LongBench v2 / 66ecfdbd821e116aacb1e3f7 / How is Eliza Williams related to Colonel Brandon?

Sense and Sensibility
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Chapter 1
T
he family of Dashwood had long been settled in Sussex. 
Their estate was large, and their residence was at Nor-
land Park, in the centre of their property, where, for many 
generations, they had lived in so respectable a manner as to 
engage the general good opinion of their surrounding ac-
quaintance. The late owner of this estate was a single man, 
who lived to a very advanced age, and who for many years of 
his life, had a constant companion and housekeeper in his 
sister. But her death, which happened ten years before his 
own, produced a great alteration in his home; for to supply 
her loss, he invited and received into his house the family of 
his nephew Mr. Henry Dashwood, the legal inheritor of the 
Norland estate, and the person to whom he intended to be-
queath it. In the society of his nephew and niece, and their 
children, the old Gentleman’s days were comfortably spent. 
His attachment to them all increased. The constant atten-
tion of Mr. and Mrs. Henry Dashwood to his wishes, which 
proceeded not merely from interest, but from goodness of 
heart, gave him every degree of solid comfort which his age 
could receive; and the cheerfulness of the children added a 
relish to his existence.
By a former marriage, Mr. Henry Dashwood had one 
son: by his present lady, three daughters. The son, a steady 
respectable young man, was amply provided for by the for-


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tune of his mother, which had been large, and half of which 
devolved on him on his coming of age. By his own marriage, 
likewise, which happened soon afterwards, he added to his 
wealth. To him therefore the succession to the Norland es-
tate was not so really important as to his sisters; for their 
fortune, independent of what might arise to them from their 
father’s inheriting that property, could be but small. Their 
mother had nothing, and their father only seven thousand 
pounds in his own disposal; for the remaining moiety of his 
first wife’s fortune was also secured to her child, and he had 
only a life-interest in it.
The old gentleman died: his will was read, and like al-
most every other will, gave as much disappointment as 
pleasure. He was neither so unjust, nor so ungrateful, as to 
leave his estate from his nephew;—but he left it to him on 
such terms as destroyed half the value of the bequest. Mr. 
Dashwood had wished for it more for the sake of his wife 
and daughters than for himself or his son;—but to his son, 
and his son’s son, a child of four years old, it was secured, 
in such a way, as to leave to himself no power of providing 
for those who were most dear to him, and who most needed 
a provision by any charge on the estate, or by any sale of its 
valuable woods. The whole was tied up for the benefit of this 
child, who, in occasional visits with his father and mother at 
Norland, had so far gained on the affections of his uncle, by 
such attractions as are by no means unusual in children of 
two or three years old; an imperfect articulation, an earnest 
desire of having his own way, many cunning tricks, and a 
great deal of noise, as to outweigh all the value of all the at-


Sense and Sensibility
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tention which, for years, he had received from his niece and 
her daughters. He meant not to be unkind, however, and, 
as a mark of his affection for the three girls, he left them a 
thousand pounds a-piece.
Mr. Dashwood’s disappointment was, at first, severe; but 
his temper was cheerful and sanguine; and he might reason-
ably hope to live many years, and by living economically, lay 
by a considerable sum from the produce of an estate already 
large, and capable of almost immediate improvement. But 
the fortune, which had been so tardy in coming, was his 
only one twelvemonth. He survived his uncle no longer; 
and ten thousand pounds, including the late legacies, was 
all that remained for his widow and daughters.
His son was sent for as soon as his danger was known, 
and to him Mr. Dashwood recommended, with all the 
strength and urgency which illness could command, the 
interest of his mother-in-law and sisters.
Mr. John Dashwood had not the strong feelings of the 
rest of the family; but he was affected by a recommenda-
tion of such a nature at such a time, and he promised to do 
every thing in his power to make them comfortable. His fa-
ther was rendered easy by such an assurance, and Mr. John 
Dashwood had then leisure to consider how much there 
might prudently be in his power to do for them.
He was not an ill-disposed young man, unless to be rath-
er cold hearted and rather selfish is to be ill-disposed: but 
he was, in general, well respected; for he conducted himself 
with propriety in the discharge of his ordinary duties. Had 
he married a more amiable woman, he might have been 


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made still more respectable than he was:—he might even 
have been made amiable himself; for he was very young 
when he married, and very fond of his wife. But Mrs. John 
Dashwood was a strong caricature of himself;— more nar-
row-minded and selfish.
When he gave his promise to his father, he meditated 
within himself to increase the fortunes of his sisters by the 
present of a thousand pounds a-piece. He then really thought 
himself equal to it. The prospect of four thousand a-year, in 
addition to his present income, besides the remaining half 
of his own mother’s fortune, warmed his heart, and made 
him feel capable of generosity.— ‘Yes, he would give them 
three thousand pounds: it would be liberal and handsome! 
It would be enough to make them completely easy. Three 
thousand pounds! he could spare so considerable a sum 
with little inconvenience.’— He thought of it all day long, 
and for many days successively, and he did not repent.
No sooner was his father’s funeral over, than Mrs. John 
Dashwood, without sending any notice of her intention to 
her mother-in-law, arrived with her child and their atten-
dants. No one could dispute her right to come; the house 
was her husband’s from the moment of his father’s decease; 
but the indelicacy of her conduct was so much the greater, 
and to a woman in Mrs. Dashwood’s situation, with only 
common feelings, must have been highly unpleasing;— but 
in HER mind there was a sense of honor so keen, a generosi-
ty so romantic, that any offence of the kind, by whomsoever 
given or received, was to her a source of immoveable dis-
gust. Mrs. John Dashwood had never been a favourite with 


Sense and Sensibility
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any of her husband’s family; but she had had no opportuni-
ty, till the present, of shewing them with how little attention 
to the comfort of other people she could act when occasion 
required it.
So acutely did Mrs. Dashwood feel this ungracious 
behaviour, and so earnestly did she despise her daughter-
in-law for it, that, on the arrival of the latter, she would have 
quitted the house for ever, had not the entreaty of her eldest 
girl induced her first to reflect on the propriety of going, 
and her own tender love for all her three children deter-
mined her afterwards to stay, and for their sakes avoid a 
breach with their brother.
Elinor, this eldest daughter, whose advice was so effec-
tual, possessed a strength of understanding, and coolness 
of judgment, which qualified her, though only nineteen, to 
be the counsellor of her mother, and enabled her frequently 
to counteract, to the advantage of them all, that eagerness 
of mind in Mrs. Dashwood which must generally have led 
to imprudence. She had an excellent heart;—her disposition 
was affectionate, and her feelings were strong; but she knew 
how to govern them: it was a knowledge which her mother 
had yet to learn; and which one of her sisters had resolved 
never to be taught.
Marianne’s abilities were, in many respects, quite equal 
to Elinor’s. She was sensible and clever; but eager in every-
thing: her sorrows, her joys, could have no moderation. She 
was generous, amiable, interesting: she was everything but 
prudent. The resemblance between her and her mother was 
strikingly great.


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Elinor saw, with concern, the excess of her sister’s sensi-
bility; but by Mrs. Dashwood it was valued and cherished. 
They encouraged each other now in the violence of their af-
fliction. The agony of grief which overpowered them at first, 
was voluntarily renewed, was sought for, was created again 
and again. They gave themselves up wholly to their sorrow, 
seeking increase of wretchedness in every reflection that 
could afford it, and resolved against ever admitting conso-
lation in future. Elinor, too, was deeply afflicted; but still she 
could struggle, she could exert herself. She could consult 
with her brother, could receive her sister-in-law on her ar-
rival, and treat her with proper attention; and could strive 
to rouse her mother to similar exertion, and encourage her 
to similar forbearance.
Margaret, the other sister, was a good-humored, well-
disposed girl; but as she had already imbibed a good deal 
of Marianne’s romance, without having much of her sense, 
she did not, at thirteen, bid fair to equal her sisters at a more 
advanced period of life.


Sense and Sensibility
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Chapter 2
M
rs. John Dashwood now installed herself mistress of 
Norland; and her mother and sisters-in-law were de-
graded to the condition of visitors. As such, however, they 
were treated by her with quiet civility; and by her husband 
with as much kindness as he could feel towards anybody 
beyond himself, his wife, and their child. He really pressed 
them, with some earnestness, to consider Norland as their 
home; and, as no plan appeared so eligible to Mrs. Dash-
wood as remaining there till she could accommodate herself 
with a house in the neighbourhood, his invitation was ac-
cepted.
A continuance in a place where everything reminded 
her of former delight, was exactly what suited her mind. In 
seasons of cheerfulness, no temper could be more cheer-
ful than hers, or possess, in a greater degree, that sanguine 
expectation of happiness which is happiness itself. But in 
sorrow she must be equally carried away by her fancy, and 
as far beyond consolation as in pleasure she was beyond al-
loy.
Mrs. John Dashwood did not at all approve of what her 
husband intended to do for his sisters. To take three thou-
sand pounds from the fortune of their dear little boy would 
be impoverishing him to the most dreadful degree. She 
begged him to think again on the subject. How could he 


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answer it to himself to rob his child, and his only child too, 
of so large a sum? And what possible claim could the Miss 
Dashwoods, who were related to him only by half blood, 
which she considered as no relationship at all, have on his 
generosity to so large an amount. It was very well known 
that no affection was ever supposed to exist between the 
children of any man by different marriages; and why was he 
to ruin himself, and their poor little Harry, by giving away 
all his money to his half sisters?
‘It was my father’s last request to me,’ replied her hus-
band, ‘that I should assist his widow and daughters.’
‘He did not know what he was talking of, I dare say; ten 
to one but he was light-headed at the time. Had he been in 
his right senses, he could not have thought of such a thing 
as begging you to give away half your fortune from your 
own child.’
‘He did not stipulate for any particular sum, my dear 
Fanny; he only requested me, in general terms, to assist 
them, and make their situation more comfortable than it 
was in his power to do. Perhaps it would have been as well 
if he had left it wholly to myself. He could hardly suppose 
I should neglect them. But as he required the promise, I 
could not do less than give it; at least I thought so at the 
time. The promise, therefore, was given, and must be per-
formed. Something must be done for them whenever they 
leave Norland and settle in a new home.’
‘Well, then, LET something be done for them; but THAT 
something need not be three thousand pounds. Consider,’ 
she added, ‘that when the money is once parted with, it nev-


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10
er can return. Your sisters will marry, and it will be gone 
for ever. If, indeed, it could be restored to our poor little 
boy—‘
‘Why, to be sure,’ said her husband, very gravely, ‘that 
would make great difference. The time may come when 
Harry will regret that so large a sum was parted with. If he 
should have a numerous family, for instance, it would be a 
very convenient addition.’
‘To be sure it would.’
‘Perhaps, then, it would be better for all parties, if the 
sum were diminished one half.—Five hundred pounds 
would be a prodigious increase to their fortunes!’
‘Oh! beyond anything great! What brother on earth 
would do half so much for his sisters, even if REALLY his 
sisters! And as it is—only half blood!—But you have such a 
generous spirit!’
‘I would not wish to do any thing mean,’ he replied. ‘One 
had rather, on such occasions, do too much than too little. 
No one, at least, can think I have not done enough for them: 
even themselves, they can hardly expect more.’
‘There is no knowing what THEY may expect,’ said the 
lady, ‘but we are not to think of their expectations: the ques-
tion is, what you can afford to do.’
‘Certainly—and I think I may afford to give them five 
hundred pounds a-piece. As it is, without any addition of 
mine, they will each have about three thousand pounds on 
their mother’s death—a very comfortable fortune for any 
young woman.’
‘To be sure it is; and, indeed, it strikes me that they can 


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want no addition at all. They will have ten thousand pounds 
divided amongst them. If they marry, they will be sure of 
doing well, and if they do not, they may all live very com-
fortably together on the interest of ten thousand pounds.’
‘That is very true, and, therefore, I do not know wheth-
er, upon the whole, it would not be more advisable to do 
something for their mother while she lives, rather than for 
them—something of the annuity kind I mean.—My sisters 
would feel the good effects of it as well as herself. A hundred 
a year would make them all perfectly comfortable.’
His wife hesitated a little, however, in giving her consent 
to this plan.
‘To be sure,’ said she, ‘it is better than parting with fif-
teen hundred pounds at once. But, then, if Mrs. Dashwood 
should live fifteen years we shall be completely taken in.’
‘Fifteen years! my dear Fanny; her life cannot be worth 
half that purchase.’
‘Certainly not; but if you observe, people always live for 
ever when there is an annuity to be paid them; and she is 
very stout and healthy, and hardly forty. An annuity is a 
very serious business; it comes over and over every year, 
and there is no getting rid of it. You are not aware of what 
you are doing. I have known a great deal of the trouble of 
annuities; for my mother was clogged with the payment 
of three to old superannuated servants by my father’s will, 
and it is amazing how disagreeable she found it. Twice ev-
ery year these annuities were to be paid; and then there was 
the trouble of getting it to them; and then one of them was 
said to have died, and afterwards it turned out to be no such 


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thing. My mother was quite sick of it. Her income was not 
her own, she said, with such perpetual claims on it; and it 
was the more unkind in my father, because, otherwise, the 
money would have been entirely at my mother’s disposal, 
without any restriction whatever. It has given me such an 
abhorrence of annuities, that I am sure I would not pin my-
self down to the payment of one for all the world.’
‘It is certainly an unpleasant thing,’ replied Mr. Dash-
wood, ‘to have those kind of yearly drains on one’s income. 
One’s fortune, as your mother justly says, is NOT one’s own. 
To be tied down to the regular payment of such a sum, on 
every rent day, is by no means desirable: it takes away one’s 
independence.’
‘Undoubtedly; and after all you have no thanks for it. 
They think themselves secure, you do no more than what 
is expected, and it raises no gratitude at all. If I were you, 
whatever I did should be done at my own discretion entire-
ly. I would not bind myself to allow them any thing yearly. 
It may be very inconvenient some years to spare a hundred, 
or even fifty pounds from our own expenses.’
‘I believe you are right, my love; it will be better that there 
should by no annuity in the case; whatever I may give them 
occasionally will be of far greater assistance than a yearly 
allowance, because they would only enlarge their style of 
living if they felt sure of a larger income, and would not be 
sixpence the richer for it at the end of the year. It will cer-
tainly be much the best way. A present of fifty pounds, now 
and then, will prevent their ever being distressed for money, 
and will, I think, be amply discharging my promise to my 


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father.’
‘To be sure it will. Indeed, to say the truth, I am con-
vinced within myself that your father had no idea of your 
giving them any money at all. The assistance he thought of, 
I dare say, was only such as might be reasonably expected 
of you; for instance, such as looking out for a comfortable 
small house for them, helping them to move their things, 
and sending them presents of fish and game, and so forth, 
whenever they are in season. I’ll lay my life that he meant 
nothing farther; indeed, it would be very strange and 
unreasonable if he did. Do but consider, my dear Mr. Dash-
wood, how excessively comfortable your mother-in-law and 
her daughters may live on the interest of seven thousand 
pounds, besides the thousand pounds belonging to each of 
the girls, which brings them in fifty pounds a year a-piece, 
and, of course, they will pay their mother for their board out 
of it. Altogether, they will have five hundred a-year amongst 
them, and what on earth can four women want for more 
than that?—They will live so cheap! Their housekeeping will 
be nothing at all. They will have no carriage, no horses, and 
hardly any servants; they will keep no company, and can 
have no expenses of any kind! Only conceive how comfort-
able they will be! Five hundred a year! I am sure I cannot 
imagine how they will spend half of it; and as to your giv-
ing them more, it is quite absurd to think of it. They will be 
much more able to give YOU something.’
‘Upon my word,’ said Mr. Dashwood, ‘I believe you are 
perfectly right. My father certainly could mean nothing 
more by his request to me than what you say. I clearly un-


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derstand it now, and I will strictly fulfil my engagement by 
such acts of assistance and kindness to them as you have 
described. When my mother removes into another house 
my services shall be readily given to accommodate her as 
far as I can. Some little present of furniture too may be ac-
ceptable then.’
‘Certainly,’ returned Mrs. John Dashwood. ‘But, howev-
er, ONE thing must be considered. When your father and 
mother moved to Norland, though the furniture of Stanhill 
was sold, all the china, plate, and linen was saved, and is 
now left to your mother. Her house will therefore be almost 
completely fitted up as soon as she takes it.’
‘That is a material consideration undoubtedly. A valu-
able legacy indeed! And yet some of the plate would have 
been a very pleasant addition to our own stock here.’
‘Yes; and the set of breakfast china is twice as handsome 
as what belongs to this house. A great deal too handsome, in 
my opinion, for any place THEY can ever afford to live in. 
But, however, so it is. Your father thought only of THEM. 
And I must say this: that you owe no particular gratitude 
to him, nor attention to his wishes; for we very well know 
that if he could, he would have left almost everything in the 
world to THEM.’
This argument was irresistible. It gave to his intentions 
whatever of decision was wanting before; and he finally re-
solved, that it would be absolutely unnecessary, if not highly 
indecorous, to do more for the widow and children of his 
father, than such kind of neighbourly acts as his own wife 
pointed out.


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Chapter 3
M
rs. Dashwood remained at Norland several months; 
not from any disinclination to move when the sight 
of every well known spot ceased to raise the violent emotion 
which it produced for a while; for when her spirits began to 
revive, and her mind became capable of some other exertion 
than that of heightening its affliction by melancholy remem-
brances, she was impatient to be gone, and indefatigable in 
her inquiries for a suitable dwelling in the neighbourhood 
of Norland; for to remove far from that beloved spot was 
impossible. But she could hear of no situation that at once 
answered her notions of comfort and ease, and suited the 
prudence of her eldest daughter, whose steadier judgment 
rejected several houses as too large for their income, which 
her mother would have approved.
Mrs. Dashwood had been informed by her husband 
of the solemn promise on the part of his son in their fa-
vour, which gave comfort to his last earthly reflections. She 
doubted the sincerity of this assurance no more than he had 
doubted it himself, and she thought of it for her daughters’ 
sake with satisfaction, though as for herself she was per-
suaded that a much smaller provision than 7000L would 
support her in affluence. For their brother’s sake, too, for 
the sake of his own heart, she rejoiced; and she reproached 
herself for being unjust to his merit before, in believing him 


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incapable of generosity. His attentive behaviour to herself 
and his sisters convinced her that their welfare was dear to 
him, and, for a long time, she firmly relied on the liberality 
of his intentions.
The contempt which she had, very early in their acquain-
tance, felt for her daughter-in-law, was very much increased 
by the farther knowledge of her character, which half a 
year’s residence in her family afforded; and perhaps in spite 
of every consideration of politeness or maternal affection 
on the side of the former, the two ladies might have found it 
impossible to have lived together so long, had not a partic-
ular circumstance occurred to give still greater eligibility, 
according to the opinions of Mrs. Dashwood, to her daugh-
ters’ continuance at Norland.
This circumstance was a growing attachment between her 
eldest girl and the brother of Mrs. John Dashwood, a gentle-
man-like and pleasing young man, who was introduced to 
their acquaintance soon after his sister’s establishment at 
Norland, and who had since spent the greatest part of his 
time there.
Some mothers might have encouraged the intimacy 
from motives of interest, for Edward Ferrars was the eldest 
son of a man who had died very rich; and some might have 
repressed it from motives of prudence, for, except a trifling 
sum, the whole of his fortune depended on the will of his 
mother. But Mrs. Dashwood was alike uninfluenced by ei-
ther consideration. It was enough for her that he appeared 
to be amiable, that he loved her daughter, and that Elinor 
returned the partiality. It was contrary to every doctrine of 


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her’s that difference of fortune should keep any couple asun-
der who were attracted by resemblance of disposition; and 
that Elinor’s merit should not be acknowledged by every 
one who knew her, was to her comprehension impossible.
Edward Ferrars was not recommended to their good 
opinion by any peculiar graces of person or address. He 
was not handsome, and his manners required intimacy 
to make them pleasing. He was too diffident to do justice 
to himself; but when his natural shyness was overcome, 
his behaviour gave every indication of an open, affection-
ate heart. His understanding was good, and his education 
had given it solid improvement. But he was neither fitted by 
abilities nor disposition to answer the wishes of his mother 
and sister, who longed to see him distinguished—as—they 
hardly knew what. They wanted him to make a fine figure 
in the world in some manner or other. His mother wished 
to interest him in political concerns, to get him into parlia-
ment, or to see him connected with some of the great men 
of the day. Mrs. John Dashwood wished it likewise; but in 
the mean while, till one of these superior blessings could 
be attained, it would have quieted her ambition to see him 
driving a barouche. But Edward had no turn for great men 
or barouches. All his wishes centered in domestic comfort 
and the quiet of private life. Fortunately he had a younger 
brother who was more promising.
Edward had been staying several weeks in the house be-
fore he engaged much of Mrs. Dashwood’s attention; for she 
was, at that time, in such affliction as rendered her careless 
of surrounding objects. She saw only that he was quiet and 


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18
unobtrusive, and she liked him for it. He did not disturb 
the wretchedness of her mind by ill-timed conversation. 
She was first called to observe and approve him farther, by a 
reflection which Elinor chanced one day to make on the dif-
ference between him and his sister. It was a contrast which 
recommended him most forcibly to her mother.
‘It is enough,’ said she; ‘to say that he is unlike Fanny is 
enough. It implies everything amiable. I love him already.’
‘I think you will like him,’ said Elinor, ‘when you know 
more of him.’
‘Like him!’ replied her mother with a smile. ‘I feel no sen-
timent of approbation inferior to love.’
‘You may esteem him.’
‘I have never yet known what it was to separate esteem 
and love.’
Mrs. Dashwood now took pains to get acquainted with 
him. Her manners were attaching, and soon banished his 
reserve. She speedily comprehended all his merits; the 
persuasion of his regard for Elinor perhaps assisted her pen-
etration; but she really felt assured of his worth: and even 
that quietness of manner, which militated against all her 
established ideas of what a young man’s address ought to be, 
was no longer uninteresting when she knew his heart to be 
warm and his temper affectionate.
No sooner did she perceive any symptom of love in his 
behaviour to Elinor, than she considered their serious at-
tachment as certain, and looked forward to their marriage 
as rapidly approaching.
‘In a few months, my dear Marianne.’ said she, ‘Elinor 


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will, in all probability be settled for life. We shall miss her; 
but SHE will be happy.’
‘Oh! Mamma, how shall we do without her?’
‘My love, it will be scarcely a separation. We shall live 
within a few miles of each other, and shall meet every day of 
our lives. You will gain a brother, a real, affectionate brother. 
I have the highest opinion in the world of Edward’s heart. 
But you look grave, Marianne; do you disapprove your sis-
ter’s choice?’
‘Perhaps,’ said Marianne, ‘I may consider it with some 
surprise. Edward is very amiable, and I love him tenderly. 
But yet—he is not the kind of young man—there is some-
thing wanting—his figure is not striking; it has none of that 
grace which I should expect in the man who could seriously 
attach my sister. His eyes want all that spirit, that fire, which 
at once announce virtue and intelligence. And besides all 
this, I am afraid, Mamma, he has no real taste. Music seems 
scarcely to attract him, and though he admires Elinor’s 
drawings very much, it is not the admiration of a person 
who can understand their worth. It is evident, in spite of 
his frequent attention to her while she draws, that in fact 
he knows nothing of the matter. He admires as a lover, not 
as a connoisseur. To satisfy me, those characters must be 
united. I could not be happy with a man whose taste did 
not in every point coincide with my own. He must enter 
into all my feelings; the same books, the same music must 
charm us both. Oh! mama, how spiritless, how tame was 
Edward’s manner in reading to us last night! I felt for my 
sister most severely. Yet she bore it with so much compo-


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20
sure, she seemed scarcely to notice it. I could hardly keep 
my seat. To hear those beautiful lines which have frequently 
almost driven me wild, pronounced with such impenetrable 
calmness, such dreadful indifference!’—
‘He would certainly have done more justice to simple and 
elegant prose. I thought so at the time; but you WOULD 
give him Cowper.’
‘Nay, Mamma, if he is not to be animated by Cowper!— 
but we must allow for difference of taste. Elinor has not my 
feelings, and therefore she may overlook it, and be happy 
with him. But it would have broke MY heart, had I loved 
him, to hear him read with so little sensibility. Mama, the 
more I know of the world, the more am I convinced that I 
shall never see a man whom I can really love. I require so 
much! He must have all Edward’s virtues, and his person 
and manners must ornament his goodness with every pos-
sible charm.’
‘Remember, my love, that you are not seventeen. It is yet 
too early in life to despair of such a happiness. Why should 
you be less fortunate than your mother? In one circum-
stance only, my Marianne, may your destiny be different 
from her’s!’


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Chapter 4
‘W
hat a pity it is, Elinor,’ said Marianne, ‘that Edward 
should have no taste for drawing.’
‘No taste for drawing!’ replied Elinor, ‘why should you 
think so? He does not draw himself, indeed, but he has great 
pleasure in seeing the performances of other people, and 
I assure you he is by no means deficient in natural taste, 
though he has not had opportunities of improving it. Had 
he ever been in the way of learning, I think he would have 
drawn very well. He distrusts his own judgment in such 
matters so much, that he is always unwilling to give his 
opinion on any picture; but he has an innate propriety and 
simplicity of taste, which in general direct him perfectly 
right.’
Marianne was afraid of offending, and said no more on 
the subject; but the kind of approbation which Elinor de-
scribed as excited in him by the drawings of other people, 
was very far from that rapturous delight, which, in her opin-
ion, could alone be called taste. Yet, though smiling within 
herself at the mistake, she honoured her sister for that blind 
partiality to Edward which produced it.
‘I hope, Marianne,’ continued Elinor, ‘you do not consid-
er him as deficient in general taste. Indeed, I think I may say 
that you cannot, for your behaviour to him is perfectly cor-
dial, and if THAT were your opinion, I am sure you could 


Sense and Sensibility
22
never be civil to him.’
Marianne hardly knew what to say. She would not wound 
the feelings of her sister on any account, and yet to say what 
she did not believe was impossible. At length she replied:
‘Do not be offended, Elinor, if my praise of him is not in 
every thing equal to your sense of his merits. I have not had 
so many opportunities of estimating the minuter propensi-
ties of his mind, his inclinations and tastes, as you have; but 
I have the highest opinion in the world of his goodness and 
sense. I think him every thing that is worthy and amiable.’
‘I am sure,’ replied Elinor, with a smile, ‘that his dearest 
friends could not be dissatisfied with such commendation 
as that. I do not perceive how you could express yourself 
more warmly.’
Marianne was rejoiced to find her sister so easily 
pleased.
‘Of his sense and his goodness,’ continued Elinor, ‘no one 
can, I think, be in doubt, who has seen him often enough to 
engage him in unreserved conversation. The excellence of 
his understanding and his principles can be concealed only 
by that shyness which too often keeps him silent. You know 
enough of him to do justice to his solid worth. But of his mi-
nuter propensities, as you call them you have from peculiar 
circumstances been kept more ignorant than myself. He 
and I have been at times thrown a good deal together, while 
you have been wholly engrossed on the most affectionate 
principle by my mother. I have seen a great deal of him, 
have studied his sentiments and heard his opinion on sub-
jects of literature and taste; and, upon the whole, I venture 


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to pronounce that his mind is well-informed, enjoyment of 
books exceedingly great, his imagination lively, his obser-
vation just and correct, and his taste delicate and pure. His 
abilities in every respect improve as much upon acquain-
tance as his manners and person. At first sight, his address 
is certainly not striking; and his person can hardly be called 
handsome, till the expression of his eyes, which are uncom-
monly good, and the general sweetness of his countenance, 
is perceived. At present, I know him so well, that I think 
him really handsome; or at least, almost so. What say you, 
Marianne?’
‘I shall very soon think him handsome, Elinor, if I do 
not now. When you tell me to love him as a brother, I shall 
no more see imperfection in his face, than I now do in his 
heart.’
Elinor started at this declaration, and was sorry for the 
warmth she had been betrayed into, in speaking of him. 
She felt that Edward stood very high in her opinion. She 
believed the regard to be mutual; but she required greater 
certainty of it to make Marianne’s conviction of their at-
tachment agreeable to her. She knew that what Marianne 
and her mother conjectured one moment, they believed the 
next—that with them, to wish was to hope, and to hope was 
to expect. She tried to explain the real state of the case to 
her sister.
‘I do not attempt to deny,’ said she, ‘that I think very 
highly of him—that I greatly esteem, that I like him.’
Marianne here burst forth with indignation—
‘Esteem him! Like him! Cold-hearted Elinor! Oh! worse 


Sense and Sensibility
24
than cold-hearted! Ashamed of being otherwise. Use those 
words again, and I will leave the room this moment.’
Elinor could not help laughing. ‘Excuse me,’ said she; 
‘and be assured that I meant no offence to you, by speaking, 
in so quiet a way, of my own feelings. Believe them to be 
stronger than I have declared; believe them, in short, to be 
such as his merit, and the suspicion—the hope of his affec-
tion for me may warrant, without imprudence or folly. But 
farther than this you must not believe. I am by no means 
assured of his regard for me. There are moments when the 
extent of it seems doubtful; and till his sentiments are fully 
known, you cannot wonder at my wishing to avoid any en-
couragement of my own partiality, by believing or calling it 
more than it is. In my heart I feel little—scarcely any doubt 
of his preference. But there are other points to be considered 
besides his inclination. He is very far from being indepen-
dent. What his mother really is we cannot know; but, from 
Fanny’s occasional mention of her conduct and opinions, 
we have never been disposed to think her amiable; and I 
am very much mistaken if Edward is not himself aware that 
there would be many difficulties in his way, if he were to 
wish to marry a woman who had not either a great fortune 
or high rank.’
Marianne was astonished to find how much the imagi-
nation of her mother and herself had outstripped the truth.
‘And you really are not engaged to him!’ said she. ‘Yet it 
certainly soon will happen. But two advantages will proceed 
from this delay. I shall not lose you so soon, and Edward 
will have greater opportunity of improving that natural 


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taste for your favourite pursuit which must be so indispens-
ably necessary to your future felicity. Oh! if he should be so 
far stimulated by your genius as to learn to draw himself, 
how delightful it would be!’
Elinor had given her real opinion to her sister. She could 
not consider her partiality for Edward in so prosperous a 
state as Marianne had believed it. There was, at times, a 
want of spirits about him which, if it did not denote indif-
ference, spoke a something almost as unpromising. A doubt 
of her regard, supposing him to feel it, need not give him 
more than inquietude. It would not be likely to produce that 
dejection of mind which frequently attended him. A more 
reasonable cause might be found in the dependent situa-
tion which forbad the indulgence of his affection. She knew 
that his mother neither behaved to him so as to make his 
home comfortable at present, nor to give him any assurance 
that he might form a home for himself, without strictly at-
tending to her views for his aggrandizement. With such a 
knowledge as this, it was impossible for Elinor to feel easy 
on the subject. She was far from depending on that result of 
his preference of her, which her mother and sister still con-
sidered as certain. Nay, the longer they were together the 
more doubtful seemed the nature of his regard; and some-
times, for a few painful minutes, she believed it to be no 
more than friendship.
But, whatever might really be its limits, it was enough, 
when perceived by his sister, to make her uneasy, and at the 
same time, (which was still more common,) to make her 
uncivil. She took the first opportunity of affronting her 


Sense and Sensibility
26
mother-in-law on the occasion, talking to her so expres-
sively of her brother’s great expectations, of Mrs. Ferrars’s 
resolution that both her sons should marry well, and of 
the danger attending any young woman who attempted to 
DRAW HIM IN; that Mrs. Dashwood could neither pre-
tend to be unconscious, nor endeavor to be calm. She gave 
her an answer which marked her contempt, and instantly 
left the room, resolving that, whatever might be the incon-
venience or expense of so sudden a removal, her beloved 
Elinor should not be exposed another week to such insinu-
ations.
In this state of her spirits, a letter was delivered to her 
from the post, which contained a proposal particularly 
well timed. It was the offer of a small house, on very easy 
terms, belonging to a relation of her own, a gentleman of 
consequence and property in Devonshire. The letter was 
from this gentleman himself, and written in the true spirit 
of friendly accommodation. He understood that she was in 
need of a dwelling; and though the house he now offered 
her was merely a cottage, he assured her that everything 
should be done to it which she might think necessary, if the 
situation pleased her. He earnestly pressed her, after giving 
the particulars of the house and garden, to come with her 
daughters to Barton Park, the place of his own residence, 
from whence she might judge, herself, whether Barton Cot-
tage, for the houses were in the same parish, could, by any 
alteration, be made comfortable to her. He seemed really 
anxious to accommodate them and the whole of his letter 
was written in so friendly a style as could not fail of giving 


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pleasure to his cousin; more especially at a moment when 
she was suffering under the cold and unfeeling behaviour 
of her nearer connections. She needed no time for delibera-
tion or inquiry. Her resolution was formed as she read. The 
situation of Barton, in a county so far distant from Sussex as 
Devonshire, which, but a few hours before, would have been 
a sufficient objection to outweigh every possible advantage 
belonging to the place, was now its first recommendation. 
To quit the neighbourhood of Norland was no longer an 
evil; it was an object of desire; it was a blessing, in com-
parison of the misery of continuing her daughter-in-law’s 
guest; and to remove for ever from that beloved place would 
be less painful than to inhabit or visit it while such a wom-
an was its mistress. She instantly wrote Sir John Middleton 
her acknowledgment of his kindness, and her acceptance of 
his proposal; and then hastened to shew both letters to her 
daughters, that she might be secure of their approbation be-
fore her answer were sent.
Elinor had always thought it would be more prudent for 
them to settle at some distance from Norland, than im-
mediately amongst their present acquaintance. On THAT 
head, therefore, it was not for her to oppose her mother’s 
intention of removing into Devonshire. The house, too, as 
described by Sir John, was on so simple a scale, and the rent 
so uncommonly moderate, as to leave her no right of ob-
jection on either point; and, therefore, though it was not a 
plan which brought any charm to her fancy, though it was 
a removal from the vicinity of Norland beyond her wishes, 
she made no attempt to dissuade her mother from sending 


Sense and Sensibility
28
a letter of acquiescence.


