to calculate thedisproportion between thirty-six and seventeen, brought him to barton in a temper of mind which needed all theimprovement in marianne's looks, all the

kindness of her welcome, and all theencouragement of her mother's language, to make it cheerful. among such friends, however, and suchflattery, he did revive. no rumour of lucy's marriage had yetreached him:--he knew nothing of what had passed; and the first hours of his visitwere consequently spent in hearing and in wondering. every thing was explained to him by mrs.dashwood, and he found fresh reason to rejoice in what he had done for mr.ferrars, since eventually it promoted the interest of elinor.

it would be needless to say, that thegentlemen advanced in the good opinion of each other, as they advanced in eachother's acquaintance, for it could not be otherwise. their resemblance in good principles andgood sense, in disposition and manner of thinking, would probably have beensufficient to unite them in friendship, without any other attraction; but their being in love with two sisters, and twosisters fond of each other, made that mutual regard inevitable and immediate,which might otherwise have waited the effect of time and judgment.

the letters from town, which a few daysbefore would have made every nerve in elinor's body thrill with transport, nowarrived to be read with less emotion than mirth. mrs. jennings wrote to tell the wonderfultale, to vent her honest indignation against the jilting girl, and pour forthher compassion towards poor mr. edward, who, she was sure, had quite doted upon the worthless hussy, and was now, by allaccounts, almost broken-hearted, at oxford.-- "i do think," she continued,"nothing was ever carried on so sly; for it was but two days before lucy called and sata couple of hours with me.

not a soul suspected anything of thematter, not even nancy, who, poor soul! came crying to me the day after, in a greatfright for fear of mrs. ferrars, as well as not knowing how to get to plymouth; for lucy it seems borrowed all her money beforeshe went off to be married, on purpose we suppose to make a show with, and poor nancyhad not seven shillings in the world;--so i was very glad to give her five guineas to take her down to exeter, where she thinksof staying three or four weeks with mrs. burgess, in hopes, as i tell her, to fallin with the doctor again. and i must say that lucy's crossness not totake them along with them in the chaise is

worse than all.poor mr. edward! i cannot get him out of my head, but youmust send for him to barton, and miss marianne must try to comfort him."mr. dashwood's strains were more solemn. mrs. ferrars was the most unfortunate ofwomen--poor fanny had suffered agonies of sensibility--and he considered theexistence of each, under such a blow, with grateful wonder. robert's offence was unpardonable, butlucy's was infinitely worse. neither of them were ever again to bementioned to mrs. ferrars; and even, if she might hereafter be induced to forgive herson, his wife should never be acknowledged

as her daughter, nor be permitted to appearin her presence. the secrecy with which everything had beencarried on between them, was rationally treated as enormously heightening thecrime, because, had any suspicion of it occurred to the others, proper measures would have been taken to prevent themarriage; and he called on elinor to join with him in regretting that lucy'sengagement with edward had not rather been fulfilled, than that she should thus be the means of spreading misery farther in thefamily.-- he thus continued: "mrs. ferrars has never yet mentionededward's name, which does not surprise us;

but, to our great astonishment, not a linehas been received from him on the occasion. perhaps, however, he is kept silent by hisfear of offending, and i shall, therefore, give him a hint, by a line to oxford, thathis sister and i both think a letter of proper submission from him, addressed perhaps to fanny, and by her shewn to hermother, might not be taken amiss; for we all know the tenderness of mrs. ferrars'sheart, and that she wishes for nothing so much as to be on good terms with herchildren." this paragraph was of some importance tothe prospects and conduct of edward. it determined him to attempt areconciliation, though not exactly in the

manner pointed out by their brother andsister. "a letter of proper submission!" repeatedhe; "would they have me beg my mother's pardon for robert's ingratitude to her, andbreach of honour to me?--i can make no submission--i am grown neither humble nor penitent by what has passed.--i am grownvery happy; but that would not interest.--i know of no submission that is proper for meto make." "you may certainly ask to be forgiven,"said elinor, "because you have offended;-- and i should think you might now venture sofar as to profess some concern for having ever formed the engagement which drew onyou your mother's anger."