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Chapter 5
N
o sooner was her answer dispatched, than Mrs. Dash-
wood indulged herself in the pleasure of announcing 
to her son-in-law and his wife that she was provided with 
a house, and should incommode them no longer than till 
every thing were ready for her inhabiting it. They heard her 
with surprise. Mrs. John Dashwood said nothing; but her 
husband civilly hoped that she would not be settled far from 
Norland. She had great satisfaction in replying that she was 
going into Devonshire.—Edward turned hastily towards 
her, on hearing this, and, in a voice of surprise and concern, 
which required no explanation to her, repeated, ‘Devon-
shire! Are you, indeed, going there? So far from hence! And 
to what part of it?’ She explained the situation. It was within 
four miles northward of Exeter.
‘It is but a cottage,’ she continued, ‘but I hope to see many 
of my friends in it. A room or two can easily be added; and 
if my friends find no difficulty in travelling so far to see me, 
I am sure I will find none in accommodating them.’
She concluded with a very kind invitation to Mr. and 
Mrs. John Dashwood to visit her at Barton; and to Edward 
she gave one with still greater affection. Though her late con-
versation with her daughter-in-law had made her resolve on 
remaining at Norland no longer than was unavoidable, it 
had not produced the smallest effect on her in that point to 


Sense and Sensibility
30
which it principally tended. To separate Edward and Elinor 
was as far from being her object as ever; and she wished to 
show Mrs. John Dashwood, by this pointed invitation to her 
brother, how totally she disregarded her disapprobation of 
the match.
Mr. John Dashwood told his mother again and again 
how exceedingly sorry he was that she had taken a house 
at such a distance from Norland as to prevent his being of 
any service to her in removing her furniture. He really felt 
conscientiously vexed on the occasion; for the very exertion 
to which he had limited the performance of his promise to 
his father was by this arrangement rendered impractica-
ble.— The furniture was all sent around by water. It chiefly 
consisted of household linen, plate, china, and books, with 
a handsome pianoforte of Marianne’s. Mrs. John Dashwood 
saw the packages depart with a sigh: she could not help feel-
ing it hard that as Mrs. Dashwood’s income would be so 
trifling in comparison with their own, she should have any 
handsome article of furniture.
Mrs. Dashwood took the house for a twelvemonth; it 
was ready furnished, and she might have immediate pos-
session. No difficulty arose on either side in the agreement; 
and she waited only for the disposal of her effects at Nor-
land, and to determine her future household, before she set 
off for the west; and this, as she was exceedingly rapid in 
the performance of everything that interested her, was soon 
done.—The horses which were left her by her husband had 
been sold soon after his death, and an opportunity now of-
fering of disposing of her carriage, she agreed to sell that 


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likewise at the earnest advice of her eldest daughter. For 
the comfort of her children, had she consulted only her 
own wishes, she would have kept it; but the discretion of 
Elinor prevailed. HER wisdom too limited the number of 
their servants to three; two maids and a man, with whom 
they were speedily provided from amongst those who had 
formed their establishment at Norland.
The man and one of the maids were sent off immediately 
into Devonshire, to prepare the house for their mistress’s 
arrival; for as Lady Middleton was entirely unknown to 
Mrs. Dashwood, she preferred going directly to the cottage 
to being a visitor at Barton Park; and she relied so undoubt-
ingly on Sir John’s description of the house, as to feel no 
curiosity to examine it herself till she entered it as her own. 
Her eagerness to be gone from Norland was preserved from 
diminution by the evident satisfaction of her daughter-in-
law in the prospect of her removal; a satisfaction which was 
but feebly attempted to be concealed under a cold invita-
tion to her to defer her departure. Now was the time when 
her son-in-law’s promise to his father might with particu-
lar propriety be fulfilled. Since he had neglected to do it on 
first coming to the estate, their quitting his house might be 
looked on as the most suitable period for its accomplish-
ment. But Mrs. Dashwood began shortly to give over every 
hope of the kind, and to be convinced, from the general 
drift of his discourse, that his assistance extended no far-
ther than their maintenance for six months at Norland. He 
so frequently talked of the increasing expenses of house-
keeping, and of the perpetual demands upon his purse, 


Sense and Sensibility
32
which a man of any consequence in the world was beyond 
calculation exposed to, that he seemed rather to stand in 
need of more money himself than to have any design of giv-
ing money away.
In a very few weeks from the day which brought Sir John 
Middleton’s first letter to Norland, every thing was so far 
settled in their future abode as to enable Mrs. Dashwood 
and her daughters to begin their journey.
Many were the tears shed by them in their last adieus to a 
place so much beloved. ‘Dear, dear Norland!’ said Marianne, 
as she wandered alone before the house, on the last evening 
of their being there; ‘when shall I cease to regret you!—when 
learn to feel a home elsewhere!—Oh! happy house, could 
you know what I suffer in now viewing you from this spot, 
from whence perhaps I may view you no more!—And you, 
ye well-known trees!—but you will continue the same.—
No leaf will decay because we are removed, nor any branch 
become motionless although we can observe you no lon-
ger!—No; you will continue the same; unconscious of the 
pleasure or the regret you occasion, and insensible of any 
change in those who walk under your shade!—But who will 
remain to enjoy you?’


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Chapter 6
T
he first part of their journey was performed in too mel-
ancholy a disposition to be otherwise than tedious and 
unpleasant. But as they drew towards the end of it, their 
interest in the appearance of a country which they were 
to inhabit overcame their dejection, and a view of Barton 
Valley as they entered it gave them cheerfulness. It was a 
pleasant fertile spot, well wooded, and rich in pasture. Af-
ter winding along it for more than a mile, they reached their 
own house. A small green court was the whole of its de-
mesne in front; and a neat wicket gate admitted them into 
it.
As a house, Barton Cottage, though small, was comfort-
able and compact; but as a cottage it was defective, for the 
building was regular, the roof was tiled, the window shut-
ters were not painted green, nor were the walls covered with 
honeysuckles. A narrow passage led directly through the 
house into the garden behind. On each side of the entrance 
was a sitting room, about sixteen feet square; and beyond 
them were the offices and the stairs. Four bed-rooms and 
two garrets formed the rest of the house. It had not been 
built many years and was in good repair. In comparison 
of Norland, it was poor and small indeed!—but the tears 
which recollection called forth as they entered the house 
were soon dried away. They were cheered by the joy of the 


Sense and Sensibility
34
servants on their arrival, and each for the sake of the others 
resolved to appear happy. It was very early in September; 
the season was fine, and from first seeing the place under 
the advantage of good weather, they received an impression 
in its favour which was of material service in recommend-
ing it to their lasting approbation.
The situation of the house was good. High hills rose im-
mediately behind, and at no great distance on each side; 
some of which were open downs, the others cultivated and 
woody. The village of Barton was chiefly on one of these 
hills, and formed a pleasant view from the cottage windows. 
The prospect in front was more extensive; it commanded 
the whole of the valley, and reached into the country be-
yond. The hills which surrounded the cottage terminated 
the valley in that direction; under another name, and in 
another course, it branched out again between two of the 
steepest of them.
With the size and furniture of the house Mrs. Dashwood 
was upon the whole well satisfied; for though her former 
style of life rendered many additions to the latter indispens-
able, yet to add and improve was a delight to her; and she 
had at this time ready money enough to supply all that was 
wanted of greater elegance to the apartments. ‘As for the 
house itself, to be sure,’ said she, ‘it is too small for our fam-
ily, but we will make ourselves tolerably comfortable for the 
present, as it is too late in the year for improvements. Per-
haps in the spring, if I have plenty of money, as I dare say I 
shall, we may think about building. These parlors are both 
too small for such parties of our friends as I hope to see of-


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ten collected here; and I have some thoughts of throwing 
the passage into one of them with perhaps a part of the oth-
er, and so leave the remainder of that other for an entrance; 
this, with a new drawing room which may be easily added, 
and a bed-chamber and garret above, will make it a very 
snug little cottage. I could wish the stairs were handsome. 
But one must not expect every thing; though I suppose it 
would be no difficult matter to widen them. I shall see how 
much I am before-hand with the world in the spring, and 
we will plan our improvements accordingly.’
In the mean time, till all these alterations could be made 
from the savings of an income of five hundred a-year by a 
woman who never saved in her life, they were wise enough 
to be contented with the house as it was; and each of them 
was busy in arranging their particular concerns, and 
endeavoring, by placing around them books and other pos-
sessions, to form themselves a home. Marianne’s pianoforte 
was unpacked and properly disposed of; and Elinor’s draw-
ings were affixed to the walls of their sitting room.
In such employments as these they were interrupted soon 
after breakfast the next day by the entrance of their landlord, 
who called to welcome them to Barton, and to offer them 
every accommodation from his own house and garden in 
which theirs might at present be deficient. Sir John Middle-
ton was a good looking man about forty. He had formerly 
visited at Stanhill, but it was too long for his young cousins 
to remember him. His countenance was thoroughly good-
humoured; and his manners were as friendly as the style of 
his letter. Their arrival seemed to afford him real satisfac-


Sense and Sensibility
36
tion, and their comfort to be an object of real solicitude to 
him. He said much of his earnest desire of their living in 
the most sociable terms with his family, and pressed them 
so cordially to dine at Barton Park every day till they were 
better settled at home, that, though his entreaties were car-
ried to a point of perseverance beyond civility, they could 
not give offence. His kindness was not confined to words; 
for within an hour after he left them, a large basket full of 
garden stuff and fruit arrived from the park, which was fol-
lowed before the end of the day by a present of game. He 
insisted, moreover, on conveying all their letters to and 
from the post for them, and would not be denied the satis-
faction of sending them his newspaper every day.
Lady Middleton had sent a very civil message by him, de-
noting her intention of waiting on Mrs. Dashwood as soon 
as she could be assured that her visit would be no inconve-
nience; and as this message was answered by an invitation 
equally polite, her ladyship was introduced to them the next 
day.
They were, of course, very anxious to see a person on 
whom so much of their comfort at Barton must depend; 
and the elegance of her appearance was favourable to their 
wishes. Lady Middleton was not more than six or seven and 
twenty; her face was handsome, her figure tall and striking, 
and her address graceful. Her manners had all the elegance 
which her husband’s wanted. But they would have been im-
proved by some share of his frankness and warmth; and her 
visit was long enough to detract something from their first 
admiration, by shewing that, though perfectly well-bred, 


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she was reserved, cold, and had nothing to say for herself 
beyond the most common-place inquiry or remark.
Conversation however was not wanted, for Sir John was 
very chatty, and Lady Middleton had taken the wise precau-
tion of bringing with her their eldest child, a fine little boy 
about six years old, by which means there was one subject 
always to be recurred to by the ladies in case of extremity, 
for they had to enquire his name and age, admire his beau-
ty, and ask him questions which his mother answered for 
him, while he hung about her and held down his head, to 
the great surprise of her ladyship, who wondered at his be-
ing so shy before company, as he could make noise enough 
at home. On every formal visit a child ought to be of the 
party, by way of provision for discourse. In the present case 
it took up ten minutes to determine whether the boy were 
most like his father or mother, and in what particular he re-
sembled either, for of course every body differed, and every 
body was astonished at the opinion of the others.
An opportunity was soon to be given to the Dashwoods 
of debating on the rest of the children, as Sir John would not 
leave the house without securing their promise of dining at 
the park the next day.


Sense and Sensibility
38
Chapter 7
B
arton Park was about half a mile from the cottage. The 
ladies had passed near it in their way along the valley, 
but it was screened from their view at home by the pro-
jection of a hill. The house was large and handsome; and 
the Middletons lived in a style of equal hospitality and el-
egance. The former was for Sir John’s gratification, the latter 
for that of his lady. They were scarcely ever without some 
friends staying with them in the house, and they kept more 
company of every kind than any other family in the neigh-
bourhood. It was necessary to the happiness of both; for 
however dissimilar in temper and outward behaviour, they 
strongly resembled each other in that total want of talent 
and taste which confined their employments, unconnected 
with such as society produced, within a very narrow com-
pass. Sir John was a sportsman, Lady Middleton a mother. 
He hunted and shot, and she humoured her children; and 
these were their only resources. Lady Middleton had the 
advantage of being able to spoil her children all the year 
round, while Sir John’s independent employments were 
in existence only half the time. Continual engagements at 
home and abroad, however, supplied all the deficiencies 
of nature and education; supported the good spirits of Sir 
John, and gave exercise to the good breeding of his wife.
Lady Middleton piqued herself upon the elegance of her 


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table, and of all her domestic arrangements; and from this 
kind of vanity was her greatest enjoyment in any of their 
parties. But Sir John’s satisfaction in society was much more 
real; he delighted in collecting about him more young peo-
ple than his house would hold, and the noisier they were the 
better was he pleased. He was a blessing to all the juvenile 
part of the neighbourhood, for in summer he was for ever 
forming parties to eat cold ham and chicken out of doors, 
and in winter his private balls were numerous enough for 
any young lady who was not suffering under the unsatiable 
appetite of fifteen.
The arrival of a new family in the country was always 
a matter of joy to him, and in every point of view he was 
charmed with the inhabitants he had now procured for his 
cottage at Barton. The Miss Dashwoods were young, pretty, 
and unaffected. It was enough to secure his good opinion; 
for to be unaffected was all that a pretty girl could want to 
make her mind as captivating as her person. The friendli-
ness of his disposition made him happy in accommodating 
those, whose situation might be considered, in compari-
son with the past, as unfortunate. In showing kindness to 
his cousins therefore he had the real satisfaction of a good 
heart; and in settling a family of females only in his cottage, 
he had all the satisfaction of a sportsman; for a sportsman, 
though he esteems only those of his sex who are sportsmen 
likewise, is not often desirous of encouraging their taste by 
admitting them to a residence within his own manor.
Mrs. Dashwood and her daughters were met at the door 
of the house by Sir John, who welcomed them to Barton 


Sense and Sensibility
40
Park with unaffected sincerity; and as he attended them to 
the drawing room repeated to the young ladies the concern 
which the same subject had drawn from him the day before, 
at being unable to get any smart young men to meet them. 
They would see, he said, only one gentleman there besides 
himself; a particular friend who was staying at the park, but 
who was neither very young nor very gay. He hoped they 
would all excuse the smallness of the party, and could as-
sure them it should never happen so again. He had been to 
several families that morning in hopes of procuring some 
addition to their number, but it was moonlight and every 
body was full of engagements. Luckily Lady Middleton’s 
mother had arrived at Barton within the last hour, and as 
she was a very cheerful agreeable woman, he hoped the 
young ladies would not find it so very dull as they might 
imagine. The young ladies, as well as their mother, were 
perfectly satisfied with having two entire strangers of the 
party, and wished for no more.
Mrs. Jennings, Lady Middleton’s mother, was a good-hu-
moured, merry, fat, elderly woman, who talked a great deal, 
seemed very happy, and rather vulgar. She was full of jokes 
and laughter, and before dinner was over had said many 
witty things on the subject of lovers and husbands; hoped 
they had not left their hearts behind them in Sussex, and 
pretended to see them blush whether they did or not. Mari-
anne was vexed at it for her sister’s sake, and turned her 
eyes towards Elinor to see how she bore these attacks, with 
an earnestness which gave Elinor far more pain than could 
arise from such common-place raillery as Mrs. Jennings’s.


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Colonel Brandon, the friend of Sir John, seemed no more 
adapted by resemblance of manner to be his friend, than 
Lady Middleton was to be his wife, or Mrs. Jennings to be 
Lady Middleton’s mother. He was silent and grave. His ap-
pearance however was not unpleasing, in spite of his being 
in the opinion of Marianne and Margaret an absolute old 
bachelor, for he was on the wrong side of five and thirty; 
but though his face was not handsome, his countenance was 
sensible, and his address was particularly gentlemanlike.
There was nothing in any of the party which could rec-
ommend them as companions to the Dashwoods; but the 
cold insipidity of Lady Middleton was so particularly re-
pulsive, that in comparison of it the gravity of Colonel 
Brandon, and even the boisterous mirth of Sir John and 
his mother-in-law was interesting. Lady Middleton seemed 
to be roused to enjoyment only by the entrance of her four 
noisy children after dinner, who pulled her about, tore her 
clothes, and put an end to every kind of discourse except 
what related to themselves.
In the evening, as Marianne was discovered to be musi-
cal, she was invited to play. The instrument was unlocked, 
every body prepared to be charmed, and Marianne, who 
sang very well, at their request went through the chief of 
the songs which Lady Middleton had brought into the fam-
ily on her marriage, and which perhaps had lain ever since 
in the same position on the pianoforte, for her ladyship had 
celebrated that event by giving up music, although by her 
mother’s account, she had played extremely well, and by her 
own was very fond of it.


Sense and Sensibility
42
Marianne’s performance was highly applauded. Sir John 
was loud in his admiration at the end of every song, and as 
loud in his conversation with the others while every song 
lasted. Lady Middleton frequently called him to order, won-
dered how any one’s attention could be diverted from music 
for a moment, and asked Marianne to sing a particular 
song which Marianne had just finished. Colonel Brandon 
alone, of all the party, heard her without being in raptures. 
He paid her only the compliment of attention; and she felt 
a respect for him on the occasion, which the others had 
reasonably forfeited by their shameless want of taste. His 
pleasure in music, though it amounted not to that ecstatic 
delight which alone could sympathize with her own, was 
estimable when contrasted against the horrible insensibility 
of the others; and she was reasonable enough to allow that a 
man of five and thirty might well have outlived all acuteness 
of feeling and every exquisite power of enjoyment. She was 
perfectly disposed to make every allowance for the colonel’s 
advanced state of life which humanity required.


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Chapter 8
M
rs. Jennings was a widow with an ample jointure. 
She had only two daughters, both of whom she had 
lived to see respectably married, and she had now there-
fore nothing to do but to marry all the rest of the world. 
In the promotion of this object she was zealously active, 
as far as her ability reached; and missed no opportunity of 
projecting weddings among all the young people of her ac-
quaintance. She was remarkably quick in the discovery of 
attachments, and had enjoyed the advantage of raising the 
blushes and the vanity of many a young lady by insinua-
tions of her power over such a young man; and this kind of 
discernment enabled her soon after her arrival at Barton de-
cisively to pronounce that Colonel Brandon was very much 
in love with Marianne Dashwood. She rather suspected it 
to be so, on the very first evening of their being together, 
from his listening so attentively while she sang to them; and 
when the visit was returned by the Middletons’ dining at 
the cottage, the fact was ascertained by his listening to her 
again. It must be so. She was perfectly convinced of it. It 
would be an excellent match, for HE was rich, and SHE was 
handsome. Mrs. Jennings had been anxious to see Colonel 
Brandon well married, ever since her connection with Sir 
John first brought him to her knowledge; and she was al-
ways anxious to get a good husband for every pretty girl.


Sense and Sensibility
44
The immediate advantage to herself was by no means in-
considerable, for it supplied her with endless jokes against 
them both. At the park she laughed at the colonel, and in 
the cottage at Marianne. To the former her raillery was 
probably, as far as it regarded only himself, perfectly indif-
ferent; but to the latter it was at first incomprehensible; and 
when its object was understood, she hardly knew whether 
most to laugh at its absurdity, or censure its impertinence, 
for she considered it as an unfeeling reflection on the colo-
nel’s advanced years, and on his forlorn condition as an old 
bachelor.
Mrs. Dashwood, who could not think a man five years 
younger than herself, so exceedingly ancient as he appeared 
to the youthful fancy of her daughter, ventured to clear Mrs. 
Jennings from the probability of wishing to throw ridicule 
on his age.
‘But at least, Mamma, you cannot deny the absurdity 
of the accusation, though you may not think it intention-
ally ill-natured. Colonel Brandon is certainly younger than 
Mrs. Jennings, but he is old enough to be MY father; and if 
he were ever animated enough to be in love, must have long 
outlived every sensation of the kind. It is too ridiculous! 
When is a man to be safe from such wit, if age and infirmity 
will not protect him?’
‘Infirmity!’ said Elinor, ‘do you call Colonel Brandon in-
firm? I can easily suppose that his age may appear much 
greater to you than to my mother; but you can hardly de-
ceive yourself as to his having the use of his limbs!’
‘Did not you hear him complain of the rheumatism? and 


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is not that the commonest infirmity of declining life?’
‘My dearest child,’ said her mother, laughing, ‘at this rate 
you must be in continual terror of MY decay; and it must 
seem to you a miracle that my life has been extended to the 
advanced age of forty.’
‘Mamma, you are not doing me justice. I know very well 
that Colonel Brandon is not old enough to make his friends 
yet apprehensive of losing him in the course of nature. He 
may live twenty years longer. But thirty-five has nothing to 
do with matrimony.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Elinor, ‘thirty-five and seventeen had bet-
ter not have any thing to do with matrimony together. But 
if there should by any chance happen to be a woman who is 
single at seven and twenty, I should not think Colonel Bran-
don’s being thirty-five any objection to his marrying HER.’
‘A woman of seven and twenty,’ said Marianne, after 
pausing a moment, ‘can never hope to feel or inspire affec-
tion again, and if her home be uncomfortable, or her fortune 
small, I can suppose that she might bring herself to submit 
to the offices of a nurse, for the sake of the provision and 
security of a wife. In his marrying such a woman therefore 
there would be nothing unsuitable. It would be a compact 
of convenience, and the world would be satisfied. In my eyes 
it would be no marriage at all, but that would be nothing. 
To me it would seem only a commercial exchange, in which 
each wished to be benefited at the expense of the other.’
‘It would be impossible, I know,’ replied Elinor, ‘to con-
vince you that a woman of seven and twenty could feel for 
a man of thirty-five anything near enough to love, to make 


Sense and Sensibility
46
him a desirable companion to her. But I must object to your 
dooming Colonel Brandon and his wife to the constant con-
finement of a sick chamber, merely because he chanced to 
complain yesterday (a very cold damp day) of a slight rheu-
matic feel in one of his shoulders.’
‘But he talked of flannel waistcoats,’ said Marianne; ‘and 
with me a flannel waistcoat is invariably connected with 
aches, cramps, rheumatisms, and every species of ailment 
that can afflict the old and the feeble.’
‘Had he been only in a violent fever, you would not have 
despised him half so much. Confess, Marianne, is not there 
something interesting to you in the flushed cheek, hollow 
eye, and quick pulse of a fever?’
Soon after this, upon Elinor’s leaving the room, ‘Mam-
ma,’ said Marianne, ‘I have an alarm on the subject of illness 
which I cannot conceal from you. I am sure Edward Ferrars 
is not well. We have now been here almost a fortnight, and 
yet he does not come. Nothing but real indisposition could 
occasion this extraordinary delay. What else can detain 
him at Norland?’
‘Had you any idea of his coming so soon?’ said Mrs. 
Dashwood. ‘I had none. On the contrary, if I have felt any 
anxiety at all on the subject, it has been in recollecting that 
he sometimes showed a want of pleasure and readiness in 
accepting my invitation, when I talked of his coming to 
Barton. Does Elinor expect him already?’
‘I have never mentioned it to her, but of course she 
must.’
‘I rather think you are mistaken, for when I was talking 


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to her yesterday of getting a new grate for the spare bed-
chamber, she observed that there was no immediate hurry 
for it, as it was not likely that the room would be wanted for 
some time.’
‘How strange this is! what can be the meaning of it! But 
the whole of their behaviour to each other has been unac-
countable! How cold, how composed were their last adieus! 
How languid their conversation the last evening of their be-
ing together! In Edward’s farewell there was no distinction 
between Elinor and me: it was the good wishes of an affec-
tionate brother to both. Twice did I leave them purposely 
together in the course of the last morning, and each time 
did he most unaccountably follow me out of the room. And 
Elinor, in quitting Norland and Edward, cried not as I did. 
Even now her self-command is invariable. When is she de-
jected or melancholy? When does she try to avoid society, or 
appear restless and dissatisfied in it?’