he agreed that he might. "and when she has forgiven you, perhaps alittle humility may be convenient while acknowledging a second engagement, almostas imprudent in her eyes as the first." he had nothing to urge against it, butstill resisted the idea of a letter of proper submission; and therefore, to makeit easier to him, as he declared a much greater willingness to make mean concessions by word of mouth than on paper,it was resolved that, instead of writing to fanny, he should go to london, andpersonally intreat her good offices in his favour.-- "and if they really do interest

themselves," said marianne, in her newcharacter of candour, "in bringing about a reconciliation, i shall think that evenjohn and fanny are not entirely without merit." after a visit on colonel brandon's side ofonly three or four days, the two gentlemen quitted barton together.-- they were to goimmediately to delaford, that edward might have some personal knowledge of his future home, and assist his patron and friend indeciding on what improvements were needed to it; and from thence, after staying therea couple of nights, he was to proceed on his journey to town.

chapter 50 after a proper resistance on the part ofmrs. ferrars, just so violent and so steady as to preserve her from that reproach whichshe always seemed fearful of incurring, the reproach of being too amiable, edward was admitted to her presence, and pronounced tobe again her son. her family had of late been exceedinglyfluctuating. for many years of her life she had had twosons; but the crime and annihilation of edward a few weeks ago, had robbed her ofone; the similar annihilation of robert had left her for a fortnight without any; and

now, by the resuscitation of edward, shehad one again. in spite of his being allowed once more tolive, however, he did not feel the continuance of his existence secure, tillhe had revealed his present engagement; for the publication of that circumstance, he feared, might give a sudden turn to hisconstitution, and carry him off as rapidly as before. with apprehensive caution therefore it wasrevealed, and he was listened to with unexpected calmness. mrs. ferrars at first reasonablyendeavoured to dissuade him from marrying

miss dashwood, by every argument in herpower;--told him, that in miss morton he would have a woman of higher rank and larger fortune;--and enforced theassertion, by observing that miss morton was the daughter of a nobleman with thirtythousand pounds, while miss dashwood was only the daughter of a private gentleman with no more than three; but when she foundthat, though perfectly admitting the truth of her representation, he was by no meansinclined to be guided by it, she judged it wisest, from the experience of the past, to submit--and therefore, after such anungracious delay as she owed to her own

dignity, and as served to prevent everysuspicion of good-will, she issued her decree of consent to the marriage of edwardand elinor. what she would engage to do towardsaugmenting their income was next to be considered; and here it plainly appeared,that though edward was now her only son, he was by no means her eldest; for while robert was inevitably endowed with athousand pounds a-year, not the smallest objection was made against edward's takingorders for the sake of two hundred and fifty at the utmost; nor was anything promised either for the present or infuture, beyond the ten thousand pounds,

which had been given with fanny. it was as much, however, as was desired,and more than was expected, by edward and elinor; and mrs. ferrars herself, by hershuffling excuses, seemed the only person surprised at her not giving more. with an income quite sufficient to theirwants thus secured to them, they had nothing to wait for after edward was inpossession of the living, but the readiness of the house, to which colonel brandon, with an eager desire for the accommodationof elinor, was making considerable improvements; and after waiting some timefor their completion, after experiencing,

as usual, a thousand disappointments and delays from the unaccountable dilatorinessof the workmen, elinor, as usual, broke through the first positive resolution ofnot marrying till every thing was ready, and the ceremony took place in bartonchurch early in the autumn. the first month after their marriage wasspent with their friend at the mansion- house; from whence they could superintendthe progress of the parsonage, and direct every thing as they liked on the spot;-- could chuse papers, project shrubberies,and invent a sweep. mrs. jennings's prophecies, though ratherjumbled together, were chiefly fulfilled;

for she was able to visit edward and hiswife in their parsonage by michaelmas, and she found in elinor and her husband, as she really believed, one of the happiestcouples in the world. they had in fact nothing to wish for, butthe marriage of colonel brandon and marianne, and rather better pasturage fortheir cows. they were visited on their first settlingby almost all their relations and friends. mrs. ferrars came to inspect the happinesswhich she was almost ashamed of having authorised; and even the dashwoods were atthe expense of a journey from sussex to do them honour.