Sense and Sensibility
48
Chapter 9
T
he Dashwoods were now settled at Barton with toler-
able comfort to themselves. The house and the garden, 
with all the objects surrounding them, were now become 
familiar, and the ordinary pursuits which had given to Nor-
land half its charms were engaged in again with far greater 
enjoyment than Norland had been able to afford, since the 
loss of their father. Sir John Middleton, who called on them 
every day for the first fortnight, and who was not in the hab-
it of seeing much occupation at home, could not conceal his 
amazement on finding them always employed.
Their visitors, except those from Barton Park, were not 
many; for, in spite of Sir John’s urgent entreaties that they 
would mix more in the neighbourhood, and repeated as-
surances of his carriage being always at their service, the 
independence of Mrs. Dashwood’s spirit overcame the wish 
of society for her children; and she was resolute in declin-
ing to visit any family beyond the distance of a walk. There 
were but few who could be so classed; and it was not all 
of them that were attainable. About a mile and a half from 
the cottage, along the narrow winding valley of Allenham, 
which issued from that of Barton, as formerly described, 
the girls had, in one of their earliest walks, discovered an 
ancient respectable looking mansion which, by reminding 
them a little of Norland, interested their imagination and 


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made them wish to be better acquainted with it. But they 
learnt, on enquiry, that its possessor, an elderly lady of very 
good character, was unfortunately too infirm to mix with 
the world, and never stirred from home.
The whole country about them abounded in beautiful 
walks. The high downs which invited them from almost ev-
ery window of the cottage to seek the exquisite enjoyment 
of air on their summits, were a happy alternative when the 
dirt of the valleys beneath shut up their superior beauties; 
and towards one of these hills did Marianne and Margaret 
one memorable morning direct their steps, attracted by the 
partial sunshine of a showery sky, and unable longer to bear 
the confinement which the settled rain of the two preceding 
days had occasioned. The weather was not tempting enough 
to draw the two others from their pencil and their book, in 
spite of Marianne’s declaration that the day would be last-
ingly fair, and that every threatening cloud would be drawn 
off from their hills; and the two girls set off together.
They gaily ascended the downs, rejoicing in their own 
penetration at every glimpse of blue sky; and when they 
caught in their faces the animating gales of a high south-
westerly wind, they pitied the fears which had prevented 
their mother and Elinor from sharing such delightful sen-
sations.
‘Is there a felicity in the world,’ said Marianne, ‘superior 
to this?—Margaret, we will walk here at least two hours.’
Margaret agreed, and they pursued their way against the 
wind, resisting it with laughing delight for about twenty 
minutes longer, when suddenly the clouds united over their 


Sense and Sensibility
50
heads, and a driving rain set full in their face.— Chagrined 
and surprised, they were obliged, though unwillingly, to 
turn back, for no shelter was nearer than their own house. 
One consolation however remained for them, to which the 
exigence of the moment gave more than usual propriety; it 
was that of running with all possible speed down the steep 
side of the hill which led immediately to their garden gate.
They set off. Marianne had at first the advantage, but a 
false step brought her suddenly to the ground; and Mar-
garet, unable to stop herself to assist her, was involuntarily 
hurried along, and reached the bottom in safety.
A gentleman carrying a gun, with two pointers playing 
round him, was passing up the hill and within a few yards 
of Marianne, when her accident happened. He put down his 
gun and ran to her assistance. She had raised herself from 
the ground, but her foot had been twisted in her fall, and 
she was scarcely able to stand. The gentleman offered his 
services; and perceiving that her modesty declined what 
her situation rendered necessary, took her up in his arms 
without farther delay, and carried her down the hill. Then 
passing through the garden, the gate of which had been 
left open by Margaret, he bore her directly into the house, 
whither Margaret was just arrived, and quitted not his hold 
till he had seated her in a chair in the parlour.
Elinor and her mother rose up in amazement at their en-
trance, and while the eyes of both were fixed on him with 
an evident wonder and a secret admiration which equally 
sprung from his appearance, he apologized for his intrusion 
by relating its cause, in a manner so frank and so grace-


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ful that his person, which was uncommonly handsome, 
received additional charms from his voice and expression. 
Had he been even old, ugly, and vulgar, the gratitude and 
kindness of Mrs. Dashwood would have been secured by 
any act of attention to her child; but the influence of youth, 
beauty, and elegance, gave an interest to the action which 
came home to her feelings.
She thanked him again and again; and, with a sweetness 
of address which always attended her, invited him to be 
seated. But this he declined, as he was dirty and wet. Mrs. 
Dashwood then begged to know to whom she was obliged. 
His name, he replied, was Willoughby, and his present 
home was at Allenham, from whence he hoped she would 
allow him the honour of calling tomorrow to enquire after 
Miss Dashwood. The honour was readily granted, and he 
then departed, to make himself still more interesting, in the 
midst of an heavy rain.
His manly beauty and more than common gracefulness 
were instantly the theme of general admiration, and the 
laugh which his gallantry raised against Marianne received 
particular spirit from his exterior attractions.— Marianne 
herself had seen less of his person that the rest, for the con-
fusion which crimsoned over her face, on his lifting her up, 
had robbed her of the power of regarding him after their en-
tering the house. But she had seen enough of him to join in 
all the admiration of the others, and with an energy which 
always adorned her praise. His person and air were equal to 
what her fancy had ever drawn for the hero of a favourite 
story; and in his carrying her into the house with so little 


Sense and Sensibility
52
previous formality, there was a rapidity of thought which 
particularly recommended the action to her. Every circum-
stance belonging to him was interesting. His name was 
good, his residence was in their favourite village, and she 
soon found out that of all manly dresses a shooting-jack-
et was the most becoming. Her imagination was busy, her 
reflections were pleasant, and the pain of a sprained ankle 
was disregarded.
Sir John called on them as soon as the next interval of 
fair weather that morning allowed him to get out of doors; 
and Marianne’s accident being related to him, he was ea-
gerly asked whether he knew any gentleman of the name of 
Willoughby at Allenham.
‘Willoughby!’ cried Sir John; ‘what, is HE in the country? 
That is good news however; I will ride over tomorrow, and 
ask him to dinner on Thursday.’
‘You know him then,’ said Mrs. Dashwood.
‘Know him! to be sure I do. Why, he is down here every 
year.’
‘And what sort of a young man is he?’
‘As good a kind of fellow as ever lived, I assure you. A very 
decent shot, and there is not a bolder rider in England.’
‘And is that all you can say for him?’ cried Marianne, 
indignantly. ‘But what are his manners on more intimate 
acquaintance? What his pursuits, his talents, and genius?’
Sir John was rather puzzled.
‘Upon my soul,’ said he, ‘I do not know much about him 
as to all THAT. But he is a pleasant, good humoured fellow, 
and has got the nicest little black bitch of a pointer I ever 


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saw. Was she out with him today?’
But Marianne could no more satisfy him as to the colour 
of Mr. Willoughby’s pointer, than he could describe to her 
the shades of his mind.
‘But who is he?’ said Elinor. ‘Where does he come from? 
Has he a house at Allenham?’
On this point Sir John could give more certain intel-
ligence; and he told them that Mr. Willoughby had no 
property of his own in the country; that he resided there 
only while he was visiting the old lady at Allenham Court, 
to whom he was related, and whose possessions he was to 
inherit; adding, ‘Yes, yes, he is very well worth catching I 
can tell you, Miss Dashwood; he has a pretty little estate of 
his own in Somersetshire besides; and if I were you, I would 
not give him up to my younger sister, in spite of all this tum-
bling down hills. Miss Marianne must not expect to have all 
the men to herself. Brandon will be jealous, if she does not 
take care.’
‘I do not believe,’ said Mrs. Dashwood, with a good hu-
moured smile, ‘that Mr. Willoughby will be incommoded 
by the attempts of either of MY daughters towards what you 
call CATCHING him. It is not an employment to which 
they have been brought up. Men are very safe with us, let 
them be ever so rich. I am glad to find, however, from what 
you say, that he is a respectable young man, and one whose 
acquaintance will not be ineligible.’
‘He is as good a sort of fellow, I believe, as ever lived,’ re-
peated Sir John. ‘I remember last Christmas at a little hop 
at the park, he danced from eight o’clock till four, without 


Sense and Sensibility
54
once sitting down.’
‘Did he indeed?’ cried Marianne with sparkling eyes, 
‘and with elegance, with spirit?’
‘Yes; and he was up again at eight to ride to covert.’
‘That is what I like; that is what a young man ought to 
be. Whatever be his pursuits, his eagerness in them should 
know no moderation, and leave him no sense of fatigue.’
‘Aye, aye, I see how it will be,’ said Sir John, ‘I see how it 
will be. You will be setting your cap at him now, and never 
think of poor Brandon.’
‘That is an expression, Sir John,’ said Marianne, warmly, 
‘which I particularly dislike. I abhor every common-place 
phrase by which wit is intended; and ‘setting one’s cap 
at a man,’ or ‘making a conquest,’ are the most odious of 
all. Their tendency is gross and illiberal; and if their con-
struction could ever be deemed clever, time has long ago 
destroyed all its ingenuity.’
Sir John did not much understand this reproof; but he 
laughed as heartily as if he did, and then replied,
‘Ay, you will make conquests enough, I dare say, one way 
or other. Poor Brandon! he is quite smitten already, and he 
is very well worth setting your cap at, I can tell you, in spite 
of all this tumbling about and spraining of ankles.’


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Chapter 10
M
arianne’s preserver, as Margaret, with more elegance 
than precision, styled Willoughby, called at the cot-
tage early the next morning to make his personal enquiries. 
He was received by Mrs. Dashwood with more than polite-
ness; with a kindness which Sir John’s account of him and 
her own gratitude prompted; and every thing that passed 
during the visit tended to assure him of the sense, elegance, 
mutual affection, and domestic comfort of the family to 
whom accident had now introduced him. Of their personal 
charms he had not required a second interview to be con-
vinced.
Miss Dashwood had a delicate complexion, regular fea-
tures, and a remarkably pretty figure. Marianne was still 
handsomer. Her form, though not so correct as her sister’s, 
in having the advantage of height, was more striking; and 
her face was so lovely, that when in the common cant of 
praise, she was called a beautiful girl, truth was less vio-
lently outraged than usually happens. Her skin was very 
brown, but, from its transparency, her complexion was un-
commonly brilliant; her features were all good; her smile 
was sweet and attractive; and in her eyes, which were very 
dark, there was a life, a spirit, an eagerness, which could 
hardily be seen without delight. From Willoughby their ex-
pression was at first held back, by the embarrassment which 


Sense and Sensibility
56
the remembrance of his assistance created. But when this 
passed away, when her spirits became collected, when she 
saw that to the perfect good-breeding of the gentleman, 
he united frankness and vivacity, and above all, when she 
heard him declare, that of music and dancing he was pas-
sionately fond, she gave him such a look of approbation as 
secured the largest share of his discourse to herself for the 
rest of his stay.
It was only necessary to mention any favourite amuse-
ment to engage her to talk. She could not be silent when 
such points were introduced, and she had neither shyness 
nor reserve in their discussion. They speedily discovered 
that their enjoyment of dancing and music was mutual, and 
that it arose from a general conformity of judgment in all 
that related to either. Encouraged by this to a further ex-
amination of his opinions, she proceeded to question him 
on the subject of books; her favourite authors were brought 
forward and dwelt upon with so rapturous a delight, that 
any young man of five and twenty must have been insen-
sible indeed, not to become an immediate convert to the 
excellence of such works, however disregarded before. Their 
taste was strikingly alike. The same books, the same pas-
sages were idolized by each— or if any difference appeared, 
any objection arose, it lasted no longer than till the force 
of her arguments and the brightness of her eyes could be 
displayed. He acquiesced in all her decisions, caught all 
her enthusiasm; and long before his visit concluded, they 
conversed with the familiarity of a long-established ac-
quaintance.


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‘Well, Marianne,’ said Elinor, as soon as he had left them, 
‘for ONE morning I think you have done pretty well. You 
have already ascertained Mr. Willoughby’s opinion in al-
most every matter of importance. You know what he thinks 
of Cowper and Scott; you are certain of his estimating their 
beauties as he ought, and you have received every assur-
ance of his admiring Pope no more than is proper. But how 
is your acquaintance to be long supported, under such ex-
traordinary despatch of every subject for discourse? You 
will soon have exhausted each favourite topic. Another 
meeting will suffice to explain his sentiments on pictur-
esque beauty, and second marriages, and then you can have 
nothing farther to ask.’—
‘Elinor,’ cried Marianne, ‘is this fair? is this just? are my 
ideas so scanty? But I see what you mean. I have been too 
much at my ease, too happy, too frank. I have erred against 
every common-place notion of decorum; I have been open 
and sincere where I ought to have been reserved, spiritless, 
dull, and deceitful—had I talked only of the weather and 
the roads, and had I spoken only once in ten minutes, this 
reproach would have been spared.’
‘My love,’ said her mother, ‘you must not be offended 
with Elinor—she was only in jest. I should scold her myself, 
if she were capable of wishing to check the delight of your 
conversation with our new friend.’— Marianne was soft-
ened in a moment.
Willoughby, on his side, gave every proof of his pleasure 
in their acquaintance, which an evident wish of improv-
ing it could offer. He came to them every day. To enquire 


Sense and Sensibility
58
after Marianne was at first his excuse; but the encourage-
ment of his reception, to which every day gave greater 
kindness, made such an excuse unnecessary before it had 
ceased to be possible, by Marianne’s perfect recovery. She 
was confined for some days to the house; but never had any 
confinement been less irksome. Willoughby was a young 
man of good abilities, quick imagination, lively spirits, and 
open, affectionate manners. He was exactly formed to en-
gage Marianne’s heart, for with all this, he joined not only 
a captivating person, but a natural ardour of mind which 
was now roused and increased by the example of her own, 
and which recommended him to her affection beyond every 
thing else.
His society became gradually her most exquisite enjoy-
ment. They read, they talked, they sang together; his musical 
talents were considerable; and he read with all the sensibil-
ity and spirit which Edward had unfortunately wanted.
In Mrs. Dashwood’s estimation he was as faultless as in 
Marianne’s; and Elinor saw nothing to censure in him but 
a propensity, in which he strongly resembled and peculiar-
ly delighted her sister, of saying too much what he thought 
on every occasion, without attention to persons or circum-
stances. In hastily forming and giving his opinion of other 
people, in sacrificing general politeness to the enjoyment of 
undivided attention where his heart was engaged, and in 
slighting too easily the forms of worldly propriety, he dis-
played a want of caution which Elinor could not approve, in 
spite of all that he and Marianne could say in its support.
Marianne began now to perceive that the desperation 


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which had seized her at sixteen and a half, of ever seeing 
a man who could satisfy her ideas of perfection, had been 
rash and unjustifiable. Willoughby was all that her fancy 
had delineated in that unhappy hour and in every bright-
er period, as capable of attaching her; and his behaviour 
declared his wishes to be in that respect as earnest, as his 
abilities were strong.
Her mother too, in whose mind not one speculative 
thought of their marriage had been raised, by his prospect 
of riches, was led before the end of a week to hope and ex-
pect it; and secretly to congratulate herself on having gained 
two such sons-in-law as Edward and Willoughby.
Colonel Brandon’s partiality for Marianne, which had 
so early been discovered by his friends, now first became 
perceptible to Elinor, when it ceased to be noticed by them. 
Their attention and wit were drawn off to his more fortunate 
rival; and the raillery which the other had incurred before 
any partiality arose, was removed when his feelings began 
really to call for the ridicule so justly annexed to sensibil-
ity. Elinor was obliged, though unwillingly, to believe that 
the sentiments which Mrs. Jennings had assigned him for 
her own satisfaction, were now actually excited by her sis-
ter; and that however a general resemblance of disposition 
between the parties might forward the affection of Mr. Wil-
loughby, an equally striking opposition of character was no 
hindrance to the regard of Colonel Brandon. She saw it with 
concern; for what could a silent man of five and thirty hope, 
when opposed to a very lively one of five and twenty? and as 
she could not even wish him successful, she heartily wished 


Sense and Sensibility
60
him indifferent. She liked him—in spite of his gravity and 
reserve, she beheld in him an object of interest. His man-
ners, though serious, were mild; and his reserve appeared 
rather the result of some oppression of spirits than of any 
natural gloominess of temper. Sir John had dropped hints 
of past injuries and disappointments, which justified her 
belief of his being an unfortunate man, and she regarded 
him with respect and compassion.
Perhaps she pitied and esteemed him the more because 
he was slighted by Willoughby and Marianne, who, preju-
diced against him for being neither lively nor young, seemed 
resolved to undervalue his merits.
‘Brandon is just the kind of man,’ said Willoughby one 
day, when they were talking of him together, ‘whom every 
body speaks well of, and nobody cares about; whom all are 
delighted to see, and nobody remembers to talk to.’
‘That is exactly what I think of him,’ cried Marianne.
‘Do not boast of it, however,’ said Elinor, ‘for it is injus-
tice in both of you. He is highly esteemed by all the family 
at the park, and I never see him myself without taking pains 
to converse with him.’
‘That he is patronised by YOU,’ replied Willoughby, ‘is 
certainly in his favour; but as for the esteem of the others, 
it is a reproach in itself. Who would submit to the indignity 
of being approved by such a woman as Lady Middleton and 
Mrs. Jennings, that could command the indifference of any 
body else?’
‘But perhaps the abuse of such people as yourself and 
Marianne will make amends for the regard of Lady Middle-


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ton and her mother. If their praise is censure, your censure 
may be praise, for they are not more undiscerning, than you 
are prejudiced and unjust.’
‘In defence of your protege you can even be saucy.’
‘My protege, as you call him, is a sensible man; and sense 
will always have attractions for me. Yes, Marianne, even in 
a man between thirty and forty. He has seen a great deal of 
the world; has been abroad, has read, and has a thinking 
mind. I have found him capable of giving me much infor-
mation on various subjects; and he has always answered my 
inquiries with readiness of good-breeding and good na-
ture.’
‘That is to say,’ cried Marianne contemptuously, ‘he has 
told you, that in the East Indies the climate is hot, and the 
mosquitoes are troublesome.’
‘He WOULD have told me so, I doubt not, had I made 
any such inquiries, but they happened to be points on which 
I had been previously informed.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Willoughby, ‘his observations may have 
extended to the existence of nabobs, gold mohrs, and pa-
lanquins.’
‘I may venture to say that HIS observations have stretched 
much further than your candour. But why should you dis-
like him?’
‘I do not dislike him. I consider him, on the contrary, as a 
very respectable man, who has every body’s good word, and 
nobody’s notice; who, has more money than he can spend, 
more time than he knows how to employ, and two new coats 
every year.’


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62
‘Add to which,’ cried Marianne, ‘that he has neither 
genius, taste, nor spirit. That his understanding has no bril-
liancy, his feelings no ardour, and his voice no expression.’
‘You decide on his imperfections so much in the mass,’ 
replied Elinor, ‘and so much on the strength of your own 
imagination, that the commendation I am able to give of 
him is comparatively cold and insipid. I can only pronounce 
him to be a sensible man, well-bred, well-informed, of gen-
tle address, and, I believe, possessing an amiable heart.’
‘Miss Dashwood,’ cried Willoughby, ‘you are now using 
me unkindly. You are endeavouring to disarm me by rea-
son, and to convince me against my will. But it will not do. 
You shall find me as stubborn as you can be artful. I have 
three unanswerable reasons for disliking Colonel Brandon; 
he threatened me with rain when I wanted it to be fine; he 
has found fault with the hanging of my curricle, and I can-
not persuade him to buy my brown mare. If it will be any 
satisfaction to you, however, to be told, that I believe his 
character to be in other respects irreproachable, I am ready 
to confess it. And in return for an acknowledgment, which 
must give me some pain, you cannot deny me the privilege 
of disliking him as much as ever.’


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Chapter 11
L
ittle had Mrs. Dashwood or her daughters imagined 
when they first came into Devonshire, that so many 
engagements would arise to occupy their time as shortly 
presented themselves, or that they should have such fre-
quent invitations and such constant visitors as to leave them 
little leisure for serious employment. Yet such was the case. 
When Marianne was recovered, the schemes of amusement 
at home and abroad, which Sir John had been previously 
forming, were put into execution. The private balls at the 
park then began; and parties on the water were made and 
accomplished as often as a showery October would allow. 
In every meeting of the kind Willoughby was included; 
and the ease and familiarity which naturally attended these 
parties were exactly calculated to give increasing intima-
cy to his acquaintance with the Dashwoods, to afford him 
opportunity of witnessing the excellencies of Marianne, of 
marking his animated admiration of her, and of receiving, 
in her behaviour to himself, the most pointed assurance of 
her affection.
Elinor could not be surprised at their attachment. She 
only wished that it were less openly shewn; and once or 
twice did venture to suggest the propriety of some self-com-
mand to Marianne. But Marianne abhorred all concealment 
where no real disgrace could attend unreserve; and to aim 


Sense and Sensibility
64
at the restraint of sentiments which were not in themselves 
illaudable, appeared to her not merely an unnecessary 
effort, but a disgraceful subjection of reason to common-
place and mistaken notions. Willoughby thought the same; 
and their behaviour at all times, was an illustration of their 
opinions.
When he was present she had no eyes for any one else. 
Every thing he did, was right. Every thing he said, was clev-
er. If their evenings at the park were concluded with cards, 
he cheated himself and all the rest of the party to get her a 
good hand. If dancing formed the amusement of the night, 
they were partners for half the time; and when obliged to 
separate for a couple of dances, were careful to stand to-
gether and scarcely spoke a word to any body else. Such 
conduct made them of course most exceedingly laughed at; 
but ridicule could not shame, and seemed hardly to pro-
voke them.
Mrs. Dashwood entered into all their feelings with a 
warmth which left her no inclination for checking this 
excessive display of them. To her it was but the natural con-
sequence of a strong affection in a young and ardent mind.
This was the season of happiness to Marianne. Her 
heart was devoted to Willoughby, and the fond attachment 
to Norland, which she brought with her from Sussex, was 
more likely to be softened than she had thought it possible 
before, by the charms which his society bestowed on her 
present home.
Elinor’s happiness was not so great. Her heart was not 
so much at ease, nor her satisfaction in their amusements 


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so pure. They afforded her no companion that could make 
amends for what she had left behind, nor that could teach 
her to think of Norland with less regret than ever. Neither 
Lady Middleton nor Mrs. Jennings could supply to her the 
conversation she missed; although the latter was an ever-
lasting talker, and from the first had regarded her with a 
kindness which ensured her a large share of her discourse. 
She had already repeated her own history to Elinor three 
or four times; and had Elinor’s memory been equal to her 
means of improvement, she might have known very early 
in their acquaintance all the particulars of Mr. Jenning’s 
last illness, and what he said to his wife a few minutes be-
fore he died. Lady Middleton was more agreeable than her 
mother only in being more silent. Elinor needed little ob-
servation to perceive that her reserve was a mere calmness 
of manner with which sense had nothing to do. Towards her 
husband and mother she was the same as to them; and inti-
macy was therefore neither to be looked for nor desired. She 
had nothing to say one day that she had not said the day be-
fore. Her insipidity was invariable, for even her spirits were 
always the same; and though she did not oppose the parties 
arranged by her husband, provided every thing were con-
ducted in style and her two eldest children attended her, she 
never appeared to receive more enjoyment from them than 
she might have experienced in sitting at home;— and so lit-
tle did her presence add to the pleasure of the others, by 
any share in their conversation, that they were sometimes 
only reminded of her being amongst them by her solicitude 
about her troublesome boys.


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66
In Colonel Brandon alone, of all her new acquaintance, 
did Elinor find a person who could in any degree claim the 
respect of abilities, excite the interest of friendship, or give 
pleasure as a companion. Willoughby was out of the ques-
tion. Her admiration and regard, even her sisterly regard, 
was all his own; but he was a lover; his attentions were whol-
ly Marianne’s, and a far less agreeable man might have been 
more generally pleasing. Colonel Brandon, unfortunate-
ly for himself, had no such encouragement to think only 
of Marianne, and in conversing with Elinor he found the 
greatest consolation for the indifference of her sister.
Elinor’s compassion for him increased, as she had reason 
to suspect that the misery of disappointed love had already 
been known to him. This suspicion was given by some 
words which accidently dropped from him one evening at 
the park, when they were sitting down together by mutual 
consent, while the others were dancing. His eyes were fixed 
on Marianne, and, after a silence of some minutes, he said, 
with a faint smile, ‘Your sister, I understand, does not ap-
prove of second attachments.’
‘No,’ replied Elinor, ‘her opinions are all romantic.’
‘Or rather, as I believe, she considers them impossible 
to exist.’
‘I believe she does. But how she contrives it without re-
flecting on the character of her own father, who had himself 
two wives, I know not. A few years however will settle her 
opinions on the reasonable basis of common sense and ob-
servation; and then they may be more easy to define and to 
justify than they now are, by any body but herself.’


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‘This will probably be the case,’ he replied; ‘and yet there 
is something so amiable in the prejudices of a young mind, 
that one is sorry to see them give way to the reception of 
more general opinions.’
‘I cannot agree with you there,’ said Elinor. ‘There are 
inconveniences attending such feelings as Marianne’s, 
which all the charms of enthusiasm and ignorance of the 
world cannot atone for. Her systems have all the unfortu-
nate tendency of setting propriety at nought; and a better 
acquaintance with the world is what I look forward to as her 
greatest possible advantage.’
After a short pause he resumed the conversation by 
saying,—
‘Does your sister make no distinction in her objections 
against a second attachment? or is it equally criminal in ev-
ery body? Are those who have been disappointed in their 
first choice, whether from the inconstancy of its object, or 
the perverseness of circumstances, to be equally indifferent 
during the rest of their lives?’
‘Upon my word, I am not acquainted with the minuti-
ae of her principles. I only know that I never yet heard her 
admit any instance of a second attachment’s being pardon-
able.’
‘This,’ said he, ‘cannot hold; but a change, a total change 
of sentiments—No, no, do not desire it; for when the ro-
mantic refinements of a young mind are obliged to give way, 
how frequently are they succeeded by such opinions as are 
but too common, and too dangerous! I speak from experi-
ence. I once knew a lady who in temper and mind greatly 


Sense and Sensibility
68
resembled your sister, who thought and judged like her, but 
who from an inforced change—from a series of unfortunate 
circumstances’— Here he stopt suddenly; appeared to think 
that he had said too much, and by his countenance gave rise 
to conjectures, which might not otherwise have entered Eli-
nor’s head. The lady would probably have passed without 
suspicion, had he not convinced Miss Dashwood that what 
concerned her ought not to escape his lips. As it was, it re-
quired but a slight effort of fancy to connect his emotion 
with the tender recollection of past regard. Elinor attempted 
no more. But Marianne, in her place, would not have done 
so little. The whole story would have been speedily formed 
under her active imagination; and every thing established 
in the most melancholy order of disastrous love.


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Chapter 12
A
s Elinor and Marianne were walking together the next 
morning the latter communicated a piece of news to 
her sister, which in spite of all that she knew before of Mar-
ianne’s imprudence and want of thought, surprised her by 
its extravagant testimony of both. Marianne told her, with 
the greatest delight, that Willoughby had given her a horse, 
one that he had bred himself on his estate in Somersetshire, 
and which was exactly calculated to carry a woman. With-
out considering that it was not in her mother’s plan to keep 
any horse, that if she were to alter her resolution in favour 
of this gift, she must buy another for the servant, and keep a 
servant to ride it, and after all, build a stable to receive them, 
she had accepted the present without hesitation, and told 
her sister of it in raptures.
‘He intends to send his groom into Somersetshire im-
mediately for it,’ she added, ‘and when it arrives we will ride 
every day. You shall share its use with me. Imagine to your-
self, my dear Elinor, the delight of a gallop on some of these 
downs.’
Most unwilling was she to awaken from such a dream 
of felicity to comprehend all the unhappy truths which at-
tended the affair; and for some time she refused to submit 
to them. As to an additional servant, the expense would be 
a trifle; Mamma she was sure would never object to it; and 


Sense and Sensibility
70
any horse would do for HIM; he might always get one at 
the park; as to a stable, the merest shed would be sufficient. 
Elinor then ventured to doubt the propriety of her receiv-
ing such a present from a man so little, or at least so lately 
known to her. This was too much.
‘You are mistaken, Elinor,’ said she warmly, ‘in suppos-
ing I know very little of Willoughby. I have not known him 
long indeed, but I am much better acquainted with him, 
than I am with any other creature in the world, except 
yourself and mama. It is not time or opportunity that is to 
determine intimacy;— it is disposition alone. Seven years 
would be insufficient to make some people acquainted with 
each other, and seven days are more than enough for oth-
ers. I should hold myself guilty of greater impropriety in 
accepting a horse from my brother, than from Willoughby. 
Of John I know very little, though we have lived together 
for years; but of Willoughby my judgment has long been 
formed.’
Elinor thought it wisest to touch that point no more. She 
knew her sister’s temper. Opposition on so tender a sub-
ject would only attach her the more to her own opinion. 
But by an appeal to her affection for her mother, by rep-
resenting the inconveniences which that indulgent mother 
must draw on herself, if (as would probably be the case) she 
consented to this increase of establishment, Marianne was 
shortly subdued; and she promised not to tempt her mother 
to such imprudent kindness by mentioning the offer, and 
to tell Willoughby when she saw him next, that it must be 
declined.


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She was faithful to her word; and when Willoughby 
called at the cottage, the same day, Elinor heard her express 
her disappointment to him in a low voice, on being obliged 
to forego the acceptance of his present. The reasons for this 
alteration were at the same time related, and they were such 
as to make further entreaty on his side impossible. His con-
cern however was very apparent; and after expressing it 
with earnestness, he added, in the same low voice,—‘But, 
Marianne, the horse is still yours, though you cannot use 
it now. I shall keep it only till you can claim it. When you 
leave Barton to form your own establishment in a more last-
ing home, Queen Mab shall receive you.’
This was all overheard by Miss Dashwood; and in the 
whole of the sentence, in his manner of pronouncing it, and 
in his addressing her sister by her christian name alone, she 
instantly saw an intimacy so decided, a meaning so direct, 
as marked a perfect agreement between them. >From that 
moment she doubted not of their being engaged to each 
other; and the belief of it created no other surprise than 
that she, or any of their friends, should be left by tempers so 
frank, to discover it by accident.
Margaret related something to her the next day, which 
placed this matter in a still clearer light. Willoughby had 
spent the preceding evening with them, and Margaret, by 
being left some time in the parlour with only him and Mari-
anne, had had opportunity for observations, which, with a 
most important face, she communicated to her eldest sister, 
when they were next by themselves.
‘Oh, Elinor!’ she cried, ‘I have such a secret to tell you 


Sense and Sensibility
72
about Marianne. I am sure she will be married to Mr. Wil-
loughby very soon.’
‘You have said so,’ replied Elinor, ‘almost every day since 
they first met on High-church Down; and they had not 
known each other a week, I believe, before you were cer-
tain that Marianne wore his picture round her neck; but it 
turned out to be only the miniature of our great uncle.’
‘But indeed this is quite another thing. I am sure they 
will be married very soon, for he has got a lock of her hair.’
‘Take care, Margaret. It may be only the hair of some 
great uncle of HIS.’
‘But, indeed, Elinor, it is Marianne’s. I am almost sure it 
is, for I saw him cut it off. Last night after tea, when you and 
mama went out of the room, they were whispering and talk-
ing together as fast as could be, and he seemed to be begging 
something of her, and presently he took up her scissors and 
cut off a long lock of her hair, for it was all tumbled down 
her back; and he kissed it, and folded it up in a piece of white 
paper; and put it into his pocket-book.’
For such particulars, stated on such authority, Elinor 
could not withhold her credit; nor was she disposed to it, 
for the circumstance was in perfect unison with what she 
had heard and seen herself.
Margaret’s sagacity was not always displayed in a way 
so satisfactory to her sister. When Mrs. Jennings attacked 
her one evening at the park, to give the name of the young 
man who was Elinor’s particular favourite, which had been 
long a matter of great curiosity to her, Margaret answered 
by looking at her sister, and saying, ‘I must not tell, may I, 


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Elinor?’
This of course made every body laugh; and Elinor tried 
to laugh too. But the effort was painful. She was convinced 
that Margaret had fixed on a person whose name she could 
not bear with composure to become a standing joke with 
Mrs. Jennings.
Marianne felt for her most sincerely; but she did more 
harm than good to the cause, by turning very red and say-
ing in an angry manner to Margaret,
‘Remember that whatever your conjectures may be, you 
have no right to repeat them.’
‘I never had any conjectures about it,’ replied Margaret; 
‘it was you who told me of it yourself.’
This increased the mirth of the company, and Margaret 
was eagerly pressed to say something more.
‘Oh! pray, Miss Margaret, let us know all about it,’ said 
Mrs. Jennings. ‘What is the gentleman’s name?’
‘I must not tell, ma’am. But I know very well what it is; 
and I know where he is too.’
‘Yes, yes, we can guess where he is; at his own house at 
Norland to be sure. He is the curate of the parish I dare 
say.’
‘No, THAT he is not. He is of no profession at all.’
‘Margaret,’ said Marianne with great warmth, ‘you know 
that all this is an invention of your own, and that there is no 
such person in existence.’
‘Well, then, he is lately dead, Marianne, for I am sure 
there was such a man once, and his name begins with an 
F.’


Sense and Sensibility
74
Most grateful did Elinor feel to Lady Middleton for ob-
serving, at this moment, ‘that it rained very hard,’ though 
she believed the interruption to proceed less from any atten-
tion to her, than from her ladyship’s great dislike of all such 
inelegant subjects of raillery as delighted her husband and 
mother. The idea however started by her, was immediately 
pursued by Colonel Brandon, who was on every occasion 
mindful of the feelings of others; and much was said on the 
subject of rain by both of them. Willoughby opened the pi-
ano-forte, and asked Marianne to sit down to it; and thus 
amidst the various endeavours of different people to quit 
the topic, it fell to the ground. But not so easily did Elinor 
recover from the alarm into which it had thrown her.
A party was formed this evening for going on the fol-
lowing day to see a very fine place about twelve miles from 
Barton, belonging to a brother-in-law of Colonel Brandon, 
without whose interest it could not be seen, as the propri-
etor, who was then abroad, had left strict orders on that 
head. The grounds were declared to be highly beautiful, and 
Sir John, who was particularly warm in their praise, might 
be allowed to be a tolerable judge, for he had formed parties 
to visit them, at least, twice every summer for the last ten 
years. They contained a noble piece of water; a sail on which 
was to a form a great part of the morning’s amusement; cold 
provisions were to be taken, open carriages only to be em-
ployed, and every thing conducted in the usual style of a 
complete party of pleasure.
To some few of the company it appeared rather a bold 
undertaking, considering the time of year, and that it had 


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rained every day for the last fortnight;— and Mrs. Dash-
wood, who had already a cold, was persuaded by Elinor to 
stay at home.