"i will not say that i am disappointed, mydear sister," said john, as they were walking together one morning before thegates of delaford house, "that would be saying too much, for certainly you have been one of the most fortunate young womenin the world, as it is. but, i confess, it would give me greatpleasure to call colonel brandon brother. his property here, his place, his house,every thing is in such respectable and excellent condition!--and his woods!--ihave not seen such timber any where in dorsetshire, as there is now standing in delaford hanger!--and though, perhaps,marianne may not seem exactly the person to

attract him--yet i think it wouldaltogether be advisable for you to have them now frequently staying with you, for as colonel brandon seems a great deal athome, nobody can tell what may happen--for, when people are much thrown together, andsee little of anybody else--and it will always be in your power to set her off to advantage, and so forth;--in short, you mayas well give her a chance--you understand me."-- but though mrs. ferrars did come to seethem, and always treated them with the make-believe of decent affection, they werenever insulted by her real favour and

preference. that was due to the folly of robert, andthe cunning of his wife; and it was earned by them before many months had passed away. the selfish sagacity of the latter, whichhad at first drawn robert into the scrape, was the principal instrument of hisdeliverance from it; for her respectful humility, assiduous attentions, and endless flatteries, as soon as the smallest openingwas given for their exercise, reconciled mrs. ferrars to his choice, and re-established him completely in her favour. the whole of lucy's behaviour in theaffair, and the prosperity which crowned

it, therefore, may be held forth as a mostencouraging instance of what an earnest, an unceasing attention to self-interest, however its progress may be apparentlyobstructed, will do in securing every advantage of fortune, with no othersacrifice than that of time and conscience. when robert first sought her acquaintance,and privately visited her in bartlett's buildings, it was only with the viewimputed to him by his brother. he merely meant to persuade her to give upthe engagement; and as there could be nothing to overcome but the affection ofboth, he naturally expected that one or two interviews would settle the matter.

in that point, however, and that only, heerred;--for though lucy soon gave him hopes that his eloquence would convince her intime, another visit, another conversation, was always wanted to produce thisconviction. some doubts always lingered in her mindwhen they parted, which could only be removed by another half hour's discoursewith himself. his attendance was by this means secured,and the rest followed in course. instead of talking of edward, they camegradually to talk only of robert,--a subject on which he had always more to saythan on any other, and in which she soon betrayed an interest even equal to his own;

and in short, it became speedily evident toboth, that he had entirely supplanted his brother. he was proud of his conquest, proud oftricking edward, and very proud of marrying privately without his mother's consent.what immediately followed is known. they passed some months in great happinessat dawlish; for she had many relations and old acquaintances to cut--and he drewseveral plans for magnificent cottages;-- and from thence returning to town, procured the forgiveness of mrs. ferrars, by thesimple expedient of asking it, which, at lucy's instigation, was adopted.

the forgiveness, at first, indeed, as wasreasonable, comprehended only robert; and lucy, who had owed his mother no duty andtherefore could have transgressed none, still remained some weeks longerunpardoned. but perseverance in humility of conduct andmessages, in self-condemnation for robert's offence, and gratitude for the unkindnessshe was treated with, procured her in time the haughty notice which overcame her by its graciousness, and led soon afterwards,by rapid degrees, to the highest state of affection and influence. lucy became as necessary to mrs. ferrars,as either robert or fanny; and while edward

was never cordially forgiven for havingonce intended to marry her, and elinor, though superior to her in fortune and birth, was spoken of as an intruder, shewas in every thing considered, and always openly acknowledged, to be a favouritechild. they settled in town, received very liberalassistance from mrs. ferrars, were on the best terms imaginable with the dashwoods;and setting aside the jealousies and ill- will continually subsisting between fanny and lucy, in which their husbands of coursetook a part, as well as the frequent domestic disagreements between robert andlucy themselves, nothing could exceed the