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Chapter 13
T
heir intended excursion to Whitwell turned out very 
different from what Elinor had expected. She was pre-
pared to be wet through, fatigued, and frightened; but the 
event was still more unfortunate, for they did not go at all.
By ten o’clock the whole party was assembled at the park, 
where they were to breakfast. The morning was rather fa-
vourable, though it had rained all night, as the clouds were 
then dispersing across the sky, and the sun frequently ap-
peared. They were all in high spirits and good humour, 
eager to be happy, and determined to submit to the greatest 
inconveniences and hardships rather than be otherwise.
While they were at breakfast the letters were brought in. 
Among the rest there was one for Colonel Brandon;—he 
took it, looked at the direction, changed colour, and imme-
diately left the room.
‘What is the matter with Brandon?’ said Sir John.
Nobody could tell.
‘I hope he has had no bad news,’ said Lady Middleton. ‘It 
must be something extraordinary that could make Colonel 
Brandon leave my breakfast table so suddenly.’
In about five minutes he returned.
‘No bad news, Colonel, I hope;’ said Mrs. Jennings, as 
soon as he entered the room.
‘None at all, ma’am, I thank you.’


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‘Was it from Avignon? I hope it is not to say that your 
sister is worse.’
‘No, ma’am. It came from town, and is merely a letter of 
business.’
‘But how came the hand to discompose you so much, if 
it was only a letter of business? Come, come, this won’t do, 
Colonel; so let us hear the truth of it.’
‘My dear madam,’ said Lady Middleton, ‘recollect what 
you are saying.’
‘Perhaps it is to tell you that your cousin Fanny is 
married?’ said Mrs. Jennings, without attending to her 
daughter’s reproof.
‘No, indeed, it is not.’
‘Well, then, I know who it is from, Colonel. And I hope 
she is well.’
‘Whom do you mean, ma’am?’ said he, colouring a little.
‘Oh! you know who I mean.’
‘I am particularly sorry, ma’am,’ said he, addressing Lady 
Middleton, ‘that I should receive this letter today, for it is 
on business which requires my immediate attendance in 
town.’
‘In town!’ cried Mrs. Jennings. ‘What can you have to do 
in town at this time of year?’
‘My own loss is great,’ be continued, ‘in being obliged to 
leave so agreeable a party; but I am the more concerned, as 
I fear my presence is necessary to gain your admittance at 
Whitwell.’
What a blow upon them all was this!
‘But if you write a note to the housekeeper, Mr. Brandon,’ 


Sense and Sensibility
78
said Marianne, eagerly, ‘will it not be sufficient?’
He shook his head.
‘We must go,’ said Sir John.—‘It shall not be put off when 
we are so near it. You cannot go to town till tomorrow, 
Brandon, that is all.’
‘I wish it could be so easily settled. But it is not in my 
power to delay my journey for one day!’
‘If you would but let us know what your business is,’ said 
Mrs. Jennings, ‘we might see whether it could be put off or 
not.’
‘You would not be six hours later,’ said Willoughby, ‘if 
you were to defer your journey till our return.’
‘I cannot afford to lose ONE hour.’—
Elinor then heard Willoughby say, in a low voice to Mar-
ianne, ‘There are some people who cannot bear a party of 
pleasure. Brandon is one of them. He was afraid of catching 
cold I dare say, and invented this trick for getting out of it. I 
would lay fifty guineas the letter was of his own writing.’
‘I have no doubt of it,’ replied Marianne.
‘There is no persuading you to change your mind, Bran-
don, I know of old,’ said Sir John, ‘when once you are 
determined on anything. But, however, I hope you will 
think better of it. Consider, here are the two Miss Careys 
come over from Newton, the three Miss Dashwoods walked 
up from the cottage, and Mr. Willoughby got up two hours 
before his usual time, on purpose to go to Whitwell.’
Colonel Brandon again repeated his sorrow at being the 
cause of disappointing the party; but at the same time de-
clared it to be unavoidable.


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‘Well, then, when will you come back again?’
‘I hope we shall see you at Barton,’ added her ladyship, ‘as 
soon as you can conveniently leave town; and we must put 
off the party to Whitwell till you return.’
‘You are very obliging. But it is so uncertain, when I may 
have it in my power to return, that I dare not engage for it 
at all.’
‘Oh! he must and shall come back,’ cried Sir John. ‘If he is 
not here by the end of the week, I shall go after him.’
‘Ay, so do, Sir John,’ cried Mrs. Jennings, ‘and then per-
haps you may find out what his business is.’
‘I do not want to pry into other men’s concerns. I sup-
pose it is something he is ashamed of.’
Colonel Brandon’s horses were announced.
‘You do not go to town on horseback, do you?’ added Sir 
John.
‘No. Only to Honiton. I shall then go post.’
‘Well, as you are resolved to go, I wish you a good jour-
ney. But you had better change your mind.’
‘I assure you it is not in my power.’
He then took leave of the whole party.
‘Is there no chance of my seeing you and your sisters in 
town this winter, Miss Dashwood?’
‘I am afraid, none at all.’
‘Then I must bid you farewell for a longer time than I 
should wish to do.’
To Marianne, he merely bowed and said nothing.
‘Come Colonel,’ said Mrs. Jennings, ‘before you go, do let 
us know what you are going about.’


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80
He wished her a good morning, and, attended by Sir 
John, left the room.
The complaints and lamentations which politeness had 
hitherto restrained, now burst forth universally; and they 
all agreed again and again how provoking it was to be so 
disappointed.
‘I can guess what his business is, however,’ said Mrs. Jen-
nings exultingly.
‘Can you, ma’am?’ said almost every body.
‘Yes; it is about Miss Williams, I am sure.’
‘And who is Miss Williams?’ asked Marianne.
‘What! do not you know who Miss Williams is? I am 
sure you must have heard of her before. She is a relation of 
the Colonel’s, my dear; a very near relation. We will not say 
how near, for fear of shocking the young ladies.’ Then, low-
ering her voice a little, she said to Elinor, ‘She is his natural 
daughter.’
‘Indeed!’
‘Oh, yes; and as like him as she can stare. I dare say the 
Colonel will leave her all his fortune.’
When Sir John returned, he joined most heartily in the 
general regret on so unfortunate an event; concluding how-
ever by observing, that as they were all got together, they 
must do something by way of being happy; and after some 
consultation it was agreed, that although happiness could 
only be enjoyed at Whitwell, they might procure a toler-
able composure of mind by driving about the country. The 
carriages were then ordered; Willoughby’s was first, and 
Marianne never looked happier than when she got into it. 


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He drove through the park very fast, and they were soon 
out of sight; and nothing more of them was seen till their 
return, which did not happen till after the return of all the 
rest. They both seemed delighted with their drive; but said 
only in general terms that they had kept in the lanes, while 
the others went on the downs.
It was settled that there should be a dance in the evening, 
and that every body should be extremely merry all day long. 
Some more of the Careys came to dinner, and they had the 
pleasure of sitting down nearly twenty to table, which Sir 
John observed with great contentment. Willoughby took his 
usual place between the two elder Miss Dashwoods. Mrs. 
Jennings sat on Elinor’s right hand; and they had not been 
long seated, before she leant behind her and Willoughby, 
and said to Marianne, loud enough for them both to hear, ‘I 
have found you out in spite of all your tricks. I know where 
you spent the morning.’
Marianne coloured, and replied very hastily, ‘Where, 
pray?’—
‘Did not you know,’ said Willoughby, ‘that we had been 
out in my curricle?’
‘Yes, yes, Mr. Impudence, I know that very well, and I 
was determined to find out WHERE you had been to.— I 
hope you like your house, Miss Marianne. It is a very large 
one, I know; and when I come to see you, I hope you will 
have new-furnished it, for it wanted it very much when I 
was there six years ago.’
Marianne turned away in great confusion. Mrs. Jennings 
laughed heartily; and Elinor found that in her resolution to 


Sense and Sensibility
82
know where they had been, she had actually made her own 
woman enquire of Mr. Willoughby’s groom; and that she 
had by that method been informed that they had gone to 
Allenham, and spent a considerable time there in walking 
about the garden and going all over the house.
Elinor could hardly believe this to be true, as it seemed 
very unlikely that Willoughby should propose, or Marianne 
consent, to enter the house while Mrs. Smith was in it, with 
whom Marianne had not the smallest acquaintance.
As soon as they left the dining-room, Elinor enquired of 
her about it; and great was her surprise when she found that 
every circumstance related by Mrs. Jennings was perfectly 
true. Marianne was quite angry with her for doubting it.
‘Why should you imagine, Elinor, that we did not go 
there, or that we did not see the house? Is not it what you 
have often wished to do yourself?’
‘Yes, Marianne, but I would not go while Mrs. Smith was 
there, and with no other companion than Mr. Willoughby.’
‘Mr. Willoughby however is the only person who can 
have a right to shew that house; and as he went in an open 
carriage, it was impossible to have any other companion. I 
never spent a pleasanter morning in my life.’
‘I am afraid,’ replied Elinor, ‘that the pleasantness of an 
employment does not always evince its propriety.’
‘On the contrary, nothing can be a stronger proof of it, 
Elinor; for if there had been any real impropriety in what 
I did, I should have been sensible of it at the time, for we 
always know when we are acting wrong, and with such a 
conviction I could have had no pleasure.’


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‘But, my dear Marianne, as it has already exposed you to 
some very impertinent remarks, do you not now begin to 
doubt the discretion of your own conduct?’
‘If the impertinent remarks of Mrs. Jennings are to be 
the proof of impropriety in conduct, we are all offending 
every moment of our lives. I value not her censure any more 
than I should do her commendation. I am not sensible of 
having done anything wrong in walking over Mrs. Smith’s 
grounds, or in seeing her house. They will one day be Mr. 
Willoughby’s, and—‘
‘If they were one day to be your own, Marianne, you 
would not be justified in what you have done.’
She blushed at this hint; but it was even visibly gratifying 
to her; and after a ten minutes’ interval of earnest thought, 
she came to her sister again, and said with great good hu-
mour, ‘Perhaps, Elinor, it WAS rather ill-judged in me to 
go to Allenham; but Mr. Willoughby wanted particularly 
to shew me the place; and it is a charming house, I assure 
you.—There is one remarkably pretty sitting room up stairs; 
of a nice comfortable size for constant use, and with mod-
ern furniture it would be delightful. It is a corner room, 
and has windows on two sides. On one side you look across 
the bowling-green, behind the house, to a beautiful hang-
ing wood, and on the other you have a view of the church 
and village, and, beyond them, of those fine bold hills that 
we have so often admired. I did not see it to advantage, for 
nothing could be more forlorn than the furniture,—but 
if it were newly fitted up—a couple of hundred pounds, 
Willoughby says, would make it one of the pleasantest sum-


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mer-rooms in England.’
Could Elinor have listened to her without interruption 
from the others, she would have described every room in 
the house with equal delight.


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Chapter 14
T
he sudden termination of Colonel Brandon’s visit at the 
park, with his steadiness in concealing its cause, filled 
the mind, and raised the wonder of Mrs. Jennings for two 
or three days; she was a great wonderer, as every one must 
be who takes a very lively interest in all the comings and 
goings of all their acquaintance. She wondered, with little 
intermission what could be the reason of it; was sure there 
must be some bad news, and thought over every kind of 
distress that could have befallen him, with a fixed determi-
nation that he should not escape them all.
‘Something very melancholy must be the matter, I am 
sure,’ said she. ‘I could see it in his face. Poor man! I am 
afraid his circumstances may be bad. The estate at Delaford 
was never reckoned more than two thousand a year, and his 
brother left everything sadly involved. I do think he must 
have been sent for about money matters, for what else can it 
be? I wonder whether it is so. I would give anything to know 
the truth of it. Perhaps it is about Miss Williams and, by the 
bye, I dare say it is, because he looked so conscious when 
I mentioned her. May be she is ill in town; nothing in the 
world more likely, for I have a notion she is always rather 
sickly. I would lay any wager it is about Miss Williams. It 
is not so very likely he should be distressed in his circum-
stances NOW, for he is a very prudent man, and to be sure 


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must have cleared the estate by this time. I wonder what it 
can be! May be his sister is worse at Avignon, and has sent 
for him over. His setting off in such a hurry seems very like 
it. Well, I wish him out of all his trouble with all my heart, 
and a good wife into the bargain.’
So wondered, so talked Mrs. Jennings. Her opinion 
varying with every fresh conjecture, and all seeming equal-
ly probable as they arose. Elinor, though she felt really 
interested in the welfare of Colonel Brandon, could not be-
stow all the wonder on his going so suddenly away, which 
Mrs. Jennings was desirous of her feeling; for besides that 
the circumstance did not in her opinion justify such last-
ing amazement or variety of speculation, her wonder was 
otherwise disposed of. It was engossed by the extraordi-
nary silence of her sister and Willoughby on the subject, 
which they must know to be peculiarly interesting to them 
all. As this silence continued, every day made it appear 
more strange and more incompatible with the disposition 
of both. Why they should not openly acknowledge to her 
mother and herself, what their constant behaviour to each 
other declared to have taken place, Elinor could not imag-
ine.
She could easily conceive that marriage might not be 
immediately in their power; for though Willoughby was 
independent, there was no reason to believe him rich. His 
estate had been rated by Sir John at about six or seven hun-
dred a year; but he lived at an expense to which that income 
could hardly be equal, and he had himself often complained 
of his poverty. But for this strange kind of secrecy main-


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tained by them relative to their engagement, which in fact 
concealed nothing at all, she could not account; and it was 
so wholly contradictory to their general opinions and prac-
tice, that a doubt sometimes entered her mind of their being 
really engaged, and this doubt was enough to prevent her 
making any inquiry of Marianne.
Nothing could be more expressive of attachment to them 
all, than Willoughby’s behaviour. To Marianne it had all the 
distinguishing tenderness which a lover’s heart could give, 
and to the rest of the family it was the affectionate attention 
of a son and a brother. The cottage seemed to be considered 
and loved by him as his home; many more of his hours were 
spent there than at Allenham; and if no general engage-
ment collected them at the park, the exercise which called 
him out in the morning was almost certain of ending there, 
where the rest of the day was spent by himself at the side of 
Marianne, and by his favourite pointer at her feet.
One evening in particular, about a week after Colo-
nel Brandon left the country, his heart seemed more than 
usually open to every feeling of attachment to the objects 
around him; and on Mrs. Dashwood’s happening to men-
tion her design of improving the cottage in the spring, he 
warmly opposed every alteration of a place which affection 
had established as perfect with him.
‘What!’ he exclaimed—‘Improve this dear cottage! No. 
THAT I will never consent to. Not a stone must be added to 
its walls, not an inch to its size, if my feelings are regarded.’
‘Do not be alarmed,’ said Miss Dashwood, ‘nothing of 
the kind will be done; for my mother will never have money 


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enough to attempt it.’
‘I am heartily glad of it’, he cried. ‘May she always be 
poor, if she can employ her riches no better.’
‘Thank you, Willoughby. But you may be assured that 
I would not sacrifice one sentiment of local attachment of 
yours, or of any one whom I loved, for all the improvements 
in the world. Depend upon it that whatever unemployed 
sum may remain, when I make up my accounts in the 
spring, I would even rather lay it uselessly by than dispose 
of it in a manner so painful to you. But are you really so at-
tached to this place as to see no defect in it?’
‘I am,’ said he. ‘To me it is faultless. Nay, more, I consider 
it as the only form of building in which happiness is attain-
able, and were I rich enough I would instantly pull Combe 
down, and build it up again in the exact plan of this cot-
tage.’
‘With dark narrow stairs and a kitchen that smokes, I 
suppose,’ said Elinor.
‘Yes,’ cried he in the same eager tone, ‘with all and every 
thing belonging to it;—in no one convenience or INconve-
nience about it, should the least variation be perceptible. 
Then, and then only, under such a roof, I might perhaps be 
as happy at Combe as I have been at Barton.’
‘I flatter myself,’ replied Elinor, ‘that even under the dis-
advantage of better rooms and a broader staircase, you will 
hereafter find your own house as faultless as you now do 
this.’
‘There certainly are circumstances,’ said Willoughby, 
‘which might greatly endear it to me; but this place will al-


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ways have one claim of my affection, which no other can 
possibly share.’
Mrs. Dashwood looked with pleasure at Marianne, 
whose fine eyes were fixed so expressively on Willoughby, 
as plainly denoted how well she understood him.
‘How often did I wish,’ added he, ‘when I was at Allenham 
this time twelvemonth, that Barton cottage were inhabited! 
I never passed within view of it without admiring its situ-
ation, and grieving that no one should live in it. How little 
did I then think that the very first news I should hear from 
Mrs. Smith, when I next came into the country, would be 
that Barton cottage was taken: and I felt an immediate sat-
isfaction and interest in the event, which nothing but a kind 
of prescience of what happiness I should experience from 
it, can account for. Must it not have been so, Marianne?’ 
speaking to her in a lowered voice. Then continuing his for-
mer tone, he said, ‘And yet this house you would spoil, Mrs. 
Dashwood? You would rob it of its simplicity by imaginary 
improvement! and this dear parlour in which our acquain-
tance first began, and in which so many happy hours have 
been since spent by us together, you would degrade to the 
condition of a common entrance, and every body would 
be eager to pass through the room which has hitherto con-
tained within itself more real accommodation and comfort 
than any other apartment of the handsomest dimensions in 
the world could possibly afford.’
Mrs. Dashwood again assured him that no alteration of 
the kind should be attempted.
‘You are a good woman,’ he warmly replied. ‘Your prom-


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ise makes me easy. Extend it a little farther, and it will make 
me happy. Tell me that not only your house will remain the 
same, but that I shall ever find you and yours as unchanged 
as your dwelling; and that you will always consider me with 
the kindness which has made everything belonging to you 
so dear to me.’
The promise was readily given, and Willoughby’s behav-
iour during the whole of the evening declared at once his 
affection and happiness.
‘Shall we see you tomorrow to dinner?’ said Mrs. Dash-
wood, when he was leaving them. ‘I do not ask you to come 
in the morning, for we must walk to the park, to call on 
Lady Middleton.’
He engaged to be with them by four o’clock.


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Chapter 15
M
rs. Dashwood’s visit to Lady Middleton took place the 
next day, and two of her daughters went with her; but 
Marianne excused herself from being of the party, under 
some trifling pretext of employment; and her mother, who 
concluded that a promise had been made by Willoughby the 
night before of calling on her while they were absent, was 
perfectly satisfied with her remaining at home.
On their return from the park they found Willoughby’s 
curricle and servant in waiting at the cottage, and Mrs. 
Dashwood was convinced that her conjecture had been just. 
So far it was all as she had foreseen; but on entering the house 
she beheld what no foresight had taught her to expect. They 
were no sooner in the passage than Marianne came hastily 
out of the parlour apparently in violent affliction, with her 
handkerchief at her eyes; and without noticing them ran up 
stairs. Surprised and alarmed they proceeded directly into 
the room she had just quitted, where they found only Wil-
loughby, who was leaning against the mantel-piece with his 
back towards them. He turned round on their coming in, 
and his countenance shewed that he strongly partook of the 
emotion which over-powered Marianne.
‘Is anything the matter with her?’ cried Mrs. Dashwood 
as she entered—‘is she ill?’
‘I hope not,’ he replied, trying to look cheerful; and with 


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a forced smile presently added, ‘It is I who may rather ex-
pect to be ill—for I am now suffering under a very heavy 
disappointment!’
‘Disappointment?’
‘Yes, for I am unable to keep my engagement with you. 
Mrs. Smith has this morning exercised the privilege of 
riches upon a poor dependent cousin, by sending me on 
business to London. I have just received my dispatches, and 
taken my farewell of Allenham; and by way of exhilaration 
I am now come to take my farewell of you.’
‘To London!—and are you going this morning?’
‘Almost this moment.’
‘This is very unfortunate. But Mrs. Smith must be 
obliged;—and her business will not detain you from us long 
I hope.’
He coloured as he replied, ‘You are very kind, but I have 
no idea of returning into Devonshire immediately. My visits 
to Mrs. Smith are never repeated within the twelvemonth.’
‘And is Mrs. Smith your only friend? Is Allenham the 
only house in the neighbourhood to which you will be 
welcome? For shame, Willoughby, can you wait for an in-
vitation here?’
His colour increased; and with his eyes fixed on the 
ground he only replied, ‘You are too good.’
Mrs. Dashwood looked at Elinor with surprise. Elinor 
felt equal amazement. For a few moments every one was si-
lent. Mrs. Dashwood first spoke.
‘I have only to add, my dear Willoughby, that at Barton 
cottage you will always be welcome; for I will not press you 


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to return here immediately, because you only can judge 
how far THAT might be pleasing to Mrs. Smith; and on this 
head I shall be no more disposed to question your judgment 
than to doubt your inclination.’
‘My engagements at present,’ replied Willoughby, con-
fusedly, ‘are of such a nature—that—I dare not flatter 
myself’—
He stopt. Mrs. Dashwood was too much astonished to 
speak, and another pause succeeded. This was broken by 
Willoughby, who said with a faint smile, ‘It is folly to lin-
ger in this manner. I will not torment myself any longer by 
remaining among friends whose society it is impossible for 
me now to enjoy.’
He then hastily took leave of them all and left the room. 
They saw him step into his carriage, and in a minute it was 
out of sight.
Mrs. Dashwood felt too much for speech, and instantly 
quitted the parlour to give way in solitude to the concern 
and alarm which this sudden departure occasioned.
Elinor’s uneasiness was at least equal to her mother’s. 
She thought of what had just passed with anxiety and dis-
trust. Willoughby’s behaviour in taking leave of them, his 
embarrassment, and affectation of cheerfulness, and, above 
all, his unwillingness to accept her mother’s invitation, a 
backwardness so unlike a lover, so unlike himself, greatly 
disturbed her. One moment she feared that no serious de-
sign had ever been formed on his side; and the next that 
some unfortunate quarrel had taken place between him and 
her sister;—the distress in which Marianne had quitted the 


Sense and Sensibility
94
room was such as a serious quarrel could most reasonably 
account for, though when she considered what Marianne’s 
love for him was, a quarrel seemed almost impossible.
But whatever might be the particulars of their separa-
tion, her sister’s affliction was indubitable; and she thought 
with the tenderest compassion of that violent sorrow which 
Marianne was in all probability not merely giving way to as 
a relief, but feeding and encouraging as a duty.
In about half an hour her mother returned, and though 
her eyes were red, her countenance was not uncheerful.
‘Our dear Willoughby is now some miles from Barton, 
Elinor,’ said she, as she sat down to work, ‘and with how 
heavy a heart does he travel?’
‘It is all very strange. So suddenly to be gone! It seems 
but the work of a moment. And last night he was with us 
so happy, so cheerful, so affectionate? And now, after only 
ten minutes notice—Gone too without intending to re-
turn!—Something more than what be owned to us must 
have happened. He did not speak, he did not behave like 
himself. YOU must have seen the difference as well as I. 
What can it be? Can they have quarrelled? Why else should 
he have shewn such unwillingness to accept your invitation 
here?’—
‘It was not inclination that he wanted, Elinor; I could 
plainly see THAT. He had not the power of accepting it. I 
have thought it all over I assure you, and I can perfectly ac-
count for every thing that at first seemed strange to me as 
well as to you.’
‘Can you, indeed!’


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‘Yes. I have explained it to myself in the most satisfactory 
way;—but you, Elinor, who love to doubt where you can—it 
will not satisfy YOU, I know; but you shall not talk ME out 
of my trust in it. I am persuaded that Mrs. Smith suspects 
his regard for Marianne, disapproves of it, (perhaps because 
she has other views for him,) and on that account is eager 
to get him away;— and that the business which she sends 
him off to transact is invented as an excuse to dismiss him. 
This is what I believe to have happened. He is, moreover, 
aware that she DOES disapprove the connection, he dares 
not therefore at present confess to her his engagement with 
Marianne, and he feels himself obliged, from his depen-
dent situation, to give into her schemes, and absent himself 
from Devonshire for a while. You will tell me, I know, that 
this may or may NOT have happened; but I will listen to no 
cavil, unless you can point out any other method of under-
standing the affair as satisfactory at this. And now, Elinor, 
what have you to say?’
‘Nothing, for you have anticipated my answer.’
‘Then you would have told me, that it might or might not 
have happened. Oh, Elinor, how incomprehensible are your 
feelings! You had rather take evil upon credit than good. 
You had rather look out for misery for Marianne, and guilt 
for poor Willoughby, than an apology for the latter. You are 
resolved to think him blameable, because he took leave of us 
with less affection than his usual behaviour has shewn. And 
is no allowance to be made for inadvertence, or for spirits 
depressed by recent disappointment? Are no probabilities 
to be accepted, merely because they are not certainties? 


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Is nothing due to the man whom we have all such reason 
to love, and no reason in the world to think ill of? To the 
possibility of motives unanswerable in themselves, though 
unavoidably secret for a while? And, after all, what is it you 
suspect him of?’
‘I can hardly tell myself. But suspicion of something un-
pleasant is the inevitable consequence of such an alteration 
as we just witnessed in him. There is great truth, however, in 
what you have now urged of the allowances which ought to 
be made for him, and it is my wish to be candid in my judg-
ment of every body. Willoughby may undoubtedly have 
very sufficient reasons for his conduct, and I will hope that 
he has. But it would have been more like Willoughby to ac-
knowledge them at once. Secrecy may be advisable; but still 
I cannot help wondering at its being practiced by him.’
‘Do not blame him, however, for departing from his 
character, where the deviation is necessary. But you really 
do admit the justice of what I have said in his defence?—I 
am happy—and he is acquitted.’
‘Not entirely. It may be proper to conceal their engage-
ment (if they ARE engaged) from Mrs. Smith— and if that 
is the case, it must be highly expedient for Willoughby to be 
but little in Devonshire at present. But this is no excuse for 
their concealing it from us.’
‘Concealing it from us! my dear child, do you accuse 
Willoughby and Marianne of concealment? This is strange 
indeed, when your eyes have been reproaching them every 
day for incautiousness.’
‘I want no proof of their affection,’ said Elinor; ‘but of 


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their engagement I do.’
‘I am perfectly satisfied of both.’
‘Yet not a syllable has been said to you on the subject, by 
either of them.’
‘I have not wanted syllables where actions have spoken 
so plainly. Has not his behaviour to Marianne and to all 
of us, for at least the last fortnight, declared that he loved 
and considered her as his future wife, and that he felt for us 
the attachment of the nearest relation? Have we not perfect-
ly understood each other? Has not my consent been daily 
asked by his looks, his manner, his attentive and affectionate 
respect? My Elinor, is it possible to doubt their engage-
ment? How could such a thought occur to you? How is it 
to be supposed that Willoughby, persuaded as he must be 
of your sister’s love, should leave her, and leave her perhaps 
for months, without telling her of his affection;—that they 
should part without a mutual exchange of confidence?’
‘I confess,’ replied Elinor, ‘that every circumstance ex-
cept ONE is in favour of their engagement; but that ONE is 
the total silence of both on the subject, and with me it al-
most outweighs every other.’
‘How strange this is! You must think wretchedly indeed 
of Willoughby, if, after all that has openly passed between 
them, you can doubt the nature of the terms on which they 
are together. Has he been acting a part in his behaviour to 
your sister all this time? Do you suppose him really indif-
ferent to her?’
‘No, I cannot think that. He must and does love her I am 
sure.’


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‘But with a strange kind of tenderness, if he can leave her 
with such indifference, such carelessness of the future, as 
you attribute to him.’
‘You must remember, my dear mother, that I have never 
considered this matter as certain. I have had my doubts, I 
confess; but they are fainter than they were, and they may 
soon be entirely done away. If we find they correspond, ev-
ery fear of mine will be removed.’
‘A mighty concession indeed! If you were to see them at 
the altar, you would suppose they were going to be mar-
ried. Ungracious girl! But I require no such proof. Nothing 
in my opinion has ever passed to justify doubt; no secrecy 
has been attempted; all has been uniformly open and un-
reserved. You cannot doubt your sister’s wishes. It must be 
Willoughby therefore whom you suspect. But why? Is he not 
a man of honour and feeling? Has there been any inconsis-
tency on his side to create alarm? can he be deceitful?’
‘I hope not, I believe not,’ cried Elinor. ‘I love Willough-
by, sincerely love him; and suspicion of his integrity cannot 
be more painful to yourself than to me. It has been invol-
untary, and I will not encourage it. I was startled, I confess, 
by the alteration in his manners this morning;—he did not 
speak like himself, and did not return your kindness with 
any cordiality. But all this may be explained by such a situ-
ation of his affairs as you have supposed. He had just parted 
from my sister, had seen her leave him in the greatest af-
fliction; and if he felt obliged, from a fear of offending Mrs. 
Smith, to resist the temptation of returning here soon, and 
yet aware that by declining your invitation, by saying that 


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he was going away for some time, he should seem to act an 
ungenerous, a suspicious part by our family, be might well 
be embarrassed and disturbed. In such a case, a plain and 
open avowal of his difficulties would have been more to his 
honour I think, as well as more consistent with his general 
character;—but I will not raise objections against any one’s 
conduct on so illiberal a foundation, as a difference in judg-
ment from myself, or a deviation from what I may think 
right and consistent.’
‘You speak very properly. Willoughby certainly does not 
deserve to be suspected. Though WE have not known him 
long, he is no stranger in this part of the world; and who has 
ever spoken to his disadvantage? Had he been in a situation 
to act independently and marry immediately, it might have 
been odd that he should leave us without acknowledging 
everything to me at once: but this is not the case. It is an 
engagement in some respects not prosperously begun, for 
their marriage must be at a very uncertain distance; and 
even secrecy, as far as it can be observed, may now be very 
advisable.’
They were interrupted by the entrance of Margaret; and 
Elinor was then at liberty to think over the representations 
of her mother, to acknowledge the probability of many, and 
hope for the justice of all.
They saw nothing of Marianne till dinner time, when she 
entered the room and took her place at the table without 
saying a word. Her eyes were red and swollen; and it seemed 
as if her tears were even then restrained with difficulty. She 
avoided the looks of them all, could neither eat nor speak, 


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and after some time, on her mother’s silently pressing her 
hand with tender compassion, her small degree of fortitude 
was quite overcome, she burst into tears and left the room.
This violent oppression of spirits continued the whole 
evening. She was without any power, because she was 
without any desire of command over herself. The slightest 
mention of anything relative to Willoughby overpowered 
her in an instant; and though her family were most anx-
iously attentive to her comfort, it was impossible for them, 
if they spoke at all, to keep clear of every subject which her 
feelings connected with him.


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Chapter 16
M
arianne would have thought herself very inexcusable 
had she been able to sleep at all the first night after 
parting from Willoughby. She would have been ashamed 
to look her family in the face the next morning, had she not 
risen from her bed in more need of repose than when she 
lay down in it. But the feelings which made such compo-
sure a disgrace, left her in no danger of incurring it. She was 
awake the whole night, and she wept the greatest part of it. 
She got up with a headache, was unable to talk, and unwill-
ing to take any nourishment; giving pain every moment to 
her mother and sisters, and forbidding all attempt at conso-
lation from either. Her sensibility was potent enough!
When breakfast was over she walked out by herself, and 
wandered about the village of Allenham, indulging the rec-
ollection of past enjoyment and crying over the present 
reverse for the chief of the morning.
The evening passed off in the equal indulgence of feel-
ing. She played over every favourite song that she had been 
used to play to Willoughby, every air in which their voices 
had been oftenest joined, and sat at the instrument gazing 
on every line of music that he had written out for her, till her 
heart was so heavy that no farther sadness could be gained; 
and this nourishment of grief was every day applied. She 
spent whole hours at the pianoforte alternately singing and 


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crying; her voice often totally suspended by her tears. In 
books too, as well as in music, she courted the misery which 
a contrast between the past and present was certain of giv-
ing. She read nothing but what they had been used to read 
together.
Such violence of affliction indeed could not be supported 
for ever; it sunk within a few days into a calmer melancholy; 
but these employments, to which she daily recurred, her 
solitary walks and silent meditations, still produced occa-
sional effusions of sorrow as lively as ever.
No letter from Willoughby came; and none seemed ex-
pected by Marianne. Her mother was surprised, and Elinor 
again became uneasy. But Mrs. Dashwood could find expla-
nations whenever she wanted them, which at least satisfied 
herself.
‘Remember, Elinor,’ said she, ‘how very often Sir John 
fetches our letters himself from the post, and carries them 
to it. We have already agreed that secrecy may be necessary, 
and we must acknowledge that it could not be maintained 
if their correspondence were to pass through Sir John’s 
hands.’
Elinor could not deny the truth of this, and she tried to 
find in it a motive sufficient for their silence. But there was 
one method so direct, so simple, and in her opinion so eli-
gible of knowing the real state of the affair, and of instantly 
removing all mystery, that she could not help suggesting it 
to her mother.
‘Why do you not ask Marianne at once,’ said she, ‘wheth-
er she is or she is not engaged to Willoughby? From you, her 


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mother, and so kind, so indulgent a mother, the question 
could not give offence. It would be the natural result of your 
affection for her. She used to be all unreserve, and to you 
more especially.’
‘I would not ask such a question for the world. Supposing 
it possible that they are not engaged, what distress would 
not such an enquiry inflict! At any rate it would be most 
ungenerous. I should never deserve her confidence again, 
after forcing from her a confession of what is meant at pres-
ent to be unacknowledged to any one. I know Marianne’s 
heart: I know that she dearly loves me, and that I shall not 
be the last to whom the affair is made known, when cir-
cumstances make the revealment of it eligible. I would not 
attempt to force the confidence of any one; of a child much 
less; because a sense of duty would prevent the denial which 
her wishes might direct.’
Elinor thought this generosity overstrained, considering 
her sister’s youth, and urged the matter farther, but in vain; 
common sense, common care, common prudence, were all 
sunk in Mrs. Dashwood’s romantic delicacy.
It was several days before Willoughby’s name was men-
tioned before Marianne by any of her family; Sir John and 
Mrs. Jennings, indeed, were not so nice; their witticisms 
added pain to many a painful hour;— but one evening, Mrs. 
Dashwood, accidentally taking up a volume of Shakespeare, 
exclaimed,
‘We have never finished Hamlet, Marianne; our dear 
Willoughby went away before we could get through it. We 
will put it by, that when he comes again...But it may be 


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months, perhaps, before THAT happens.’
‘Months!’ cried Marianne, with strong surprise. ‘No—
nor many weeks.’
Mrs. Dashwood was sorry for what she had said; but it 
gave Elinor pleasure, as it produced a reply from Marianne 
so expressive of confidence in Willoughby and knowledge 
of his intentions.
One morning, about a week after his leaving the country, 
Marianne was prevailed on to join her sisters in their usual 
walk, instead of wandering away by herself. Hitherto she 
had carefully avoided every companion in her rambles. If 
her sisters intended to walk on the downs, she directly stole 
away towards the lanes; if they talked of the valley, she was 
as speedy in climbing the hills, and could never be found 
when the others set off. But at length she was secured by the 
exertions of Elinor, who greatly disapproved such continual 
seclusion. They walked along the road through the valley, 
and chiefly in silence, for Marianne’s MIND could not be 
controlled, and Elinor, satisfied with gaining one point, 
would not then attempt more. Beyond the entrance of the 
valley, where the country, though still rich, was less wild 
and more open, a long stretch of the road which they had 
travelled on first coming to Barton, lay before them; and on 
reaching that point, they stopped to look around them, and 
examine a prospect which formed the distance of their view 
from the cottage, from a spot which they had never hap-
pened to reach in any of their walks before.
Amongst the objects in the scene, they soon discovered 
an animated one; it was a man on horseback riding towards 


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them. In a few minutes they could distinguish him to be a 
gentleman; and in a moment afterwards Marianne raptur-
ously exclaimed,
‘It is he; it is indeed;—I know it is!’—and was hastening 
to meet him, when Elinor cried out,
‘Indeed, Marianne, I think you are mistaken. It is not 
Willoughby. The person is not tall enough for him, and has 
not his air.’
‘He has, he has,’ cried Marianne, ‘I am sure he has. His 
air, his coat, his horse. I knew how soon he would come.’
She walked eagerly on as she spoke; and Elinor, to screen 
Marianne from particularity, as she felt almost certain of 
its not being Willoughby, quickened her pace and kept up 
with her. They were soon within thirty yards of the gentle-
man. Marianne looked again; her heart sunk within her; 
and abruptly turning round, she was hurrying back, when 
the voices of both her sisters were raised to detain her; a 
third, almost as well known as Willoughby’s, joined them 
in begging her to stop, and she turned round with surprise 
to see and welcome Edward Ferrars.
He was the only person in the world who could at that 
moment be forgiven for not being Willoughby; the only one 
who could have gained a smile from her; but she dispersed 
her tears to smile on HIM, and in her sister’s happiness for-
got for a time her own disappointment.
He dismounted, and giving his horse to his servant, 
walked back with them to Barton, whither he was purpose-
ly coming to visit them.
He was welcomed by them all with great cordiality, but 


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especially by Marianne, who showed more warmth of re-
gard in her reception of him than even Elinor herself. To 
Marianne, indeed, the meeting between Edward and her 
sister was but a continuation of that unaccountable coldness 
which she had often observed at Norland in their mutual 
behaviour. On Edward’s side, more particularly, there was 
a deficiency of all that a lover ought to look and say on such 
an occasion. He was confused, seemed scarcely sensible of 
pleasure in seeing them, looked neither rapturous nor gay, 
said little but what was forced from him by questions, and 
distinguished Elinor by no mark of affection. Marianne saw 
and listened with increasing surprise. She began almost to 
feel a dislike of Edward; and it ended, as every feeling must 
end with her, by carrying back her thoughts to Willoughby, 
whose manners formed a contrast sufficiently striking to 
those of his brother elect.
After a short silence which succeeded the first surprise 
and enquiries of meeting, Marianne asked Edward if he 
came directly from London. No, he had been in Devonshire 
a fortnight.
‘A fortnight!’ she repeated, surprised at his being so long 
in the same county with Elinor without seeing her before.
He looked rather distressed as he added, that he had been 
staying with some friends near Plymouth.
‘Have you been lately in Sussex?’ said Elinor.
‘I was at Norland about a month ago.’
‘And how does dear, dear Norland look?’ cried Mari-
anne.
‘Dear, dear Norland,’ said Elinor, ‘probably looks much 


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as it always does at this time of the year. The woods and 
walks thickly covered with dead leaves.’
‘Oh,’ cried Marianne, ‘with what transporting sensa-
tion have I formerly seen them fall! How have I delighted, 
as I walked, to see them driven in showers about me by the 
wind! What feelings have they, the season, the air altogether 
inspired! Now there is no one to regard them. They are seen 
only as a nuisance, swept hastily off, and driven as much as 
possible from the sight.’
‘It is not every one,’ said Elinor, ‘who has your passion 
for dead leaves.’
‘No; my feelings are not often shared, not often under-
stood. But SOMETIMES they are.’—As she said this, she 
sunk into a reverie for a few moments;—but rousing herself 
again, ‘Now, Edward,’ said she, calling his attention to the 
prospect, ‘here is Barton valley. Look up to it, and be tran-
quil if you can. Look at those hills! Did you ever see their 
equals? To the left is Barton park, amongst those woods and 
plantations. You may see the end of the house. And there, 
beneath that farthest hill, which rises with such grandeur, 
is our cottage.’
‘It is a beautiful country,’ he replied; ‘but these bottoms 
must be dirty in winter.’
‘How can you think of dirt, with such objects before 
you?’
‘Because,’ replied he, smiling, ‘among the rest of the ob-
jects before me, I see a very dirty lane.’
‘How strange!’ said Marianne to herself as she walked 
on.


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‘Have you an agreeable neighbourhood here? Are the 
Middletons pleasant people?’
‘No, not all,’ answered Marianne; ‘we could not be more 
unfortunately situated.’
‘Marianne,’ cried her sister, ‘how can you say so? How 
can you be so unjust? They are a very respectable family, 
Mr. Ferrars; and towards us have behaved in the friendli-
est manner. Have you forgot, Marianne, how many pleasant 
days we have owed to them?’
‘No,’ said Marianne, in a low voice, ‘nor how many pain-
ful moments.’
Elinor took no notice of this; and directing her attention 
to their visitor, endeavoured to support something like dis-
course with him, by talking of their present residence, its 
conveniences, &c. extorting from him occasional questions 
and remarks. His coldness and reserve mortified her severe-
ly; she was vexed and half angry; but resolving to regulate 
her behaviour to him by the past rather than the present, 
she avoided every appearance of resentment or displeasure, 
and treated him as she thought he ought to be treated from 
the family connection.


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Chapter 17
M
rs. Dashwood was surprised only for a moment at 
seeing him; for his coming to Barton was, in her opin-
ion, of all things the most natural. Her joy and expression 
of regard long outlived her wonder. He received the kindest 
welcome from her; and shyness, coldness, reserve could not 
stand against such a reception. They had begun to fail him 
before he entered the house, and they were quite overcome 
by the captivating manners of Mrs. Dashwood. Indeed a 
man could not very well be in love with either of her daugh-
ters, without extending the passion to her; and Elinor had 
the satisfaction of seeing him soon become more like him-
self. His affections seemed to reanimate towards them all, 
and his interest in their welfare again became perceptible. 
He was not in spirits, however; he praised their house, ad-
mired its prospect, was attentive, and kind; but still he was 
not in spirits. The whole family perceived it, and Mrs. Dash-
wood, attributing it to some want of liberality in his mother, 
sat down to table indignant against all selfish parents.
‘What are Mrs. Ferrars’s views for you at present, Ed-
ward?’ said she, when dinner was over and they had drawn 
round the fire; ‘are you still to be a great orator in spite of 
yourself?’
‘No. I hope my mother is now convinced that I have no 
more talents than inclination for a public life!’


Sense and Sensibility
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‘But how is your fame to be established? for famous you 
must be to satisfy all your family; and with no inclination 
for expense, no affection for strangers, no profession, and 
no assurance, you may find it a difficult matter.’
‘I shall not attempt it. I have no wish to be distinguished; 
and have every reason to hope I never shall. Thank Heaven! 
I cannot be forced into genius and eloquence.’
‘You have no ambition, I well know. Your wishes are all 
moderate.’
‘As moderate as those of the rest of the world, I believe. 
I wish as well as every body else to be perfectly happy; but, 
like every body else it must be in my own way. Greatness 
will not make me so.’
‘Strange that it would!’ cried Marianne. ‘What have 
wealth or grandeur to do with happiness?’
‘Grandeur has but little,’ said Elinor, ‘but wealth has 
much to do with it.’
‘Elinor, for shame!’ said Marianne, ‘money can only give 
happiness where there is nothing else to give it. Beyond a 
competence, it can afford no real satisfaction, as far as mere 
self is concerned.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Elinor, smiling, ‘we may come to the 
same point. YOUR competence and MY wealth are very 
much alike, I dare say; and without them, as the world goes 
now, we shall both agree that every kind of external com-
fort must be wanting. Your ideas are only more noble than 
mine. Come, what is your competence?’
‘About eighteen hundred or two thousand a year; not 
more than THAT.’


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Elinor laughed. ‘TWO thousand a year! ONE is my 
wealth! I guessed how it would end.’
‘And yet two thousand a-year is a very moderate income,’ 
said Marianne. ‘A family cannot well be maintained on a 
smaller. I am sure I am not extravagant in my demands. A 
proper establishment of servants, a carriage, perhaps two, 
and hunters, cannot be supported on less.’
Elinor smiled again, to hear her sister describing so ac-
curately their future expenses at Combe Magna.
‘Hunters!’ repeated Edward—‘but why must you have 
hunters? Every body does not hunt.’
Marianne coloured as she replied, ‘But most people do.’
‘I wish,’ said Margaret, striking out a novel thought, ‘that 
somebody would give us all a large fortune apiece!’
‘Oh that they would!’ cried Marianne, her eyes sparkling 
with animation, and her cheeks glowing with the delight of 
such imaginary happiness.
‘We are all unanimous in that wish, I suppose,’ said Eli-
nor, ‘in spite of the insufficiency of wealth.’
‘Oh dear!’ cried Margaret, ‘how happy I should be! I 
wonder what I should do with it!’
Marianne looked as if she had no doubt on that point.
‘I should be puzzled to spend so large a fortune myself,’ 
said Mrs. Dashwood, ‘if my children were all to be rich my 
help.’
‘You must begin your improvements on this house,’ ob-
served Elinor, ‘and your difficulties will soon vanish.’
‘What magnificent orders would travel from this family 
to London,’ said Edward, ‘in such an event! What a hap-


Sense and Sensibility
112
py day for booksellers, music-sellers, and print-shops! You, 
Miss Dashwood, would give a general commission for every 
new print of merit to be sent you—and as for Marianne, I 
know her greatness of soul, there would not be music enough 
in London to content her. And books!—Thomson, Cowp-
er, Scott—she would buy them all over and over again: she 
would buy up every copy, I believe, to prevent their falling 
into unworthy hands; and she would have every book that 
tells her how to admire an old twisted tree. Should not you, 
Marianne? Forgive me, if I am very saucy. But I was willing 
to shew you that I had not forgot our old disputes.’
‘I love to be reminded of the past, Edward—whether it 
be melancholy or gay, I love to recall it—and you will never 
offend me by talking of former times. You are very right in 
supposing how my money would be spent—some of it, at 
least—my loose cash would certainly be employed in im-
proving my collection of music and books.’
‘And the bulk of your fortune would be laid out in annui-
ties on the authors or their heirs.’
‘No, Edward, I should have something else to do with 
it.’
‘Perhaps, then, you would bestow it as a reward on that 
person who wrote the ablest defence of your favourite max-
im, that no one can ever be in love more than once in their 
life—your opinion on that point is unchanged, I presume?’
‘Undoubtedly. At my time of life opinions are tolerably 
fixed. It is not likely that I should now see or hear any thing 
to change them.’
‘Marianne is as steadfast as ever, you see,’ said Elinor, 


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‘she is not at all altered.’
‘She is only grown a little more grave than she was.’
‘Nay, Edward,’ said Marianne, ‘you need not reproach 
me. You are not very gay yourself.’
‘Why should you think so!’ replied he, with a sigh. ‘But 
gaiety never was a part of MY character.’
‘Nor do I think it a part of Marianne’s,’ said Elinor; ‘I 
should hardly call her a lively girl—she is very earnest, very 
eager in all she does—sometimes talks a great deal and al-
ways with animation—but she is not often really merry.’
‘I believe you are right,’ he replied, ‘and yet I have always 
set her down as a lively girl.’
‘I have frequently detected myself in such kind of mis-
takes,’ said Elinor, ‘in a total misapprehension of character 
in some point or other: fancying people so much more gay 
or grave, or ingenious or stupid than they really are, and 
I can hardly tell why or in what the deception originated. 
Sometimes one is guided by what they say of themselves, 
and very frequently by what other people say of them, with-
out giving oneself time to deliberate and judge.’
‘But I thought it was right, Elinor,’ said Marianne, ‘to 
be guided wholly by the opinion of other people. I thought 
our judgments were given us merely to be subservient to 
those of neighbours. This has always been your doctrine, I 
am sure.’
‘No, Marianne, never. My doctrine has never aimed 
at the subjection of the understanding. All I have ever at-
tempted to influence has been the behaviour. You must not 
confound my meaning. I am guilty, I confess, of having of-


Sense and Sensibility
114
ten wished you to treat our acquaintance in general with 
greater attention; but when have I advised you to adopt 
their sentiments or to conform to their judgment in seri-
ous matters?’
‘You have not been able to bring your sister over to your 
plan of general civility,’ said Edward to Elinor, ‘Do you gain 
no ground?’
‘Quite the contrary,’ replied Elinor, looking expressively 
at Marianne.
‘My judgment,’ he returned, ‘is all on your side of the 
question; but I am afraid my practice is much more on your 
sister’s. I never wish to offend, but I am so foolishly shy, that 
I often seem negligent, when I am only kept back by my 
natural awkwardness. I have frequently thought that I must 
have been intended by nature to be fond of low company, I 
am so little at my ease among strangers of gentility!’
‘Marianne has not shyness to excuse any inattention of 
hers,’ said Elinor.
‘She knows her own worth too well for false shame,’ 
replied Edward. ‘Shyness is only the effect of a sense of in-
feriority in some way or other. If I could persuade myself 
that my manners were perfectly easy and graceful, I should 
not be shy.’
‘But you would still be reserved,’ said Marianne, ‘and 
that is worse.’
Edward started—‘Reserved! Am I reserved, Marianne?’
‘Yes, very.’
‘I do not understand you,’ replied he, colouring. ‘Re-
served!—how, in what manner? What am I to tell you? 


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What can you suppose?’
Elinor looked surprised at his emotion; but trying to 
laugh off the subject, she said to him, ‘Do not you know 
my sister well enough to understand what she means? Do 
not you know she calls every one reserved who does not 
talk as fast, and admire what she admires as rapturously as 
herself?’
Edward made no answer. His gravity and thoughtful-
ness returned on him in their fullest extent—and he sat for 
some time silent and dull.


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Chapter 18
E
linor saw, with great uneasiness the low spirits of her 
friend. His visit afforded her but a very partial satisfac-
tion, while his own enjoyment in it appeared so imperfect. It 
was evident that he was unhappy; she wished it were equally 
evident that he still distinguished her by the same affection 
which once she had felt no doubt of inspiring; but hitherto 
the continuance of his preference seemed very uncertain; 
and the reservedness of his manner towards her contradict-
ed one moment what a more animated look had intimated 
the preceding one.
He joined her and Marianne in the breakfast-room the 
next morning before the others were down; and Marianne, 
who was always eager to promote their happiness as far as 
she could, soon left them to themselves. But before she was 
half way upstairs she heard the parlour door open, and, 
turning round, was astonished to see Edward himself come 
out.
‘I am going into the village to see my horses,’ said be, 
‘as you are not yet ready for breakfast; I shall be back again 
presently.’
***
Edward returned to them with fresh admiration of the 
surrounding country; in his walk to the village, he had seen 
many parts of the valley to advantage; and the village itself, 


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in a much higher situation than the cottage, afforded a gen-
eral view of the whole, which had exceedingly pleased him. 
This was a subject which ensured Marianne’s attention, and 
she was beginning to describe her own admiration of these 
scenes, and to question him more minutely on the objects 
that had particularly struck him, when Edward interrupted 
her by saying, ‘You must not enquire too far, Marianne—re-
member I have no knowledge in the picturesque, and I shall 
offend you by my ignorance and want of taste if we come to 
particulars. I shall call hills steep, which ought to be bold; 
surfaces strange and uncouth, which ought to be irregular 
and rugged; and distant objects out of sight, which ought 
only to be indistinct through the soft medium of a hazy at-
mosphere. You must be satisfied with such admiration as 
I can honestly give. I call it a very fine country—the hills 
are steep, the woods seem full of fine timber, and the valley 
looks comfortable and snug—with rich meadows and sev-
eral neat farm houses scattered here and there. It exactly 
answers my idea of a fine country, because it unites beauty 
with utility—and I dare say it is a picturesque one too, be-
cause you admire it; I can easily believe it to be full of rocks 
and promontories, grey moss and brush wood, but these are 
all lost on me. I know nothing of the picturesque.’
‘I am afraid it is but too true,’ said Marianne; ‘but why 
should you boast of it?’
‘I suspect,’ said Elinor, ‘that to avoid one kind of affec-
tation, Edward here falls into another. Because he believes 
many people pretend to more admiration of the beauties 
of nature than they really feel, and is disgusted with such 


Sense and Sensibility
118
pretensions, he affects greater indifference and less discrim-
ination in viewing them himself than he possesses. He is 
fastidious and will have an affectation of his own.’
‘It is very true,’ said Marianne, ‘that admiration of land-
scape scenery is become a mere jargon. Every body pretends 
to feel and tries to describe with the taste and elegance of 
him who first defined what picturesque beauty was. I detest 
jargon of every kind, and sometimes I have kept my feel-
ings to myself, because I could find no language to describe 
them in but what was worn and hackneyed out of all sense 
and meaning.’
‘I am convinced,’ said Edward, ‘that you really feel all 
the delight in a fine prospect which you profess to feel. But, 
in return, your sister must allow me to feel no more than I 
profess. I like a fine prospect, but not on picturesque prin-
ciples. I do not like crooked, twisted, blasted trees. I admire 
them much more if they are tall, straight, and flourishing. I 
do not like ruined, tattered cottages. I am not fond of net-
tles or thistles, or heath blossoms. I have more pleasure in a 
snug farm-house than a watch-tower—and a troop of tidy, 
happy villages please me better than the finest banditti in 
the world.’
Marianne looked with amazement at Edward, with com-
passion at her sister. Elinor only laughed.
The subject was continued no farther; and Marianne 
remained thoughtfully silent, till a new object suddenly 
engaged her attention. She was sitting by Edward, and in 
taking his tea from Mrs. Dashwood, his hand passed so di-
rectly before her, as to make a ring, with a plait of hair in the 


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centre, very conspicuous on one of his fingers.
‘I never saw you wear a ring before, Edward,’ she cried. 
‘Is that Fanny’s hair? I remember her promising to give you 
some. But I should have thought her hair had been darker.’
Marianne spoke inconsiderately what she really felt— 
but when she saw how much she had pained Edward, her 
own vexation at her want of thought could not be surpassed 
by his. He coloured very deeply, and giving a momentary 
glance at Elinor, replied, ‘Yes; it is my sister’s hair. The set-
ting always casts a different shade on it, you know.’
Elinor had met his eye, and looked conscious likewise. 
That the hair was her own, she instantaneously felt as well 
satisfied as Marianne; the only difference in their conclu-
sions was, that what Marianne considered as a free gift from 
her sister, Elinor was conscious must have been procured by 
some theft or contrivance unknown to herself. She was not 
in a humour, however, to regard it as an affront, and affect-
ing to take no notice of what passed, by instantly talking 
of something else, she internally resolved henceforward to 
catch every opportunity of eyeing the hair and of satisfy-
ing herself, beyond all doubt, that it was exactly the shade 
of her own.
Edward’s embarrassment lasted some time, and it ended 
in an absence of mind still more settled. He was particu-
larly grave the whole morning. Marianne severely censured 
herself for what she had said; but her own forgiveness might 
have been more speedy, had she known how little offence it 
had given her sister.
Before the middle of the day, they were visited by Sir 


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120
John and Mrs. Jennings, who, having heard of the arrival 
of a gentleman at the cottage, came to take a survey of the 
guest. With the assistance of his mother-in-law, Sir John 
was not long in discovering that the name of Ferrars began 
with an F. and this prepared a future mine of raillery against 
the devoted Elinor, which nothing but the newness of their 
acquaintance with Edward could have prevented from be-
ing immediately sprung. But, as it was, she only learned, 
from some very significant looks, how far their penetration, 
founded on Margaret’s instructions, extended.
Sir John never came to the Dashwoods without either 
inviting them to dine at the park the next day, or to drink 
tea with them that evening. On the present occasion, for 
the better entertainment of their visitor, towards whose 
amusement he felt himself bound to contribute, he wished 
to engage them for both.
‘You MUST drink tea with us to night,’ said he, ‘for we 
shall be quite alone—and tomorrow you must absolutely 
dine with us, for we shall be a large party.’
Mrs. Jennings enforced the necessity. ‘And who knows 
but you may raise a dance,’ said she. ‘And that will tempt 
YOU, Miss Marianne.’
‘A dance!’ cried Marianne. ‘Impossible! Who is to 
dance?’
‘Who! why yourselves, and the Careys, and Whitakers to 
be sure.—What! you thought nobody could dance because a 
certain person that shall be nameless is gone!’
‘I wish with all my soul,’ cried Sir John, ‘that Willoughby 
were among us again.’


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This, and Marianne’s blushing, gave new suspicions to 
Edward. ‘And who is Willoughby?’ said he, in a low voice, 
to Miss Dashwood, by whom he was sitting.
She gave him a brief reply. Marianne’s countenance was 
more communicative. Edward saw enough to comprehend, 
not only the meaning of others, but such of Marianne’s 
expressions as had puzzled him before; and when their visi-
tors left them, he went immediately round her, and said, in a 
whisper, ‘I have been guessing. Shall I tell you my guess?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Shall I tell you.’
‘Certainly.’
‘Well then; I guess that Mr. Willoughby hunts.’
Marianne was surprised and confused, yet she could not 
help smiling at the quiet archness of his manner, and after a 
moment’s silence, said,
‘Oh, Edward! How can you?—But the time will come I 
hope...I am sure you will like him.’
‘I do not doubt it,’ replied he, rather astonished at her 
earnestness and warmth; for had he not imagined it to be 
a joke for the good of her acquaintance in general, founded 
only on a something or a nothing between Mr. Willoughby 
and herself, he would not have ventured to mention it.


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Chapter 19
E
dward remained a week at the cottage; he was earnestly 
pressed by Mrs. Dashwood to stay longer; but, as if he 
were bent only on self-mortification, he seemed resolved to 
be gone when his enjoyment among his friends was at the 
height. His spirits, during the last two or three days, though 
still very unequal, were greatly improved—he grew more 
and more partial to the house and environs—never spoke of 
going away without a sigh—declared his time to be wholly 
disengaged—even doubted to what place he should go when 
he left them—but still, go he must. Never had any week 
passed so quickly—he could hardly believe it to be gone. He 
said so repeatedly; other things he said too, which marked 
the turn of his feelings and gave the lie to his actions. He 
had no pleasure at Norland; he detested being in town; but 
either to Norland or London, he must go. He valued their 
kindness beyond any thing, and his greatest happiness was 
in being with them. Yet, he must leave them at the end of a 
week, in spite of their wishes and his own, and without any 
restraint on his time.
Elinor placed all that was astonishing in this way of act-
ing to his mother’s account; and it was happy for her that he 
had a mother whose character was so imperfectly known to 
her, as to be the general excuse for every thing strange on 
the part of her son. Disappointed, however, and vexed as 


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she was, and sometimes displeased with his uncertain be-
haviour to herself, she was very well disposed on the whole 
to regard his actions with all the candid allowances and 
generous qualifications, which had been rather more pain-
fully extorted from her, for Willoughby’s service, by her 
mother. His want of spirits, of openness, and of consistency, 
were most usually attributed to his want of independence, 
and his better knowledge of Mrs. Ferrars’s disposition and 
designs. The shortness of his visit, the steadiness of his 
purpose in leaving them, originated in the same fettered 
inclination, the same inevitable necessity of temporizing 
with his mother. The old well-established grievance of duty 
against will, parent against child, was the cause of all. She 
would have been glad to know when these difficulties were 
to cease, this opposition was to yield,—when Mrs. Ferrars 
would be reformed, and her son be at liberty to be happy. 
But from such vain wishes she was forced to turn for com-
fort to the renewal of her confidence in Edward’s affection, 
to the remembrance of every mark of regard in look or word 
which fell from him while at Barton, and above all to that 
flattering proof of it which he constantly wore round his 
finger.
‘I think, Edward,’ said Mrs. Dashwood, as they were at 
breakfast the last morning, ‘you would be a happier man 
if you had any profession to engage your time and give an 
interest to your plans and actions. Some inconvenience 
to your friends, indeed, might result from it—you would 
not be able to give them so much of your time. But (with a 
smile) you would be materially benefited in one particular 


Sense and Sensibility
124
at least—you would know where to go when you left them.’
‘I do assure you,’ he replied, ‘that I have long thought on 
this point, as you think now. It has been, and is, and prob-
ably will always be a heavy misfortune to me, that I have 
had no necessary business to engage me, no profession to 
give me employment, or afford me any thing like indepen-
dence. But unfortunately my own nicety, and the nicety of 
my friends, have made me what I am, an idle, helpless be-
ing. We never could agree in our choice of a profession. I 
always preferred the church, as I still do. But that was not 
smart enough for my family. They recommended the army. 
That was a great deal too smart for me. The law was allowed 
to be genteel enough; many young men, who had chambers 
in the Temple, made a very good appearance in the first cir-
cles, and drove about town in very knowing gigs. But I had 
no inclination for the law, even in this less abstruse study of 
it, which my family approved. As for the navy, it had fash-
ion on its side, but I was too old when the subject was first 
started to enter it—and, at length, as there was no necessity 
for my having any profession at all, as I might be as dashing 
and expensive without a red coat on my back as with one, 
idleness was pronounced on the whole to be most advanta-
geous and honourable, and a young man of eighteen is not 
in general so earnestly bent on being busy as to resist the 
solicitations of his friends to do nothing. I was therefore en-
tered at Oxford and have been properly idle ever since.’
‘The consequence of which, I suppose, will be,’ said Mrs. 
Dashwood, ‘since leisure has not promoted your own happi-
ness, that your sons will be brought up to as many pursuits, 


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employments, professions, and trades as Columella’s.’
‘They will be brought up,’ said he, in a serious accent, ‘to 
be as unlike myself as is possible. In feeling, in action, in 
condition, in every thing.’
‘Come, come; this is all an effusion of immediate want 
of spirits, Edward. You are in a melancholy humour, and 
fancy that any one unlike yourself must be happy. But re-
member that the pain of parting from friends will be felt 
by every body at times, whatever be their education or 
state. Know your own happiness. You want nothing but 
patience—or give it a more fascinating name, call it hope. 
Your mother will secure to you, in time, that independence 
you are so anxious for; it is her duty, and it will, it must 
ere long become her happiness to prevent your whole youth 
from being wasted in discontent. How much may not a few 
months do?’
‘I think,’ replied Edward, ‘that I may defy many months 
to produce any good to me.’
This desponding turn of mind, though it could not be 
communicated to Mrs. Dashwood, gave additional pain to 
them all in the parting, which shortly took place, and left
 
an uncomfortable impression on Elinor’s feelings especial-
ly, which required some trouble and time to subdue. But as 
it was her determination to subdue it, and to prevent herself 
from appearing to suffer more than what all her family suf-
fered on his going away, she did not adopt the method so 
judiciously employed by Marianne, on a similar occasion, 
to augment and fix her sorrow, by seeking silence, solitude 
and idleness. Their means were as different as their objects, 


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and equally suited to the advancement of each.
Elinor sat down to her drawing-table as soon as he was 
out of the house, busily employed herself the whole day, nei-
ther sought nor avoided the mention of his name, appeared 
to interest herself almost as much as ever in the general 
concerns of the family, and if, by this conduct, she did not 
lessen her own grief, it was at least prevented from unneces-
sary increase, and her mother and sisters were spared much 
solicitude on her account.
Such behaviour as this, so exactly the reverse of her own, 
appeared no more meritorious to Marianne, than her own 
had seemed faulty to her. The business of self-command she 
settled very easily;—with strong affections it was impossi-
ble, with calm ones it could have no merit. That her sister’s 
affections WERE calm, she dared not deny, though she 
blushed to acknowledge it; and of the strength of her own, 
she gave a very striking proof, by still loving and respecting 
that sister, in spite of this mortifying conviction.
Without shutting herself up from her family, or leaving 
the house in determined solitude to avoid them, or lying 
awake the whole night to indulge meditation, Elinor found 
every day afforded her leisure enough to think of Edward, 
and of Edward’s behaviour, in every possible variety which 
the different state of her spirits at different times could pro-
duce,—with tenderness, pity, approbation, censure, and 
doubt. There were moments in abundance, when, if not by 
the absence of her mother and sisters, at least by the nature 
of their employments, conversation was forbidden among 
them, and every effect of solitude was produced. Her mind 


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was inevitably at liberty; her thoughts could not be chained 
elsewhere; and the past and the future, on a subject so in-
teresting, must be before her, must force her attention, and 
engross her memory, her reflection, and her fancy.
From a reverie of this kind, as she sat at her drawing-
table, she was roused one morning, soon after Edward’s 
leaving them, by the arrival of company. She happened to 
be quite alone. The closing of the little gate, at the entrance 
of the green court in front of the house, drew her eyes to 
the window, and she saw a large party walking up to the 
door. Amongst them were Sir John and Lady Middleton 
and Mrs. Jennings, but there were two others, a gentleman 
and lady, who were quite unknown to her. She was sitting 
near the window, and as soon as Sir John perceived her, he 
left the rest of the party to the ceremony of knocking at the 
door, and stepping across the turf, obliged her to open the 
casement to speak to him, though the space was so short 
between the door and the window, as to make it hardly pos-
sible to speak at one without being heard at the other.
‘Well,’ said he, ‘we have brought you some strangers. 
How do you like them?’
‘Hush! they will hear you.’
‘Never mind if they do. It is only the Palmers. Charlotte 
is very pretty, I can tell you. You may see her if you look 
this way.’
As Elinor was certain of seeing her in a couple of min-
utes, without taking that liberty, she begged to be excused.
‘Where is Marianne? Has she run away because we are 
come? I see her instrument is open.’