harmony in which they all lived together. what edward had done to forfeit the rightof eldest son, might have puzzled many people to find out; and what robert haddone to succeed to it, might have puzzled them still more. it was an arrangement, however, justifiedin its effects, if not in its cause; for nothing ever appeared in robert's style ofliving or of talking to give a suspicion of his regretting the extent of his income, as either leaving his brother too little, orbringing himself too much;--and if edward might be judged from the ready discharge ofhis duties in every particular, from an

increasing attachment to his wife and his home, and from the regular cheerfulness ofhis spirits, he might be supposed no less contented with his lot, no less free fromevery wish of an exchange. elinor's marriage divided her as littlefrom her family as could well be contrived, without rendering the cottage at bartonentirely useless, for her mother and sisters spent much more than half theirtime with her. mrs. dashwood was acting on motives ofpolicy as well as pleasure in the frequency of her visits at delaford; for her wish ofbringing marianne and colonel brandon together was hardly less earnest, though

rather more liberal than what john hadexpressed. it was now her darling object. precious as was the company of her daughterto her, she desired nothing so much as to give up its constant enjoyment to hervalued friend; and to see marianne settled at the mansion-house was equally the wishof edward and elinor. they each felt his sorrows, and their ownobligations, and marianne, by general consent, was to be the reward of all. with such a confederacy against her--with aknowledge so intimate of his goodness--with a conviction of his fond attachment toherself, which at last, though long after

it was observable to everybody else--burston her--what could she do? marianne dashwood was born to anextraordinary fate. she was born to discover the falsehood ofher own opinions, and to counteract, by her conduct, her most favourite maxims. she was born to overcome an affectionformed so late in life as at seventeen, and with no sentiment superior to strong esteemand lively friendship, voluntarily to give her hand to another!--and that other, a man who had suffered no less than herself underthe event of a former attachment, whom, two years before, she had considered too old tobe married,--and who still sought the

constitutional safeguard of a flannelwaistcoat! but so it was. instead of falling a sacrifice to anirresistible passion, as once she had fondly flattered herself with expecting,--instead of remaining even for ever with her mother, and finding her only pleasures in retirement and study, as afterwards in hermore calm and sober judgment she had determined on,--she found herself atnineteen, submitting to new attachments, entering on new duties, placed in a new home, a wife, the mistress of a family, andthe patroness of a village.

colonel brandon was now as happy, as allthose who best loved him, believed he deserved to be;--in marianne he wasconsoled for every past affliction;--her regard and her society restored his mind to animation, and his spirits to cheerfulness;and that marianne found her own happiness in forming his, was equally the persuasionand delight of each observing friend. marianne could never love by halves; andher whole heart became, in time, as much devoted to her husband, as it had once beento willoughby. willoughby could not hear of her marriagewithout a pang; and his punishment was soon afterwards complete in the voluntaryforgiveness of mrs. smith, who, by stating

his marriage with a woman of character, as the source of her clemency, gave him reasonfor believing that had he behaved with honour towards marianne, he might at oncehave been happy and rich. that his repentance of misconduct, whichthus brought its own punishment, was sincere, need not be doubted;--nor that helong thought of colonel brandon with envy, and of marianne with regret. but that he was for ever inconsolable, thathe fled from society, or contracted an habitual gloom of temper, or died of abroken heart, must not be depended on--for he did neither.

he lived to exert, and frequently to enjoyhimself. his wife was not always out of humour, norhis home always uncomfortable; and in his breed of horses and dogs, and in sportingof every kind, he found no inconsiderable degree of domestic felicity. for marianne, however--in spite of hisincivility in surviving her loss--he always retained that decided regard whichinterested him in every thing that befell her, and made her his secret standard of perfection in woman;--and many a risingbeauty would be slighted by him in after- days as bearing no comparison with mrs.brandon.

mrs. dashwood was prudent enough to remainat the cottage, without attempting a removal to delaford; and fortunately forsir john and mrs. jennings, when marianne was taken from them, margaret had reached an age highly suitable for dancing, and notvery ineligible for being supposed to have a lover. between barton and delaford, there was thatconstant communication which strong family affection would naturally dictate;--andamong the merits and the happiness of elinor and marianne, let it not be ranked as the least considerable, that thoughsisters, and living almost within sight of

each other, they could live withoutdisagreement between themselves, or producing coolness between their husbands. the end

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