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‘She is walking, I believe.’
They were now joined by Mrs. Jennings, who had not pa-
tience enough to wait till the door was opened before she 
told HER story. She came hallooing to the window, ‘How 
do you do, my dear? How does Mrs. Dashwood do? And 
where are your sisters? What! all alone! you will be glad of a 
little company to sit with you. I have brought my other son 
and daughter to see you. Only think of their coming so sud-
denly! I thought I heard a carriage last night, while we were 
drinking our tea, but it never entered my head that it could 
be them. I thought of nothing but whether it might not be 
Colonel Brandon come back again; so I said to Sir John, I do 
think I hear a carriage; perhaps it is Colonel Brandon come 
back again’—
Elinor was obliged to turn from her, in the middle of her 
story, to receive the rest of the party; Lady Middleton in-
troduced the two strangers; Mrs. Dashwood and Margaret 
came down stairs at the same time, and they all sat down 
to look at one another, while Mrs. Jennings continued her 
story as she walked through the passage into the parlour, 
attended by Sir John.
Mrs. Palmer was several years younger than Lady Mid-
dleton, and totally unlike her in every respect. She was short 
and plump, had a very pretty face, and the finest expression 
of good humour in it that could possibly be. Her man-
ners were by no means so elegant as her sister’s, but they 
were much more prepossessing. She came in with a smile, 
smiled all the time of her visit, except when she laughed, 
and smiled when she went away. Her husband was a grave 


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looking young man of five or six and twenty, with an air of 
more fashion and sense than his wife, but of less willing-
ness to please or be pleased. He entered the room with a 
look of self-consequence, slightly bowed to the ladies, with-
out speaking a word, and, after briefly surveying them and 
their apartments, took up a newspaper from the table, and 
continued to read it as long as he staid.
Mrs. Palmer, on the contrary, who was strongly endowed 
by nature with a turn for being uniformly civil and happy, 
was hardly seated before her admiration of the parlour and 
every thing in it burst forth.
‘Well! what a delightful room this is! I never saw any-
thing so charming! Only think, Mamma, how it is improved 
since I was here last! I always thought it such a sweet place, 
ma’am! (turning to Mrs. Dashwood) but you have made it 
so charming! Only look, sister, how delightful every thing 
is! How I should like such a house for myself! Should not 
you, Mr. Palmer?’
Mr. Palmer made her no answer, and did not even raise 
his eyes from the newspaper.
‘Mr. Palmer does not hear me,’ said she, laughing; ‘he 
never does sometimes. It is so ridiculous!’
This was quite a new idea to Mrs. Dashwood; she had 
never been used to find wit in the inattention of any one, 
and could not help looking with surprise at them both.
Mrs. Jennings, in the meantime, talked on as loud as 
she could, and continued her account of their surprise, the 
evening before, on seeing their friends, without ceasing till 
every thing was told. Mrs. Palmer laughed heartily at the 


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130
recollection of their astonishment, and every body agreed, 
two or three times over, that it had been quite an agreeable 
surprise.
‘You may believe how glad we all were to see them,’ added 
Mrs. Jennings, leaning forward towards Elinor, and speak-
ing in a low voice as if she meant to be heard by no one else, 
though they were seated on different sides of the room; ‘but, 
however, I can’t help wishing they had not travelled quite 
so fast, nor made such a long journey of it, for they came all 
round by London upon account of some business, for you 
know (nodding significantly and pointing to her daughter) 
it was wrong in her situation. I wanted her to stay at home 
and rest this morning, but she would come with us; she 
longed so much to see you all!’
Mrs. Palmer laughed, and said it would not do her any 
harm.
‘She expects to be confined in February,’ continued Mrs. 
Jennings.
Lady Middleton could no longer endure such a conversa-
tion, and therefore exerted herself to ask Mr. Palmer if there 
was any news in the paper.
‘No, none at all,’ he replied, and read on.
‘Here comes Marianne,’ cried Sir John. ‘Now, Palmer, 
you shall see a monstrous pretty girl.’
He immediately went into the passage, opened the front 
door, and ushered her in himself. Mrs. Jennings asked her, 
as soon as she appeared, if she had not been to Allenham; 
and Mrs. Palmer laughed so heartily at the question, as to 
show she understood it. Mr. Palmer looked up on her enter-


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ing the room, stared at her some minutes, and then returned 
to his newspaper. Mrs. Palmer’s eye was now caught by the 
drawings which hung round the room. She got up to exam-
ine them.
‘Oh! dear, how beautiful these are! Well! how delight-
ful! Do but look, mama, how sweet! I declare they are quite 
charming; I could look at them for ever.’ And then sitting 
down again, she very soon forgot that there were any such 
things in the room.
When Lady Middleton rose to go away, Mr. Palmer rose 
also, laid down the newspaper, stretched himself and looked 
at them all around.
‘My love, have you been asleep?’ said his wife, laughing.
He made her no answer; and only observed, after again 
examining the room, that it was very low pitched, and that 
the ceiling was crooked. He then made his bow, and depart-
ed with the rest.
Sir John had been very urgent with them all to spend the 
next day at the park. Mrs. Dashwood, who did not chuse to 
dine with them oftener than they dined at the cottage, ab-
solutely refused on her own account; her daughters might 
do as they pleased. But they had no curiosity to see how 
Mr. and Mrs. Palmer ate their dinner, and no expectation 
of pleasure from them in any other way. They attempted, 
therefore, likewise, to excuse themselves; the weather was 
uncertain, and not likely to be good. But Sir John would not 
be satisfied—the carriage should be sent for them and they 
must come. Lady Middleton too, though she did not press 
their mother, pressed them. Mrs. Jennings and Mrs. Palmer 


Sense and Sensibility
132
joined their entreaties, all seemed equally anxious to avoid 
a family party; and the young ladies were obliged to yield.
‘Why should they ask us?’ said Marianne, as soon as they 
were gone. ‘The rent of this cottage is said to be low; but 
we have it on very hard terms, if we are to dine at the park 
whenever any one is staying either with them, or with us.’
‘They mean no less to be civil and kind to us now,’ said 
Elinor, ‘by these frequent invitations, than by those which 
we received from them a few weeks ago. The alteration is 
not in them, if their parties are grown tedious and dull. We 
must look for the change elsewhere.’


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Chapter 20
A
s the Miss Dashwoods entered the drawing-room of the 
park the next day, at one door, Mrs. Palmer came run-
ning in at the other, looking as good humoured and merry 
as before. She took them all most affectionately by the hand, 
and expressed great delight in seeing them again.
‘I am so glad to see you!’ said she, seating herself between 
Elinor and Marianne, ‘for it is so bad a day I was afraid you 
might not come, which would be a shocking thing, as we go 
away again tomorrow. We must go, for the Westons come 
to us next week you know. It was quite a sudden thing our 
coming at all, and I knew nothing of it till the carriage was 
coming to the door, and then Mr. Palmer asked me if I 
would go with him to Barton. He is so droll! He never tells 
me any thing! I am so sorry we cannot stay longer; however 
we shall meet again in town very soon, I hope.’
They were obliged to put an end to such an expectation.
‘Not go to town!’ cried Mrs. Palmer, with a laugh, ‘I shall 
be quite disappointed if you do not. I could get the nicest 
house in world for you, next door to ours, in Hanover-
square. You must come, indeed. I am sure I shall be very 
happy to chaperon you at any time till I am confined, if Mrs. 
Dashwood should not like to go into public.’
They thanked her; but were obliged to resist all her en-
treaties.


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134
‘Oh, my love,’ cried Mrs. Palmer to her husband, who 
just then entered the room—‘you must help me to persuade 
the Miss Dashwoods to go to town this winter.’
Her love made no answer; and after slightly bowing to 
the ladies, began complaining of the weather.
‘How horrid all this is!’ said he. ‘Such weather makes ev-
ery thing and every body disgusting. Dullness is as much 
produced within doors as without, by rain. It makes one 
detest all one’s acquaintance. What the devil does Sir John 
mean by not having a billiard room in his house? How few 
people know what comfort is! Sir John is as stupid as the 
weather.’
The rest of the company soon dropt in.
‘I am afraid, Miss Marianne,’ said Sir John, ‘you have not 
been able to take your usual walk to Allenham today.’
Marianne looked very grave and said nothing.
‘Oh, don’t be so sly before us,’ said Mrs. Palmer; ‘for we 
know all about it, I assure you; and I admire your taste very 
much, for I think he is extremely handsome. We do not live 
a great way from him in the country, you know. Not above 
ten miles, I dare say.’
‘Much nearer thirty,’ said her husband.
‘Ah, well! there is not much difference. I never was at his 
house; but they say it is a sweet pretty place.’
‘As vile a spot as I ever saw in my life,’ said Mr. Palmer.
Marianne remained perfectly silent, though her counte-
nance betrayed her interest in what was said.
‘Is it very ugly?’ continued Mrs. Palmer—‘then it must be 
some other place that is so pretty I suppose.’


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When they were seated in the dining room, Sir John ob-
served with regret that they were only eight all together.
‘My dear,’ said he to his lady, ‘it is very provoking that we 
should be so few. Why did not you ask the Gilberts to come 
to us today?’
‘Did not I tell you, Sir John, when you spoke to me about 
it before, that it could not be done? They dined with us 
last.’
‘You and I, Sir John,’ said Mrs. Jennings, ‘should not 
stand upon such ceremony.’
‘Then you would be very ill-bred,’ cried Mr. Palmer.
‘My love you contradict every body,’ said his wife with 
her usual laugh. ‘Do you know that you are quite rude?’
‘I did not know I contradicted any body in calling your 
mother ill-bred.’
‘Ay, you may abuse me as you please,’ said the good-na-
tured old lady, ‘you have taken Charlotte off my hands, and 
cannot give her back again. So there I have the whip hand 
of you.’
Charlotte laughed heartily to think that her husband 
could not get rid of her; and exultingly said, she did not 
care how cross he was to her, as they must live together. It 
was impossible for any one to be more thoroughly good-na-
tured, or more determined to be happy than Mrs. Palmer. 
The studied indifference, insolence, and discontent of her 
husband gave her no pain; and when he scolded or abused 
her, she was highly diverted.
‘Mr. Palmer is so droll!’ said she, in a whisper, to Elinor. 
‘He is always out of humour.’


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136
Elinor was not inclined, after a little observation, to give 
him credit for being so genuinely and unaffectedly ill-na-
tured or ill-bred as he wished to appear. His temper might 
perhaps be a little soured by finding, like many others of 
his sex, that through some unaccountable bias in favour of 
beauty, he was the husband of a very silly woman,—but she 
knew that this kind of blunder was too common for any 
sensible man to be lastingly hurt by it.— It was rather a wish 
of distinction, she believed, which produced his contemptu-
ous treatment of every body, and his general abuse of every 
thing before him. It was the desire of appearing superior to 
other people. The motive was too common to be wondered 
at; but the means, however they might succeed by establish-
ing his superiority in ill-breeding, were not likely to attach 
any one to him except his wife.
‘Oh, my dear Miss Dashwood,’ said Mrs. Palmer soon 
afterwards, ‘I have got such a favour to ask of you and your 
sister. Will you come and spend some time at Cleveland 
this Christmas? Now, pray do,—and come while the We-
stons are with us. You cannot think how happy I shall be! 
It will be quite delightful!—My love,’ applying to her hus-
band, ‘don’t you long to have the Miss Dashwoods come to 
Cleveland?’
‘Certainly,’ he replied, with a sneer—‘I came into Devon-
shire with no other view.’
‘There now,’—said his lady, ‘you see Mr. Palmer expects 
you; so you cannot refuse to come.’
They both eagerly and resolutely declined her invita-
tion.


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‘But indeed you must and shall come. I am sure you 
will like it of all things. The Westons will be with us, and 
it will be quite delightful. You cannot think what a sweet 
place Cleveland is; and we are so gay now, for Mr. Palmer is 
always going about the country canvassing against the elec-
tion; and so many people came to dine with us that I never 
saw before, it is quite charming! But, poor fellow! it is very 
fatiguing to him! for he is forced to make every body like 
him.’
Elinor could hardly keep her countenance as she assent-
ed to the hardship of such an obligation.
‘How charming it will be,’ said Charlotte, ‘when he is in 
Parliament!—won’t it? How I shall laugh! It will be so ridic-
ulous to see all his letters directed to him with an M.P.—But 
do you know, he says, he will never frank for me? He de-
clares he won’t. Don’t you, Mr. Palmer?’
Mr. Palmer took no notice of her.
‘He cannot bear writing, you know,’ she continued— ‘he 
says it is quite shocking.’
‘No,’ said he, ‘I never said any thing so irrational. Don’t 
palm all your abuses of languages upon me.’
‘There now; you see how droll he is. This is always the 
way with him! Sometimes he won’t speak to me for half 
a day together, and then he comes out with something so 
droll—all about any thing in the world.’
She surprised Elinor very much as they returned into the 
drawing-room, by asking her whether she did not like Mr. 
Palmer excessively.
‘Certainly,’ said Elinor; ‘he seems very agreeable.’


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138
‘Well—I am so glad you do. I thought you would, he is 
so pleasant; and Mr. Palmer is excessively pleased with you 
and your sisters I can tell you, and you can’t think how dis-
appointed he will be if you don’t come to Cleveland.—I can’t 
imagine why you should object to it.’
Elinor was again obliged to decline her invitation; and 
by changing the subject, put a stop to her entreaties. She 
thought it probable that as they lived in the same county, 
Mrs. Palmer might be able to give some more particular 
account of Willoughby’s general character, than could be 
gathered from the Middletons’ partial acquaintance with 
him; and she was eager to gain from any one, such a confir-
mation of his merits as might remove the possibility of fear 
from Marianne. She began by inquiring if they saw much of 
Mr. Willoughby at Cleveland, and whether they were inti-
mately acquainted with him.
‘Oh dear, yes; I know him extremely well,’ replied Mrs. 
Palmer;—‘Not that I ever spoke to him, indeed; but I have 
seen him for ever in town. Somehow or other I never hap-
pened to be staying at Barton while he was at Allenham. 
Mama saw him here once before;— but I was with my uncle 
at Weymouth. However, I dare say we should have seen a 
great deal of him in Somersetshire, if it had not happened 
very unluckily that we should never have been in the coun-
try together. He is very little at Combe, I believe; but if he 
were ever so much there, I do not think Mr. Palmer would 
visit him, for he is in the opposition, you know, and besides 
it is such a way off. I know why you inquire about him, very 
well; your sister is to marry him. I am monstrous glad of it, 


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for then I shall have her for a neighbour you know.’
‘Upon my word,’ replied Elinor, ‘you know much more of 
the matter than I do, if you have any reason to expect such 
a match.’
‘Don’t pretend to deny it, because you know it is what 
every body talks of. I assure you I heard of it in my way 
through town.’
‘My dear Mrs. Palmer!’
‘Upon my honour I did.—I met Colonel Brandon Mon-
day morning in Bond-street, just before we left town, and he 
told me of it directly.’
‘You surprise me very much. Colonel Brandon tell you 
of it! Surely you must be mistaken. To give such intelligence 
to a person who could not be interested in it, even if it were 
true, is not what I should expect Colonel Brandon to do.’
‘But I do assure you it was so, for all that, and I will tell 
you how it happened. When we met him, he turned back 
and walked with us; and so we began talking of my brother 
and sister, and one thing and another, and I said to him, 
‘So, Colonel, there is a new family come to Barton cottage, 
I hear, and mama sends me word they are very pretty, and 
that one of them is going to be married to Mr. Willoughby 
of Combe Magna. Is it true, pray? for of course you must 
know, as you have been in Devonshire so lately.’’
‘And what did the Colonel say?’
‘Oh—he did not say much; but he looked as if he knew it 
to be true, so from that moment I set it down as certain. It 
will be quite delightful, I declare! When is it to take place?’
‘Mr. Brandon was very well I hope?’


Sense and Sensibility
140
‘Oh! yes, quite well; and so full of your praises, he did 
nothing but say fine things of you.’
‘I am flattered by his commendation. He seems an excel-
lent man; and I think him uncommonly pleasing.’
‘So do I.—He is such a charming man, that it is quite a 
pity he should be so grave and so dull. Mamma says HE 
was in love with your sister too.— I assure you it was a great 
compliment if he was, for he hardly ever falls in love with 
any body.’
‘Is Mr. Willoughby much known in your part of Somer-
setshire?’ said Elinor.
‘Oh! yes, extremely well; that is, I do not believe many 
people are acquainted with him, because Combe Magna is 
so far off; but they all think him extremely agreeable I assure 
you. Nobody is more liked than Mr. Willoughby wherever 
he goes, and so you may tell your sister. She is a monstrous 
lucky girl to get him, upon my honour; not but that he is 
much more lucky in getting her, because she is so very 
handsome and agreeable, that nothing can be good enough 
for her. However, I don’t think her hardly at all handsomer 
than you, I assure you; for I think you both excessively pret-
ty, and so does Mr. Palmer too I am sure, though we could 
not get him to own it last night.’
Mrs. Palmer’s information respecting Willoughby was 
not very material; but any testimony in his favour, however 
small, was pleasing to her.
‘I am so glad we are got acquainted at last,’ contin-
ued Charlotte.—‘And now I hope we shall always be great 
friends. You can’t think how much I longed to see you! It 


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is so delightful that you should live at the cottage! Noth-
ing can be like it, to be sure! And I am so glad your sister is 
going to be well married! I hope you will be a great deal at 
Combe Magna. It is a sweet place, by all accounts.’
‘You have been long acquainted with Colonel Brandon, 
have not you?’
‘Yes, a great while; ever since my sister married.— He 
was a particular friend of Sir John’s. I believe,’ she added in 
a low voice, ‘he would have been very glad to have had me, if 
he could. Sir John and Lady Middleton wished it very much. 
But mama did not think the match good enough for me, 
otherwise Sir John would have mentioned it to the Colonel, 
and we should have been married immediately.’
‘Did not Colonel Brandon know of Sir John’s proposal to 
your mother before it was made? Had he never owned his 
affection to yourself?’
‘Oh, no; but if mama had not objected to it, I dare say 
he would have liked it of all things. He had not seen me 
then above twice, for it was before I left school. However, I 
am much happier as I am. Mr. Palmer is the kind of man I 
like.’


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Chapter 21
T
he Palmers returned to Cleveland the next day, and the 
two families at Barton were again left to entertain each 
other. But this did not last long; Elinor had hardly got their 
last visitors out of her head, had hardly done wondering at 
Charlotte’s being so happy without a cause, at Mr. Palmer’s 
acting so simply, with good abilities, and at the strange un-
suitableness which often existed between husband and wife, 
before Sir John’s and Mrs. Jennings’s active zeal in the cause 
of society, procured her some other new acquaintance to see 
and observe.
In a morning’s excursion to Exeter, they had met with 
two young ladies, whom Mrs. Jennings had the satisfaction 
of discovering to be her relations, and this was enough for 
Sir John to invite them directly to the park, as soon as their 
present engagements at Exeter were over. Their engagements 
at Exeter instantly gave way before such an invitation, and 
Lady Middleton was thrown into no little alarm on the re-
turn of Sir John, by hearing that she was very soon to receive 
a visit from two girls whom she had never seen in her life, 
and of whose elegance,— whose tolerable gentility even, she 
could have no proof; for the assurances of her husband and 
mother on that subject went for nothing at all. Their be-
ing her relations too made it so much the worse; and Mrs. 
Jennings’s attempts at consolation were therefore unfortu-


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nately founded, when she advised her daughter not to care 
about their being so fashionable; because they were all cous-
ins and must put up with one another. As it was impossible, 
however, now to prevent their coming, Lady Middleton re-
signed herself to the idea of it, with all the philosophy of a 
well-bred woman, contenting herself with merely giving her 
husband a gentle reprimand on the subject five or six times 
every day.
The young ladies arrived: their appearance was by no 
means ungenteel or unfashionable. Their dress was very 
smart, their manners very civil, they were delighted with 
the house, and in raptures with the furniture, and they 
happened to be so doatingly fond of children that Lady 
Middleton’s good opinion was engaged in their favour be-
fore they had been an hour at the Park. She declared them 
to be very agreeable girls indeed, which for her ladyship 
was enthusiastic admiration. Sir John’s confidence in his 
own judgment rose with this animated praise, and he set 
off directly for the cottage to tell the Miss Dashwoods of 
the Miss Steeles’ arrival, and to assure them of their being 
the sweetest girls in the world. From such commendation 
as this, however, there was not much to be learned; Elinor 
well knew that the sweetest girls in the world were to be 
met with in every part of England, under every possible 
variation of form, face, temper and understanding. Sir John 
wanted the whole family to walk to the Park directly and 
look at his guests. Benevolent, philanthropic man! It was 
painful to him even to keep a third cousin to himself.
‘Do come now,’ said he—‘pray come—you must come—I 


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144
declare you shall come—You can’t think how you will like 
them. Lucy is monstrous pretty, and so good humoured and 
agreeable! The children are all hanging about her already, as 
if she was an old acquaintance. And they both long to see 
you of all things, for they have heard at Exeter that you are 
the most beautiful creatures in the world; and I have told 
them it is all very true, and a great deal more. You will be 
delighted with them I am sure. They have brought the whole 
coach full of playthings for the children. How can you be so 
cross as not to come? Why they are your cousins, you know, 
after a fashion. YOU are my cousins, and they are my wife’s, 
so you must be related.’
But Sir John could not prevail. He could only obtain a 
promise of their calling at the Park within a day or two, 
and then left them in amazement at their indifference, to 
walk home and boast anew of their attractions to the Miss 
Steeles, as he had been already boasting of the Miss Steeles 
to them.
When their promised visit to the Park and consequent 
introduction to these young ladies took place, they found in 
the appearance of the eldest, who was nearly thirty, with a 
very plain and not a sensible face, nothing to admire; but in 
the other, who was not more than two or three and twenty, 
they acknowledged considerable beauty; her features were 
pretty, and she had a sharp quick eye, and a smartness of air, 
which though it did not give actual elegance or grace, gave 
distinction to her person.— Their manners were particu-
larly civil, and Elinor soon allowed them credit for some 
kind of sense, when she saw with what constant and judi-


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cious attention they were making themselves agreeable to 
Lady Middleton. With her children they were in continual 
raptures, extolling their beauty, courting their notice, and 
humouring their whims; and such of their time as could be 
spared from the importunate demands which this polite-
ness made on it, was spent in admiration of whatever her 
ladyship was doing, if she happened to be doing any thing, 
or in taking patterns of some elegant new dress, in which her 
appearance the day before had thrown them into unceasing 
delight. Fortunately for those who pay their court through 
such foibles, a fond mother, though, in pursuit of praise for 
her children, the most rapacious of human beings, is like-
wise the most credulous; her demands are exorbitant; but 
she will swallow any thing; and the excessive affection and 
endurance of the Miss Steeles towards her offspring were 
viewed therefore by Lady Middleton without the smallest 
surprise or distrust. She saw with maternal complacency all 
the impertinent encroachments and mischievous tricks to 
which her cousins submitted. She saw their sashes untied, 
their hair pulled about their ears, their work-bags searched, 
and their knives and scissors stolen away, and felt no doubt 
of its being a reciprocal enjoyment. It suggested no other 
surprise than that Elinor and Marianne should sit so com-
posedly by, without claiming a share in what was passing.
‘John is in such spirits today!’ said she, on his taking 
Miss Steeles’s pocket handkerchief, and throwing it out of 
window—‘He is full of monkey tricks.’
And soon afterwards, on the second boy’s violently 
pinching one of the same lady’s fingers, she fondly observed, 


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‘How playful William is!’
‘And here is my sweet little Annamaria,’ she added, ten-
derly caressing a little girl of three years old, who had not 
made a noise for the last two minutes; ‘And she is always so 
gentle and quiet—Never was there such a quiet little thing!’
But unfortunately in bestowing these embraces, a pin 
in her ladyship’s head dress slightly scratching the child’s 
neck, produced from this pattern of gentleness such violent 
screams, as could hardly be outdone by any creature pro-
fessedly noisy. The mother’s consternation was excessive; 
but it could not surpass the alarm of the Miss Steeles, and 
every thing was done by all three, in so critical an emer-
gency, which affection could suggest as likely to assuage the 
agonies of the little sufferer. She was seated in her mother’s 
lap, covered with kisses, her wound bathed with lavender-
water, by one of the Miss Steeles, who was on her knees to 
attend her, and her mouth stuffed with sugar plums by the 
other. With such a reward for her tears, the child was too 
wise to cease crying. She still screamed and sobbed lust-
ily, kicked her two brothers for offering to touch her, and 
all their united soothings were ineffectual till Lady Middle-
ton luckily remembering that in a scene of similar distress 
last week, some apricot marmalade had been successfully 
applied for a bruised temple, the same remedy was eagerly 
proposed for this unfortunate scratch, and a slight inter-
mission of screams in the young lady on hearing it, gave 
them reason to hope that it would not be rejected.— She was 
carried out of the room therefore in her mother’s arms, in 
quest of this medicine, and as the two boys chose to follow, 


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though earnestly entreated by their mother to stay behind, 
the four young ladies were left in a quietness which the 
room had not known for many hours.
‘Poor little creatures!’ said Miss Steele, as soon as they 
were gone. ‘It might have been a very sad accident.’
‘Yet I hardly know how,’ cried Marianne, ‘unless it had 
been under totally different circumstances. But this is the 
usual way of heightening alarm, where there is nothing to 
be alarmed at in reality.’
‘What a sweet woman Lady Middleton is!’ said Lucy 
Steele.
Marianne was silent; it was impossible for her to say what 
she did not feel, however trivial the occasion; and upon Eli-
nor therefore the whole task of telling lies when politeness 
required it, always fell. She did her best when thus called on, 
by speaking of Lady Middleton with more warmth than she 
felt, though with far less than Miss Lucy.
‘And Sir John too,’ cried the elder sister, ‘what a charm-
ing man he is!’
Here too, Miss Dashwood’s commendation, being only 
simple and just, came in without any eclat. She merely ob-
served that he was perfectly good humoured and friendly.
‘And what a charming little family they have! I never saw 
such fine children in my life.—I declare I quite doat upon 
them already, and indeed I am always distractedly fond of 
children.’
‘I should guess so,’ said Elinor, with a smile, ‘from what I 
have witnessed this morning.’
‘I have a notion,’ said Lucy, ‘you think the little Middle-


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148
tons rather too much indulged; perhaps they may be the 
outside of enough; but it is so natural in Lady Middleton; 
and for my part, I love to see children full of life and spirits; 
I cannot bear them if they are tame and quiet.’
‘I confess,’ replied Elinor, ‘that while I am at Barton Park, 
I never think of tame and quiet children with any abhor-
rence.’
A short pause succeeded this speech, which was first 
broken by Miss Steele, who seemed very much disposed for 
conversation, and who now said rather abruptly, ‘And how 
do you like Devonshire, Miss Dashwood? I suppose you 
were very sorry to leave Sussex.’
In some surprise at the familiarity of this question, or at 
least of the manner in which it was spoken, Elinor replied 
that she was.
‘Norland is a prodigious beautiful place, is not it?’ added 
Miss Steele.
‘We have heard Sir John admire it excessively,’ said Lucy, 
who seemed to think some apology necessary for the free-
dom of her sister.
‘I think every one MUST admire it,’ replied Elinor, ‘who 
ever saw the place; though it is not to be supposed that any 
one can estimate its beauties as we do.’
‘And had you a great many smart beaux there? I suppose 
you have not so many in this part of the world; for my part, 
I think they are a vast addition always.’
‘But why should you think,’ said Lucy, looking ashamed 
of her sister, ‘that there are not as many genteel young men 
in Devonshire as Sussex?’


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‘Nay, my dear, I’m sure I don’t pretend to say that there 
an’t. I’m sure there’s a vast many smart beaux in Exeter; but 
you know, how could I tell what smart beaux there might be 
about Norland; and I was only afraid the Miss Dashwoods 
might find it dull at Barton, if they had not so many as they 
used to have. But perhaps you young ladies may not care 
about the beaux, and had as lief be without them as with 
them. For my part, I think they are vastly agreeable, pro-
vided they dress smart and behave civil. But I can’t bear to 
see them dirty and nasty. Now there’s Mr. Rose at Exeter, 
a prodigious smart young man, quite a beau, clerk to Mr. 
Simpson, you know, and yet if you do but meet him of a 
morning, he is not fit to be seen.— I suppose your brother 
was quite a beau, Miss Dashwood, before he married, as he 
was so rich?’
‘Upon my word,’ replied Elinor, ‘I cannot tell you, for I do 
not perfectly comprehend the meaning of the word. But this 
I can say, that if he ever was a beau before he married, he is 
one still for there is not the smallest alteration in him.’
‘Oh! dear! one never thinks of married men’s being 
beaux—they have something else to do.’
‘Lord! Anne,’ cried her sister, ‘you can talk of nothing but 
beaux;—you will make Miss Dashwood believe you think of 
nothing else.’ And then to turn the discourse, she began ad-
miring the house and the furniture.
This specimen of the Miss Steeles was enough. The vulgar 
freedom and folly of the eldest left her no recommendation, 
and as Elinor was not blinded by the beauty, or the shrewd 
look of the youngest, to her want of real elegance and art-


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150
lessness, she left the house without any wish of knowing 
them better.
Not so the Miss Steeles.—They came from Exeter, well 
provided with admiration for the use of Sir John Middleton, 
his family, and all his relations, and no niggardly proportion 
was now dealt out to his fair cousins, whom they declared 
to be the most beautiful, elegant, accomplished, and agree-
able girls they had ever beheld, and with whom they were 
particularly anxious to be better acquainted.— And to be 
better acquainted therefore, Elinor soon found was their in-
evitable lot, for as Sir John was entirely on the side of the 
Miss Steeles, their party would be too strong for opposition, 
and that kind of intimacy must be submitted to, which con-
sists of sitting an hour or two together in the same room 
almost every day. Sir John could do no more; but he did not 
know that any more was required: to be together was, in his 
opinion, to be intimate, and while his continual schemes for 
their meeting were effectual, he had not a doubt of their be-
ing established friends.
To do him justice, he did every thing in his power to 
promote their unreserve, by making the Miss Steeles ac-
quainted with whatever he knew or supposed of his cousins’ 
situations in the most delicate particulars,—and Elinor had 
not seen them more than twice, before the eldest of them 
wished her joy on her sister’s having been so lucky as to 
make a conquest of a very smart beau since she came to 
Barton.
‘Twill be a fine thing to have her married so young to be 
sure,’ said she, ‘and I hear he is quite a beau, and prodigious 


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handsome. And I hope you may have as good luck yourself 
soon,—but perhaps you may have a friend in the corner al-
ready.’
Elinor could not suppose that Sir John would be more 
nice in proclaiming his suspicions of her regard for Edward, 
than he had been with respect to Marianne; indeed it was 
rather his favourite joke of the two, as being somewhat new-
er and more conjectural; and since Edward’s visit, they had 
never dined together without his drinking to her best af-
fections with so much significancy and so many nods and 
winks, as to excite general attention. The letter F— had been 
likewise invariably brought forward, and found productive 
of such countless jokes, that its character as the wittiest let-
ter in the alphabet had been long established with Elinor.
The Miss Steeles, as she expected, had now all the benefit 
of these jokes, and in the eldest of them they raised a curi-
osity to know the name of the gentleman alluded to, which, 
though often impertinently expressed, was perfectly of a 
piece with her general inquisitiveness into the concerns of 
their family. But Sir John did not sport long with the curi-
osity which he delighted to raise, for he had at least as much 
pleasure in telling the name, as Miss Steele had in hearing 
it.
‘His name is Ferrars,’ said he, in a very audible whisper; 
‘but pray do not tell it, for it’s a great secret.’
‘Ferrars!’ repeated Miss Steele; ‘Mr. Ferrars is the happy 
man, is he? What! your sister-in-law’s brother, Miss Dash-
wood? a very agreeable young man to be sure; I know him 
very well.’


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152
‘How can you say so, Anne?’ cried Lucy, who generally 
made an amendment to all her sister’s assertions. ‘Though 
we have seen him once or twice at my uncle’s, it is rather too 
much to pretend to know him very well.’
Elinor heard all this with attention and surprise. ‘And 
who was this uncle? Where did he live? How came they 
acquainted?’ She wished very much to have the subject con-
tinued, though she did not chuse to join in it herself; but 
nothing more of it was said, and for the first time in her 
life, she thought Mrs. Jennings deficient either in curiosity 
after petty information, or in a disposition to communicate 
it. The manner in which Miss Steele had spoken of Edward, 
increased her curiosity; for it struck her as being rath-
er ill-natured, and suggested the suspicion of that lady’s 
knowing, or fancying herself to know something to his dis-
advantage.—But her curiosity was unavailing, for no farther 
notice was taken of Mr. Ferrars’s name by Miss Steele when 
alluded to, or even openly mentioned by Sir John.


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Chapter 22
M
arianne, who had never much toleration for any thing 
like impertinence, vulgarity, inferiority of parts, or 
even difference of taste from herself, was at this time par-
ticularly ill-disposed, from the state of her spirits, to be 
pleased with the Miss Steeles, or to encourage their advanc-
es; and to the invariable coldness of her behaviour towards 
them, which checked every endeavour at intimacy on their 
side, Elinor principally attributed that preference of her-
self which soon became evident in the manners of both, 
but especially of Lucy, who missed no opportunity of en-
gaging her in conversation, or of striving to improve their 
acquaintance by an easy and frank communication of her 
sentiments.
Lucy was naturally clever; her remarks were often just 
and amusing; and as a companion for half an hour Elinor 
frequently found her agreeable; but her powers had received 
no aid from education: she was ignorant and illiterate; and 
her deficiency of all mental improvement, her want of in-
formation in the most common particulars, could not be 
concealed from Miss Dashwood, in spite of her constant 
endeavour to appear to advantage. Elinor saw, and pitied 
her for, the neglect of abilities which education might have 
rendered so respectable; but she saw, with less tenderness 
of feeling, the thorough want of delicacy, of rectitude, and 


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154
integrity of mind, which her attentions, her assiduities, her 
flatteries at the Park betrayed; and she could have no lasting 
satisfaction in the company of a person who joined insin-
cerity with ignorance; whose want of instruction prevented 
their meeting in conversation on terms of equality, and 
whose conduct toward others made every shew of attention 
and deference towards herself perfectly valueless.
‘You will think my question an odd one, I dare say,’ said 
Lucy to her one day, as they were walking together from the 
park to the cottage—‘but pray, are you personally acquaint-
ed with your sister-in-law’s mother, Mrs. Ferrars?’
Elinor DID think the question a very odd one, and her 
countenance expressed it, as she answered that she had nev-
er seen Mrs. Ferrars.
‘Indeed!’ replied Lucy; ‘I wonder at that, for I thought 
you must have seen her at Norland sometimes. Then, per-
haps, you cannot tell me what sort of a woman she is?’
‘No,’ returned Elinor, cautious of giving her real opin-
ion of Edward’s mother, and not very desirous of satisfying 
what seemed impertinent curiosity— ‘I know nothing of 
her.’
‘I am sure you think me very strange, for enquiring about 
her in such a way,’ said Lucy, eyeing Elinor attentively as she 
spoke; ‘but perhaps there may be reasons—I wish I might 
venture; but however I hope you will do me the justice of 
believing that I do not mean to be impertinent.’
Elinor made her a civil reply, and they walked on for a 
few minutes in silence. It was broken by Lucy, who renewed 
the subject again by saying, with some hesitation,


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‘I cannot bear to have you think me impertinently cu-
rious. I am sure I would rather do any thing in the world 
than be thought so by a person whose good opinion is so 
well worth having as yours. And I am sure I should not have 
the smallest fear of trusting YOU; indeed, I should be very 
glad of your advice how to manage in such and uncomfort-
able situation as I am; but, however, there is no occasion to 
trouble YOU. I am sorry you do not happen to know Mrs. 
Ferrars.’
‘I am sorry I do NOT,’ said Elinor, in great astonishment, 
‘if it could be of any use to YOU to know my opinion of her. 
But really I never understood that you were at all connected 
with that family, and therefore I am a little surprised, I con-
fess, at so serious an inquiry into her character.’
‘I dare say you are, and I am sure I do not at all wonder 
at it. But if I dared tell you all, you would not be so much 
surprised. Mrs. Ferrars is certainly nothing to me at pres-
ent—but the time MAY come—how soon it will come must 
depend upon herself—when we may be very intimately con-
nected.’
She looked down as she said this, amiably bashful, with 
only one side glance at her companion to observe its effect 
on her.
‘Good heavens!’ cried Elinor, ‘what do you mean? Are 
you acquainted with Mr. Robert Ferrars? Can you be?’ And 
she did not feel much delighted with the idea of such a sis-
ter-in-law.
‘No,’ replied Lucy, ‘not to Mr. ROBERT Ferrars—I never 
saw him in my life; but,’ fixing her eyes upon Elinor, ‘to his 


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156
eldest brother.’
What felt Elinor at that moment? Astonishment, that 
would have been as painful as it was strong, had not an im-
mediate disbelief of the assertion attended it. She turned 
towards Lucy in silent amazement, unable to divine the 
reason or object of such a declaration; and though her com-
plexion varied, she stood firm in incredulity, and felt in no 
danger of an hysterical fit, or a swoon.
‘You may well be surprised,’ continued Lucy; ‘for to be 
sure you could have had no idea of it before; for I dare say 
he never dropped the smallest hint of it to you or any of 
your family; because it was always meant to be a great se-
cret, and I am sure has been faithfully kept so by me to this 
hour. Not a soul of all my relations know of it but Anne, and 
I never should have mentioned it to you, if I had not felt the 
greatest dependence in the world upon your secrecy; and I 
really thought my behaviour in asking so many questions 
about Mrs. Ferrars must seem so odd, that it ought to be ex-
plained. And I do not think Mr. Ferrars can be displeased, 
when he knows I have trusted you, because I know he has 
the highest opinion in the world of all your family, and 
looks upon yourself and the other Miss Dashwoods quite as 
his own sisters.’—She paused.
Elinor for a few moments remained silent. Her astonish-
ment at what she heard was at first too great for words; but 
at length forcing herself to speak, and to speak cautious-
ly, she said, with calmness of manner, which tolerably well 
concealed her surprise and solicitude— ‘May I ask if your 
engagement is of long standing?’


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‘We have been engaged these four years.’
‘Four years!’
‘Yes.’
Elinor, though greatly shocked, still felt unable to believe 
it.
‘I did not know,’ said she, ‘that you were even acquainted 
till the other day.’
‘Our acquaintance, however, is of many years date. 
He was under my uncle’s care, you know, a considerable 
while.’
‘Your uncle!’
‘Yes; Mr. Pratt. Did you never hear him talk of Mr. 
Pratt?’
‘I think I have,’ replied Elinor, with an exertion of spirits, 
which increased with her increase of emotion.
‘He was four years with my uncle, who lives at Longsta-
ple, near Plymouth. It was there our acquaintance begun, 
for my sister and me was often staying with my uncle, and 
it was there our engagement was formed, though not till a 
year after he had quitted as a pupil; but he was almost al-
ways with us afterwards. I was very unwilling to enter into 
it, as you may imagine, without the knowledge and appro-
bation of his mother; but I was too young, and loved him 
too well, to be so prudent as I ought to have been.— Though 
you do not know him so well as me, Miss Dashwood, you 
must have seen enough of him to be sensible he is very ca-
pable of making a woman sincerely attached to him.’
‘Certainly,’ answered Elinor, without knowing what she 
said; but after a moment’s reflection, she added, with revived 


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158
security of Edward’s honour and love, and her companion’s 
falsehood—‘Engaged to Mr. Edward Ferrars!—I confess 
myself so totally surprised at what you tell me, that really—
I beg your pardon; but surely there must be some mistake of 
person or name. We cannot mean the same Mr. Ferrars.’
‘We can mean no other,’ cried Lucy, smiling. ‘Mr. Ed-
ward Ferrars, the eldest son of Mrs. Ferrars, of Park Street, 
and brother of your sister-in-law, Mrs. John Dashwood, is 
the person I mean; you must allow that I am not likely to 
be deceived as to the name of the man on who all my hap-
piness depends.’
‘It is strange,’ replied Elinor, in a most painful perplex-
ity, ‘that I should never have heard him even mention your 
name.’
‘No; considering our situation, it was not strange. Our 
first care has been to keep the matter secret.— You knew 
nothing of me, or my family, and, therefore, there could be 
no OCCASION for ever mentioning my name to you; and, 
as he was always particularly afraid of his sister’s suspecting 
any thing, THAT was reason enough for his not mention-
ing it.’
She was silent.—Elinor’s security sunk; but her self-com-
mand did not sink with it.
‘Four years you have been engaged,’ said she with a firm 
voice.
‘Yes; and heaven knows how much longer we may have 
to wait. Poor Edward! It puts him quite out of heart.’ Then 
taking a small miniature from her pocket, she added, ‘To 
prevent the possibility of mistake, be so good as to look at 


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this face. It does not do him justice, to be sure, but yet I 
think you cannot be deceived as to the person it was drew 
for.—I have had it above these three years.’
She put it into her hands as she spoke; and when Eli-
nor saw the painting, whatever other doubts her fear of a 
too hasty decision, or her wish of detecting falsehood might 
suffer to linger in her mind, she could have none of its being 
Edward’s face. She returned it almost instantly, acknowl-
edging the likeness.
‘I have never been able,’ continued Lucy, ‘to give him my 
picture in return, which I am very much vexed at, for he has 
been always so anxious to get it! But I am determined to set 
for it the very first opportunity.’
‘You are quite in the right,’ replied Elinor calmly. They 
then proceeded a few paces in silence. Lucy spoke first.
‘I am sure,’ said she, ‘I have no doubt in the world of your 
faithfully keeping this secret, because you must know of 
what importance it is to us, not to have it reach his mother; 
for she would never approve of it, I dare say. I shall have no 
fortune, and I fancy she is an exceeding proud woman.’
‘I certainly did not seek your confidence,’ said Elinor; 
‘but you do me no more than justice in imagining that I may 
be depended on. Your secret is safe with me; but pardon me 
if I express some surprise at so unnecessary a communica-
tion. You must at least have felt that my being acquainted 
with it could not add to its safety.’
As she said this, she looked earnestly at Lucy, hoping to 
discover something in her countenance; perhaps the false-
hood of the greatest part of what she had been saying; but 


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160
Lucy’s countenance suffered no change.
‘I was afraid you would think I was taking a great lib-
erty with you,’ said she, ‘in telling you all this. I have not 
known you long to be sure, personally at least, but I have 
known you and all your family by description a great while; 
and as soon as I saw you, I felt almost as if you was an old 
acquaintance. Besides in the present case, I really thought 
some explanation was due to you after my making such 
particular inquiries about Edward’s mother; and I am so 
unfortunate, that I have not a creature whose advice I can 
ask. Anne is the only person that knows of it, and she has 
no judgment at all; indeed, she does me a great deal more 
harm than good, for I am in constant fear of her betray-
ing me. She does not know how to hold her tongue, as you 
must perceive, and I am sure I was in the greatest fright in 
the world t’other day, when Edward’s name was mentioned 
by Sir John, lest she should out with it all. You can’t think 
how much I go through in my mind from it altogether. I 
only wonder that I am alive after what I have suffered for 
Edward’s sake these last four years. Every thing in such 
suspense and uncertainty; and seeing him so seldom—we 
can hardly meet above twice a-year. I am sure I wonder my 
heart is not quite broke.’
Here she took out her handkerchief; but Elinor did not 
feel very compassionate.
‘Sometimes.’ continued Lucy, after wiping her eyes, ‘I 
think whether it would not be better for us both to break off 
the matter entirely.’ As she said this, she looked directly at 
her companion. ‘But then at other times I have not resolu-


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tion enough for it.— I cannot bear the thoughts of making 
him so miserable, as I know the very mention of such a 
thing would do. And on my own account too—so dear as 
he is to me—I don’t think I could be equal to it. What would 
you advise me to do in such a case, Miss Dashwood? What 
would you do yourself?’
‘Pardon me,’ replied Elinor, startled by the question; ‘but 
I can give you no advice under such circumstances. Your 
own judgment must direct you.’
‘To be sure,’ continued Lucy, after a few minutes silence 
on both sides, ‘his mother must provide for him sometime 
or other; but poor Edward is so cast down by it! Did you not 
think him dreadful low-spirited when he was at Barton? He 
was so miserable when he left us at Longstaple, to go to you, 
that I was afraid you would think him quite ill.’
‘Did he come from your uncle’s, then, when he visited 
us?’
‘Oh, yes; he had been staying a fortnight with us. Did you 
think he came directly from town?’
‘No,’ replied Elinor, most feelingly sensible of every fresh 
circumstance in favour of Lucy’s veracity; ‘I remember he 
told us, that he had been staying a fortnight with some 
friends near Plymouth.’ She remembered too, her own 
surprise at the time, at his mentioning nothing farther of 
those friends, at his total silence with respect even to their 
names.
‘Did not you think him sadly out of spirits?’ repeated 
Lucy.
‘We did, indeed, particularly so when he first arrived.’


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162
‘I begged him to exert himself for fear you should suspect 
what was the matter; but it made him so melancholy, not be-
ing able to stay more than a fortnight with us, and seeing 
me so much affected.— Poor fellow!—I am afraid it is just 
the same with him now; for he writes in wretched spirits. I 
heard from him just before I left Exeter;’ taking a letter from 
her pocket and carelessly showing the direction to Elinor. 
‘You know his hand, I dare say, a charming one it is; but that 
is not written so well as usual.—He was tired, I dare say, for 
he had just filled the sheet to me as full as possible.’
Elinor saw that it WAS his hand, and she could doubt 
no longer. This picture, she had allowed herself to believe, 
might have been accidentally obtained; it might not have 
been Edward’s gift; but a correspondence between them 
by letter, could subsist only under a positive engagement, 
could be authorised by nothing else; for a few moments, she 
was almost overcome—her heart sunk within her, and she 
could hardly stand; but exertion was indispensably neces-
sary; and she struggled so resolutely against the oppression 
of her feelings, that her success was speedy, and for the time 
complete.
‘Writing to each other,’ said Lucy, returning the letter 
into her pocket, ‘is the only comfort we have in such long 
separations. Yes, I have one other comfort in his picture, but 
poor Edward has not even THAT. If he had but my picture, 
he says he should be easy. I gave him a lock of my hair set 
in a ring when he was at Longstaple last, and that was some 
comfort to him, he said, but not equal to a picture. Perhaps 
you might notice the ring when you saw him?’


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‘I did,’ said Elinor, with a composure of voice, under 
which was concealed an emotion and distress beyond any 
thing she had ever felt before. She was mortified, shocked, 
confounded.
Fortunately for her, they had now reached the cottage, 
and the conversation could be continued no farther. After 
sitting with them a few minutes, the Miss Steeles returned 
to the Park, and Elinor was then at liberty to think and be 
wretched.
[At this point in the first and second editions, Volume 
1 ends.]


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Chapter 23
H
owever small Elinor’s general dependence on Lucy’s 
veracity might be, it was impossible for her on seri-
ous reflection to suspect it in the present case, where no 
temptation could be answerable to the folly of inventing a 
falsehood of such a description. What Lucy had asserted to 
be true, therefore, Elinor could not, dared not longer doubt; 
supported as it was too on every side by such probabilities 
and proofs, and contradicted by nothing but her own wish-
es. Their opportunity of acquaintance in the house of Mr. 
Pratt was a foundation for the rest, at once indisputable and 
alarming; and Edward’s visit near Plymouth, his melan-
choly state of mind, his dissatisfaction at his own prospects, 
his uncertain behaviour towards herself, the intimate 
knowledge of the Miss Steeles as to Norland and their fam-
ily connections, which had often surprised her, the picture, 
the letter, the ring, formed altogether such a body of evi-
dence, as overcame every fear of condemning him unfairly, 
and established as a fact, which no partiality could set aside, 
his ill-treatment of herself.—Her resentment of such behav-
iour, her indignation at having been its dupe, for a short 
time made her feel only for herself; but other ideas, other 
considerations, soon arose. Had Edward been intentionally 
deceiving her? Had he feigned a regard for her which he did 
not feel? Was his engagement to Lucy an engagement of the 


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heart? No; whatever it might once have been, she could not 
believe it such at present. His affection was all her own. She 
could not be deceived in that. Her mother, sisters, Fanny, 
all had been conscious of his regard for her at Norland; it 
was not an illusion of her own vanity. He certainly loved 
her. What a softener of the heart was this persuasion! How 
much could it not tempt her to forgive! He had been blam-
able, highly blamable, in remaining at Norland after he first 
felt her influence over him to be more than it ought to be. 
In that, he could not be defended; but if he had injured her, 
how much more had he injured himself; if her case were 
pitiable, his was hopeless. His imprudence had made her 
miserable for a while; but it seemed to have deprived him-
self of all chance of ever being otherwise. She might in time 
regain tranquillity; but HE, what had he to look forward to? 
Could he ever be tolerably happy with Lucy Steele; could he, 
were his affection for herself out of the question, with his 
integrity, his delicacy, and well-informed mind, be satisfied 
with a wife like her—illiterate, artful, and selfish?
The youthful infatuation of nineteen would naturally 
blind him to every thing but her beauty and good nature; 
but the four succeeding years—years, which if rationally 
spent, give such improvement to the understanding, must 
have opened his eyes to her defects of education, while the 
same period of time, spent on her side in inferior society 
and more frivolous pursuits, had perhaps robbed her of that 
simplicity which might once have given an interesting char-
acter to her beauty.
If in the supposition of his seeking to marry herself, his 


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difficulties from his mother had seemed great, how much 
greater were they now likely to be, when the object of his 
engagement was undoubtedly inferior in connections, and 
probably inferior in fortune to herself. These difficulties, in-
deed, with a heart so alienated from Lucy, might not press 
very hard upon his patience; but melancholy was the state 
of the person by whom the expectation of family opposition 
and unkindness, could be felt as a relief!
As these considerations occurred to her in painful suc-
cession, she wept for him, more than for herself. Supported 
by the conviction of having done nothing to merit her pres-
ent unhappiness, and consoled by the belief that Edward had 
done nothing to forfeit her esteem, she thought she could 
even now, under the first smart of the heavy blow, command 
herself enough to guard every suspicion of the truth from 
her mother and sisters. And so well was she able to answer 
her own expectations, that when she joined them at dinner 
only two hours after she had first suffered the extinction of 
all her dearest hopes, no one would have supposed from the 
appearance of the sisters, that Elinor was mourning in se-
cret over obstacles which must divide her for ever from the 
object of her love, and that Marianne was internally dwell-
ing on the perfections of a man, of whose whole heart she 
felt thoroughly possessed, and whom she expected to see in 
every carriage which drove near their house.
The necessity of concealing from her mother and Mar-
ianne, what had been entrusted in confidence to herself, 
though it obliged her to unceasing exertion, was no aggra-
vation of Elinor’s distress. On the contrary it was a relief to 


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her, to be spared the communication of what would give 
such affliction to them, and to be saved likewise from hear-
ing that condemnation of Edward, which would probably 
flow from the excess of their partial affection for herself, 
and which was more than she felt equal to support.
From their counsel, or their conversation, she knew 
she could receive no assistance, their tenderness and sor-
row must add to her distress, while her self-command 
would neither receive encouragement from their example 
nor from their praise. She was stronger alone, and her own 
good sense so well supported her, that her firmness was as 
unshaken, her appearance of cheerfulness as invariable, as 
with regrets so poignant and so fresh, it was possible for 
them to be.
Much as she had suffered from her first conversation 
with Lucy on the subject, she soon felt an earnest wish of 
renewing it; and this for more reasons than one. She want-
ed to hear many particulars of their engagement repeated 
again, she wanted more clearly to understand what Lucy re-
ally felt for Edward, whether there were any sincerity in her 
declaration of tender regard for him, and she particularly 
wanted to convince Lucy, by her readiness to enter on the 
matter again, and her calmness in conversing on it, that she 
was no otherwise interested in it than as a friend, which she 
very much feared her involuntary agitation, in their morn-
ing discourse, must have left at least doubtful. That Lucy was 
disposed to be jealous of her appeared very probable: it was 
plain that Edward had always spoken highly in her praise, 
not merely from Lucy’s assertion, but from her venturing 


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to trust her on so short a personal acquaintance, with a se-
cret so confessedly and evidently important. And even Sir 
John’s joking intelligence must have had some weight. But 
indeed, while Elinor remained so well assured within her-
self of being really beloved by Edward, it required no other 
consideration of probabilities to make it natural that Lucy 
should be jealous; and that she was so, her very confidence 
was a proof. What other reason for the disclosure of the af-
fair could there be, but that Elinor might be informed by it 
of Lucy’s superior claims on Edward, and be taught to avoid 
him in future? She had little difficulty in understanding 
thus much of her rival’s intentions, and while she was firm-
ly resolved to act by her as every principle of honour and 
honesty directed, to combat her own affection for Edward 
and to see him as little as possible; she could not deny her-
self the comfort of endeavouring to convince Lucy that her 
heart was unwounded. And as she could now have nothing 
more painful to hear on the subject than had already been 
told, she did not mistrust her own ability of going through 
a repetition of particulars with composure.
But it was not immediately that an opportunity of doing 
so could be commanded, though Lucy was as well disposed 
as herself to take advantage of any that occurred; for the 
weather was not often fine enough to allow of their joining 
in a walk, where they might most easily separate themselves 
from the others; and though they met at least every oth-
er evening either at the park or cottage, and chiefly at the 
former, they could not be supposed to meet for the sake 
of conversation. Such a thought would never enter either 


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Sir John or Lady Middleton’s head; and therefore very lit-
tle leisure was ever given for a general chat, and none at all 
for particular discourse. They met for the sake of eating, 
drinking, and laughing together, playing at cards, or conse-
quences, or any other game that was sufficiently noisy.
One or two meetings of this kind had taken place, with-
out affording Elinor any chance of engaging Lucy in private, 
when Sir John called at the cottage one morning, to beg, 
in the name of charity, that they would all dine with Lady 
Middleton that day, as he was obliged to attend the club at 
Exeter, and she would otherwise be quite alone, except her 
mother and the two Miss Steeles. Elinor, who foresaw a fair-
er opening for the point she had in view, in such a party 
as this was likely to be, more at liberty among themselves 
under the tranquil and well-bred direction of Lady Middle-
ton than when her husband united them together in one 
noisy purpose, immediately accepted the invitation; Mar-
garet, with her mother’s permission, was equally compliant, 
and Marianne, though always unwilling to join any of their 
parties, was persuaded by her mother, who could not bear 
to have her seclude herself from any chance of amusement, 
to go likewise.
The young ladies went, and Lady Middleton was happily 
preserved from the frightful solitude which had threatened 
her. The insipidity of the meeting was exactly such as Eli-
nor had expected; it produced not one novelty of thought 
or expression, and nothing could be less interesting than 
the whole of their discourse both in the dining parlour 
and drawing room: to the latter, the children accompanied 


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them, and while they remained there, she was too well con-
vinced of the impossibility of engaging Lucy’s attention to 
attempt it. They quitted it only with the removal of the tea-
things. The card-table was then placed, and Elinor began 
to wonder at herself for having ever entertained a hope of 
finding time for conversation at the park. They all rose up 
in preparation for a round game.
‘I am glad,’ said Lady Middleton to Lucy, ‘you are not go-
ing to finish poor little Annamaria’s basket this evening; for 
I am sure it must hurt your eyes to work filigree by candle-
light. And we will make the dear little love some amends 
for her disappointment to-morrow, and then I hope she will 
not much mind it.’
This hint was enough, Lucy recollected herself instant-
ly and replied, ‘Indeed you are very much mistaken, Lady 
Middleton; I am only waiting to know whether you can 
make your party without me, or I should have been at my 
filigree already. I would not disappoint the little angel for all 
the world: and if you want me at the card-table now, I am 
resolved to finish the basket after supper.’
‘You are very good, I hope it won’t hurt your eyes— will 
you ring the bell for some working candles? My poor lit-
tle girl would be sadly disappointed, I know, if the basket 
was not finished tomorrow, for though I told her it certainly 
would not, I am sure she depends upon having it done.’
Lucy directly drew her work table near her and reseated 
herself with an alacrity and cheerfulness which seemed to 
infer that she could taste no greater delight than in making 
a filigree basket for a spoilt child.


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Lady Middleton proposed a rubber of Casino to the oth-
ers. No one made any objection but Marianne, who with her 
usual inattention to the forms of general civility, exclaimed, 
‘Your Ladyship will have the goodness to excuse ME—you 
know I detest cards. I shall go to the piano-forte; I have not 
touched it since it was tuned.’ And without farther ceremo-
ny, she turned away and walked to the instrument.
Lady Middleton looked as if she thanked heaven that 
SHE had never made so rude a speech.
‘Marianne can never keep long from that instrument you 
know, ma’am,’ said Elinor, endeavouring to smooth away 
the offence; ‘and I do not much wonder at it; for it is the very 
best toned piano-forte I ever heard.’
The remaining five were now to draw their cards.
‘Perhaps,’ continued Elinor, ‘if I should happen to cut 
out, I may be of some use to Miss Lucy Steele, in rolling 
her papers for her; and there is so much still to be done to 
the basket, that it must be impossible I think for her labour 
singly, to finish it this evening. I should like the work ex-
ceedingly, if she would allow me a share in it.’
‘Indeed I shall be very much obliged to you for your help,’ 
cried Lucy, ‘for I find there is more to be done to it than I 
thought there was; and it would be a shocking thing to dis-
appoint dear Annamaria after all.’
‘Oh! that would be terrible, indeed,’ said Miss Steele— 
‘Dear little soul, how I do love her!’
‘You are very kind,’ said Lady Middleton to Elinor; ‘and 
as you really like the work, perhaps you will be as well 
pleased not to cut in till another rubber, or will you take 


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172
your chance now?’
Elinor joyfully profited by the first of these proposals, 
and thus by a little of that address which Marianne could 
never condescend to practise, gained her own end, and 
pleased Lady Middleton at the same time. Lucy made room 
for her with ready attention, and the two fair rivals were 
thus seated side by side at the same table, and, with the ut-
most harmony, engaged in forwarding the same work. The 
pianoforte at which Marianne, wrapped up in her own mu-
sic and her own thoughts, had by this time forgotten that 
any body was in the room besides herself, was luckily so 
near them that Miss Dashwood now judged she might safe-
ly, under the shelter of its noise, introduce the interesting 
subject, without any risk of being heard at the card-table.


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Chapter 24
I
n a firm, though cautious tone, Elinor thus began.
‘I should be undeserving of the confidence you have 
honoured me with, if I felt no desire for its continuance, 
or no farther curiosity on its subject. I will not apologize 
therefore for bringing it forward again.’
‘Thank you,’ cried Lucy warmly, ‘for breaking the ice; 
you have set my heart at ease by it; for I was somehow or 
other afraid I had offended you by what I told you that Mon-
day.’
‘Offended me! How could you suppose so? Believe me,’ 
and Elinor spoke it with the truest sincerity, ‘nothing could 
be farther from my intention than to give you such an idea. 
Could you have a motive for the trust, that was not honour-
able and flattering to me?’
‘And yet I do assure you,’ replied Lucy, her little sharp 
eyes full of meaning, ‘there seemed to me to be a coldness 
and displeasure in your manner that made me quite un-
comfortable. I felt sure that you was angry with me; and 
have been quarrelling with myself ever since, for having 
took such a liberty as to trouble you with my affairs. But I 
am very glad to find it was only my own fancy, and that you 
really do not blame me. If you knew what a consolation it 
was to me to relieve my heart speaking to you of what I am 
always thinking of every moment of my life, your compas-


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174
sion would make you overlook every thing else I am sure.’
‘Indeed, I can easily believe that it was a very great relief 
to you, to acknowledge your situation to me, and be assured 
that you shall never have reason to repent it. Your case is 
a very unfortunate one; you seem to me to be surrounded 
with difficulties, and you will have need of all your mutual 
affection to support you under them. Mr. Ferrars, I believe, 
is entirely dependent on his mother.’
‘He has only two thousand pounds of his own; it would 
be madness to marry upon that, though for my own part, I 
could give up every prospect of more without a sigh. I have 
been always used to a very small income, and could struggle 
with any poverty for him; but I love him too well to be the 
selfish means of robbing him, perhaps, of all that his mother 
might give him if he married to please her. We must wait, it 
may be for many years. With almost every other man in the 
world, it would be an alarming prospect; but Edward’s af-
fection and constancy nothing can deprive me of I know.’
‘That conviction must be every thing to you; and he is 
undoubtedly supported by the same trust in your’s. If the 
strength of your reciprocal attachment had failed, as be-
tween many people, and under many circumstances it 
naturally would during a four years’ engagement, your situ-
ation would have been pitiable, indeed.’
Lucy here looked up; but Elinor was careful in guarding 
her countenance from every expression that could give her 
words a suspicious tendency.
‘Edward’s love for me,’ said Lucy, ‘has been pretty well 
put to the test, by our long, very long absence since we were 


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first engaged, and it has stood the trial so well, that I should 
be unpardonable to doubt it now. I can safely say that he has 
never gave me one moment’s alarm on that account from 
the first.’
Elinor hardly knew whether to smile or sigh at this as-
sertion.
Lucy went on. ‘I am rather of a jealous temper too by 
nature, and from our different situations in life, from his 
being so much more in the world than me, and our con-
tinual separation, I was enough inclined for suspicion, to 
have found out the truth in an instant, if there had been the 
slightest alteration in his behaviour to me when we met, or 
any lowness of spirits that I could not account for, or if he 
had talked more of one lady than another, or seemed in any 
respect less happy at Longstaple than he used to be. I do 
not mean to say that I am particularly observant or quick-
sighted in general, but in such a case I am sure I could not 
be deceived.’
‘All this,’ thought Elinor, ‘is very pretty; but it can im-
pose upon neither of us.’
‘But what,’ said she after a short silence, ‘are your views? 
or have you none but that of waiting for Mrs. Ferrars’s 
death, which is a melancholy and shocking extremity?—Is 
her son determined to submit to this, and to all the tedious-
ness of the many years of suspense in which it may involve 
you, rather than run the risk of her displeasure for a while 
by owning the truth?’
‘If we could be certain that it would be only for a while! 
But Mrs. Ferrars is a very headstrong proud woman, and in 


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176
her first fit of anger upon hearing it, would very likely secure 
every thing to Robert, and the idea of that, for Edward’s 
sake, frightens away all my inclination for hasty measures.’
‘And for your own sake too, or you are carrying your dis-
interestedness beyond reason.’
Lucy looked at Elinor again, and was silent.
‘Do you know Mr. Robert Ferrars?’ asked Elinor.
‘Not at all—I never saw him; but I fancy he is very unlike 
his brother—silly and a great coxcomb.’
‘A great coxcomb!’ repeated Miss Steele, whose ear had 
caught those words by a sudden pause in Marianne’s mu-
sic.— ‘Oh, they are talking of their favourite beaux, I dare 
say.’
‘No sister,’ cried Lucy, ‘you are mistaken there, our fa-
vourite beaux are NOT great coxcombs.’
‘I can answer for it that Miss Dashwood’s is not,’ said 
Mrs. Jennings, laughing heartily; ‘for he is one of the 
modestest, prettiest behaved young men I ever saw; but as 
for Lucy, she is such a sly little creature, there is no finding 
out who SHE likes.’
‘Oh,’ cried Miss Steele, looking significantly round at 
them, ‘I dare say Lucy’s beau is quite as modest and pretty 
behaved as Miss Dashwood’s.’
Elinor blushed in spite of herself. Lucy bit her lip, and 
looked angrily at her sister. A mutual silence took place for 
some time. Lucy first put an end to it by saying in a lower 
tone, though Marianne was then giving them the powerful 
protection of a very magnificent concerto—
‘I will honestly tell you of one scheme which has lately 


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come into my head, for bringing matters to bear; indeed I 
am bound to let you into the secret, for you are a party con-
cerned. I dare say you have seen enough of Edward to know 
that he would prefer the church to every other profession; 
now my plan is that he should take orders as soon as he 
can, and then through your interest, which I am sure you 
would be kind enough to use out of friendship for him, and 
I hope out of some regard to me, your brother might be per-
suaded to give him Norland living; which I understand is a 
very good one, and the present incumbent not likely to live 
a great while. That would be enough for us to marry upon, 
and we might trust to time and chance for the rest.’
‘I should always be happy,’ replied Elinor, ‘to show any 
mark of my esteem and friendship for Mr. Ferrars; but do 
you not perceive that my interest on such an occasion would 
be perfectly unnecessary? He is brother to Mrs. John Dash-
wood—THAT must be recommendation enough to her 
husband.’
‘But Mrs. John Dashwood would not much approve of 
Edward’s going into orders.’
‘Then I rather suspect that my interest would do very lit-
tle.’
They were again silent for many minutes. At length Lucy 
exclaimed with a deep sigh,
‘I believe it would be the wisest way to put an end to the 
business at once by dissolving the engagement. We seem so 
beset with difficulties on every side, that though it would 
make us miserable for a time, we should be happier per-
haps in the end. But you will not give me your advice, Miss 


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178
Dashwood?’
‘No,’ answered Elinor, with a smile, which concealed 
very agitated feelings, ‘on such a subject I certainly will not. 
You know very well that my opinion would have no weight 
with you, unless it were on the side of your wishes.’
‘Indeed you wrong me,’ replied Lucy, with great solem-
nity; ‘I know nobody of whose judgment I think so highly 
as I do of yours; and I do really believe, that if you was to 
say to me, ‘I advise you by all means to put an end to your 
engagement with Edward Ferrars, it will be more for the 
happiness of both of you,’ I should resolve upon doing it 
immediately.’
Elinor blushed for the insincerity of Edward’s future 
wife, and replied, ‘This compliment would effectually 
frighten me from giving any opinion on the subject had I 
formed one. It raises my influence much too high; the pow-
er of dividing two people so tenderly attached is too much 
for an indifferent person.’
‘Tis because you are an indifferent person,’ said Lucy, 
with some pique, and laying a particular stress on those 
words, ‘that your judgment might justly have such weight 
with me. If you could be supposed to be biased in any re-
spect by your own feelings, your opinion would not be 
worth having.’
Elinor thought it wisest to make no answer to this, lest 
they might provoke each other to an unsuitable increase of 
ease and unreserve; and was even partly determined never 
to mention the subject again. Another pause therefore of 
many minutes’ duration, succeeded this speech, and Lucy 


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was still the first to end it.
‘Shall you be in town this winter, Miss Dashwood?’ said 
she with all her accustomary complacency.
‘Certainly not.’
‘I am sorry for that,’ returned the other, while her eyes 
brightened at the information, ‘it would have gave me such 
pleasure to meet you there! But I dare say you will go for 
all that. To be sure, your brother and sister will ask you to 
come to them.’
‘It will not be in my power to accept their invitation if 
they do.’
‘How unlucky that is! I had quite depended upon meet-
ing you there. Anne and me are to go the latter end of 
January to some relations who have been wanting us to visit 
them these several years! But I only go for the sake of seeing 
Edward. He will be there in February, otherwise London 
would have no charms for me; I have not spirits for it.’
Elinor was soon called to the card-table by the conclu-
sion of the first rubber, and the confidential discourse of the 
two ladies was therefore at an end, to which both of them 
submitted without any reluctance, for nothing had been 
said on either side to make them dislike each other less than 
they had done before; and Elinor sat down to the card table 
with the melancholy persuasion that Edward was not only 
without affection for the person who was to be his wife; but 
that he had not even the chance of being tolerably happy in 
marriage, which sincere affection on HER side would have 
given, for self-interest alone could induce a woman to keep 
a man to an engagement, of which she seemed so thorough-


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180
ly aware that he was weary.
From this time the subject was never revived by Elinor, 
and when entered on by Lucy, who seldom missed an op-
portunity of introducing it, and was particularly careful to 
inform her confidante, of her happiness whenever she re-
ceived a letter from Edward, it was treated by the former 
with calmness and caution, and dismissed as soon as ci-
vility would allow; for she felt such conversations to be an 
indulgence which Lucy did not deserve, and which were 
dangerous to herself.
The visit of the Miss Steeles at Barton Park was length-
ened far beyond what the first invitation implied. Their 
favour increased; they could not be spared; Sir John would 
not hear of their going; and in spite of their numerous and 
long arranged engagements in Exeter, in spite of the ab-
solute necessity of returning to fulfill them immediately, 
which was in full force at the end of every week, they were 
prevailed on to stay nearly two months at the park, and to 
assist in the due celebration of that festival which requires a 
more than ordinary share of private balls and large dinners 
to proclaim its importance.


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Chapter 25
T
hough Mrs. Jennings was in the habit of spending a large 
portion of the year at the houses of her children and 
friends, she was not without a settled habitation of her own. 
Since the death of her husband, who had traded with suc-
cess in a less elegant part of the town, she had resided every 
winter in a house in one of the streets near Portman Square. 
Towards this home, she began on the approach of January 
to turn her thoughts, and thither she one day abruptly, and 
very unexpectedly by them, asked the elder Misses Dash-
wood to accompany her. Elinor, without observing the 
varying complexion of her sister, and the animated look 
which spoke no indifference to the plan, immediately gave a 
grateful but absolute denial for both, in which she believed 
herself to be speaking their united inclinations. The reason 
alleged was their determined resolution of not leaving their 
mother at that time of the year. Mrs. Jennings received the 
refusal with some surprise, and repeated her invitation im-
mediately.
‘Oh, Lord! I am sure your mother can spare you very 
well, and I DO beg you will favour me with your company, 
for I’ve quite set my heart upon it. Don’t fancy that you will 
be any inconvenience to me, for I shan’t put myself at all 
out of my way for you. It will only be sending Betty by the 
coach, and I hope I can afford THAT. We three shall be able 


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182
to go very well in my chaise; and when we are in town, if 
you do not like to go wherever I do, well and good, you may 
always go with one of my daughters. I am sure your mother 
will not object to it; for I have had such good luck in getting 
my own children off my hands that she will think me a very 
fit person to have the charge of you; and if I don’t get one 
of you at least well married before I have done with you, it 
shall not be my fault. I shall speak a good word for you to all 
the young men, you may depend upon it.’
‘I have a notion,’ said Sir John, ‘that Miss Marianne 
would not object to such a scheme, if her elder sister would 
come into it. It is very hard indeed that she should not have 
a little pleasure, because Miss Dashwood does not wish it. 
So I would advise you two, to set off for town, when you are 
tired of Barton, without saying a word to Miss Dashwood 
about it.’
‘Nay,’ cried Mrs. Jennings, ‘I am sure I shall be mon-
strous glad of Miss Marianne’s company, whether Miss 
Dashwood will go or not, only the more the merrier say I, 
and I thought it would be more comfortable for them to be 
together; because, if they got tired of me, they might talk 
to one another, and laugh at my old ways behind my back. 
But one or the other, if not both of them, I must have. Lord 
bless me! how do you think I can live poking by myself, I 
who have been always used till this winter to have Charlotte 
with me. Come, Miss Marianne, let us strike hands upon 
the bargain, and if Miss Dashwood will change her mind by 
and bye, why so much the better.’
‘I thank you, ma’am, sincerely thank you,’ said Marianne, 


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with warmth: ‘your invitation has insured my gratitude for 
ever, and it would give me such happiness, yes, almost the 
greatest happiness I am capable of, to be able to accept it. 
But my mother, my dearest, kindest mother,—I feel the jus-
tice of what Elinor has urged, and if she were to be made 
less happy, less comfortable by our absence—Oh! no, noth-
ing should tempt me to leave her. It should not, must not be 
a struggle.’
Mrs. Jennings repeated her assurance that Mrs. Dash-
wood could spare them perfectly well; and Elinor, who now 
understood her sister, and saw to what indifference to al-
most every thing else she was carried by her eagerness to be 
with Willoughby again, made no farther direct opposition 
to the plan, and merely referred it to her mother’s decision, 
from whom however she scarcely expected to receive any 
support in her endeavour to prevent a visit, which she could 
not approve of for Marianne, and which on her own account 
she had particular reasons to avoid. Whatever Marianne 
was desirous of, her mother would be eager to promote—
she could not expect to influence the latter to cautiousness 
of conduct in an affair respecting which she had never been 
able to inspire her with distrust; and she dared not explain 
the motive of her own disinclination for going to London. 
That Marianne, fastidious as she was, thoroughly acquaint-
ed with Mrs. Jennings’ manners, and invariably disgusted 
by them, should overlook every inconvenience of that kind, 
should disregard whatever must be most wounding to her 
irritable feelings, in her pursuit of one object, was such a 
proof, so strong, so full, of the importance of that object to 


Sense and Sensibility
184
her, as Elinor, in spite of all that had passed, was not pre-
pared to witness.
On being informed of the invitation, Mrs. Dashwood, 
persuaded that such an excursion would be productive of 
much amusement to both her daughters, and perceiving 
through all her affectionate attention to herself, how much 
the heart of Marianne was in it, would not hear of their de-
clining the offer upon HER account; insisted on their both 
accepting it directly; and then began to foresee, with her 
usual cheerfulness, a variety of advantages that would ac-
crue to them all, from this separation.
‘I am delighted with the plan,’ she cried, ‘it is exactly what 
I could wish. Margaret and I shall be as much benefited by 
it as yourselves. When you and the Middletons are gone, 
we shall go on so quietly and happily together with our 
books and our music! You will find Margaret so improved 
when you come back again! I have a little plan of altera-
tion for your bedrooms too, which may now be performed 
without any inconvenience to any one. It is very right that 
you SHOULD go to town; I would have every young wom-
an of your condition in life acquainted with the manners 
and amusements of London. You will be under the care of 
a motherly good sort of woman, of whose kindness to you I 
can have no doubt. And in all probability you will see your 
brother, and whatever may be his faults, or the faults of his 
wife, when I consider whose son he is, I cannot bear to have 
you so wholly estranged from each other.’
‘Though with your usual anxiety for our happiness,’ said 
Elinor, ‘you have been obviating every impediment to the 


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present scheme which occurred to you, there is still one ob-
jection which, in my opinion, cannot be so easily removed.’
Marianne’s countenance sunk.
‘And what,’ said Mrs. Dashwood, ‘is my dear prudent 
Elinor going to suggest? What formidable obstacle is she 
now to bring forward? Do let me hear a word about the ex-
pense of it.’
‘My objection is this; though I think very well of Mrs. 
Jennings’s heart, she is not a woman whose society can 
afford us pleasure, or whose protection will give us conse-
quence.’
‘That is very true,’ replied her mother, ‘but of her society, 
separately from that of other people, you will scarcely have 
any thing at all, and you will almost always appear in public 
with Lady Middleton.’
‘If Elinor is frightened away by her dislike of Mrs. Jen-
nings,’ said Marianne, ‘at least it need not prevent MY 
accepting her invitation. I have no such scruples, and I am 
sure I could put up with every unpleasantness of that kind 
with very little effort.’
Elinor could not help smiling at this display of indiffer-
ence towards the manners of a person, to whom she had 
often had difficulty in persuading Marianne to behave with 
tolerable politeness; and resolved within herself, that if her 
sister persisted in going, she would go likewise, as she did 
not think it proper that Marianne should be left to the sole 
guidance of her own judgment, or that Mrs. Jennings should 
be abandoned to the mercy of Marianne for all the comfort 
of her domestic hours. To this determination she was the 


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more easily reconciled, by recollecting that Edward Ferrars, 
by Lucy’s account, was not to be in town before February; 
and that their visit, without any unreasonable abridgement, 
might be previously finished.
‘I will have you BOTH go,’ said Mrs. Dashwood; ‘these 
objections are nonsensical. You will have much pleasure in 
being in London, and especially in being together; and if 
Elinor would ever condescend to anticipate enjoyment, she 
would foresee it there from a variety of sources; she would, 
perhaps, expect some from improving her acquaintance 
with her sister-in-law’s family.’
Elinor had often wished for an opportunity of attempt-
ing to weaken her mother’s dependence on the attachment 
of Edward and herself, that the shock might be less when the 
whole truth were revealed, and now on this attack, though 
almost hopeless of success, she forced herself to begin her 
design by saying, as calmly as she could, ‘I like Edward Fer-
rars very much, and shall always be glad to see him; but as 
to the rest of the family, it is a matter of perfect indifference 
to me, whether I am ever known to them or not.’
Mrs. Dashwood smiled, and said nothing. Marianne lift-
ed up her eyes in astonishment, and Elinor conjectured that 
she might as well have held her tongue.
After very little farther discourse, it was finally settled 
that the invitation should be fully accepted. Mrs. Jennings 
received the information with a great deal of joy, and many 
assurances of kindness and care; nor was it a matter of plea-
sure merely to her. Sir John was delighted; for to a man, 
whose prevailing anxiety was the dread of being alone, the 


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acquisition of two, to the number of inhabitants in London, 
was something. Even Lady Middleton took the trouble of 
being delighted, which was putting herself rather out of her 
way; and as for the Miss Steeles, especially Lucy, they had 
never been so happy in their lives as this intelligence made 
them.
Elinor submitted to the arrangement which counteract-
ed her wishes with less reluctance than she had expected to 
feel. With regard to herself, it was now a matter of uncon-
cern whether she went to town or not, and when she saw her 
mother so thoroughly pleased with the plan, and her sister 
exhilarated by it in look, voice, and manner, restored to all 
her usual animation, and elevated to more than her usu-
al gaiety, she could not be dissatisfied with the cause, and 
would hardly allow herself to distrust the consequence.
Marianne’s joy was almost a degree beyond happiness, 
so great was the perturbation of her spirits and her impa-
tience to be gone. Her unwillingness to quit her mother 
was her only restorative to calmness; and at the moment of 
parting her grief on that score was excessive. Her mother’s 
affliction was hardly less, and Elinor was the only one of the 
three, who seemed to consider the separation as any thing 
short of eternal.
Their departure took place in the first week in January. 
The Middletons were to follow in about a week. The Miss 
Steeles kept their station at the park, and were to quit it only 
with the rest of the family.


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Chapter 26
E
linor could not find herself in the carriage with Mrs. 
Jennings, and beginning a journey to London under 
her protection, and as her guest, without wondering at her 
own situation, so short had their acquaintance with that 
lady been, so wholly unsuited were they in age and dispo-
sition, and so many had been her objections against such a 
measure only a few days before! But these objections had 
all, with that happy ardour of youth which Marianne and 
her mother equally shared, been overcome or overlooked; 
and Elinor, in spite of every occasional doubt of Willough-
by’s constancy, could not witness the rapture of delightful 
expectation which filled the whole soul and beamed in the 
eyes of Marianne, without feeling how blank was her own 
prospect, how cheerless her own state of mind in the com-
parison, and how gladly she would engage in the solicitude 
of Marianne’s situation to have the same animating object in 
view, the same possibility of hope. A short, a very short time 
however must now decide what Willoughby’s intentions 
were; in all probability he was already in town. Marianne’s 
eagerness to be gone declared her dependence on finding 
him there; and Elinor was resolved not only upon gaining 
every new light as to his character which her own observa-
tion or the intelligence of others could give her, but likewise 
upon watching his behaviour to her sister with such zealous 


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attention, as to ascertain what he was and what he meant, 
before many meetings had taken place. Should the result of 
her observations be unfavourable, she was determined at all 
events to open the eyes of her sister; should it be otherwise, 
her exertions would be of a different nature—she must then 
learn to avoid every selfish comparison, and banish every 
regret which might lessen her satisfaction in the happiness 
of Marianne.
They were three days on their journey, and Marianne’s 
behaviour as they travelled was a happy specimen of what 
future complaisance and companionableness to Mrs. Jen-
nings might be expected to be. She sat in silence almost all 
the way, wrapt in her own meditations, and scarcely ever 
voluntarily speaking, except when any object of picturesque 
beauty within their view drew from her an exclamation of 
delight exclusively addressed to her sister. To atone for this 
conduct therefore, Elinor took immediate possession of the 
post of civility which she had assigned herself, behaved with 
the greatest attention to Mrs. Jennings, talked with her, 
laughed with her, and listened to her whenever she could; 
and Mrs. Jennings on her side treated them both with all 
possible kindness, was solicitous on every occasion for their 
ease and enjoyment, and only disturbed that she could not 
make them choose their own dinners at the inn, nor ex-
tort a confession of their preferring salmon to cod, or boiled 
fowls to veal cutlets. They reached town by three o’clock the 
third day, glad to be released, after such a journey, from the 
confinement of a carriage, and ready to enjoy all the luxury 
of a good fire.


Sense and Sensibility
190
The house was handsome, and handsomely fitted up, and 
the young ladies were immediately put in possession of a 
very comfortable apartment. It had formerly been Char-
lotte’s, and over the mantelpiece still hung a landscape in 
coloured silks of her performance, in proof of her having 
spent seven years at a great school in town to some effect.
As dinner was not to be ready in less than two hours 
from their arrival, Elinor determined to employ the interval 
in writing to her mother, and sat down for that purpose. In 
a few moments Marianne did the same. ‘I am writing home, 
Marianne,’ said Elinor; ‘had not you better defer your letter 
for a day or two?’
‘I am NOT going to write to my mother,’ replied Mari-
anne, hastily, and as if wishing to avoid any farther inquiry. 
Elinor said no more; it immediately struck her that she must 
then be writing to Willoughby; and the conclusion which 
as instantly followed was, that, however mysteriously they 
might wish to conduct the affair, they must be engaged. 
This conviction, though not entirely satisfactory, gave her 
pleasure, and she continued her letter with greater alacrity. 
Marianne’s was finished in a very few minutes; in length it 
could be no more than a note; it was then folded up, sealed, 
and directed with eager rapidity. Elinor thought she could 
distinguish a large W in the direction; and no sooner was 
it complete than Marianne, ringing the bell, requested the 
footman who answered it to get that letter conveyed for her 
to the two-penny post. This decided the matter at once.
Her spirits still continued very high; but there was a flut-
ter in them which prevented their giving much pleasure to 


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her sister, and this agitation increased as the evening drew 
on. She could scarcely eat any dinner, and when they af-
terwards returned to the drawing room, seemed anxiously 
listening to the sound of every carriage.
It was a great satisfaction to Elinor that Mrs. Jennings, 
by being much engaged in her own room, could see little of 
what was passing. The tea things were brought in, and al-
ready had Marianne been disappointed more than once by 
a rap at a neighbouring door, when a loud one was sudden-
ly heard which could not be mistaken for one at any other 
house, Elinor felt secure of its announcing Willoughby’s 
approach, and Marianne, starting up, moved towards the 
door. Every thing was silent; this could not be borne many 
seconds; she opened the door, advanced a few steps towards 
the stairs, and after listening half a minute, returned into 
the room in all the agitation which a conviction of having 
heard him would naturally produce; in the ecstasy of her 
feelings at that instant she could not help exclaiming, ‘Oh, 
Elinor, it is Willoughby, indeed it is!’ and seemed almost 
ready to throw herself into his arms, when Colonel Bran-
don appeared.
It was too great a shock to be borne with calmness, and 
she immediately left the room. Elinor was disappointed too; 
but at the same time her regard for Colonel Brandon en-
sured his welcome with her; and she felt particularly hurt 
that a man so partial to her sister should perceive that she 
experienced nothing but grief and disappointment in see-
ing him. She instantly saw that it was not unnoticed by him, 
that he even observed Marianne as she quitted the room, 


Sense and Sensibility
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with such astonishment and concern, as hardly left him the 
recollection of what civility demanded towards herself.
‘Is your sister ill?’ said he.
Elinor answered in some distress that she was, and then 
talked of head-aches, low spirits, and over fatigues; and of 
every thing to which she could decently attribute her sister’s 
behaviour.
He heard her with the most earnest attention, but seem-
ing to recollect himself, said no more on the subject, and 
began directly to speak of his pleasure at seeing them in 
London, making the usual inquiries about their journey, 
and the friends they had left behind.
In this calm kind of way, with very little interest on either 
side, they continued to talk, both of them out of spirits, and 
the thoughts of both engaged elsewhere. Elinor wished very 
much to ask whether Willoughby were then in town, but she 
was afraid of giving him pain by any enquiry after his rival; 
and at length, by way of saying something, she asked if he 
had been in London ever since she had seen him last. ‘Yes,’ 
he replied, with some embarrassment, ‘almost ever since; I 
have been once or twice at Delaford for a few days, but it has 
never been in my power to return to Barton.’
This, and the manner in which it was said, immediately 
brought back to her remembrance all the circumstances of 
his quitting that place, with the uneasiness and suspicions 
they had caused to Mrs. Jennings, and she was fearful that 
her question had implied much more curiosity on the sub-
ject than she had ever felt.
Mrs. Jennings soon came in. ‘Oh! Colonel,’ said she, with 


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her usual noisy cheerfulness, ‘I am monstrous glad to see 
you—sorry I could not come before—beg your pardon, but 
I have been forced to look about me a little, and settle my 
matters; for it is a long while since I have been at home, and 
you know one has always a world of little odd things to do 
after one has been away for any time; and then I have had 
Cartwright to settle with— Lord, I have been as busy as a 
bee ever since dinner! But pray, Colonel, how came you to 
conjure out that I should be in town today?’
‘I had the pleasure of hearing it at Mr. Palmer’s, where I 
have been dining.’
‘Oh, you did; well, and how do they all do at their house? 
How does Charlotte do? I warrant you she is a fine size by 
this time.’
‘Mrs. Palmer appeared quite well, and I am commissioned 
to tell you, that you will certainly see her to-morrow.’
‘Ay, to be sure, I thought as much. Well, Colonel, I have 
brought two young ladies with me, you see—that is, you see 
but one of them now, but there is another somewhere. Your 
friend, Miss Marianne, too—which you will not be sorry to 
hear. I do not know what you and Mr. Willoughby will do 
between you about her. Ay, it is a fine thing to be young and 
handsome. Well! I was young once, but I never was very 
handsome—worse luck for me. However, I got a very good 
husband, and I don’t know what the greatest beauty can do 
more. Ah! poor man! he has been dead these eight years and 
better. But Colonel, where have you been to since we part-
ed? And how does your business go on? Come, come, let’s 
have no secrets among friends.’


Sense and Sensibility
194
He replied with his accustomary mildness to all her 
inquiries, but without satisfying her in any. Elinor now be-
gan to make the tea, and Marianne was obliged to appear 
again.
After her entrance, Colonel Brandon became more 
thoughtful and silent than he had been before, and Mrs. 
Jennings could not prevail on him to stay long. No other 
visitor appeared that evening, and the ladies were unani-
mous in agreeing to go early to bed.
Marianne rose the next morning with recovered spirits 
and happy looks. The disappointment of the evening before 
seemed forgotten in the expectation of what was to happen 
that day. They had not long finished their breakfast before 
Mrs. Palmer’s barouche stopped at the door, and in a few 
minutes she came laughing into the room: so delighted to 
see them all, that it was hard to say whether she received 
most pleasure from meeting her mother or the Miss Dash-
woods again. So surprised at their coming to town, though 
it was what she had rather expected all along; so angry at 
their accepting her mother’s invitation after having de-
clined her own, though at the same time she would never 
have forgiven them if they had not come!
‘Mr. Palmer will be so happy to see you,’ said she; ‘What 
do you think he said when he heard of your coming with 
Mamma? I forget what it was now, but it was something so 
droll!’
After an hour or two spent in what her mother called 
comfortable chat, or in other words, in every variety of in-
quiry concerning all their acquaintance on Mrs. Jennings’s 


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side, and in laughter without cause on Mrs. Palmer’s, it was 
proposed by the latter that they should all accompany her to 
some shops where she had business that morning, to which 
Mrs. Jennings and Elinor readily consented, as having like-
wise some purchases to make themselves; and Marianne, 
though declining it at first was induced to go likewise.
Wherever they went, she was evidently always on the 
watch. In Bond Street especially, where much of their busi-
ness lay, her eyes were in constant inquiry; and in whatever 
shop the party were engaged, her mind was equally ab-
stracted from every thing actually before them, from all 
that interested and occupied the others. Restless and dissat-
isfied every where, her sister could never obtain her opinion 
of any article of purchase, however it might equally concern 
them both: she received no pleasure from anything; was 
only impatient to be at home again, and could with diffi-
culty govern her vexation at the tediousness of Mrs. Palmer, 
whose eye was caught by every thing pretty, expensive, or 
new; who was wild to buy all, could determine on none, and 
dawdled away her time in rapture and indecision.
It was late in the morning before they returned home; 
and no sooner had they entered the house than Marianne 
flew eagerly up stairs, and when Elinor followed, she found 
her turning from the table with a sorrowful countenance, 
which declared that no Willoughby had been there.
‘Has no letter been left here for me since we went out?’ 
said she to the footman who then entered with the parcels. 
She was answered in the negative. ‘Are you quite sure of it?’ 
she replied. ‘Are you certain that no servant, no porter has 


Sense and Sensibility
196
left any letter or note?’
The man replied that none had.
‘How very odd!’ said she, in a low and disappointed 
voice, as she turned away to the window.
‘How odd, indeed!’ repeated Elinor within herself, re-
garding her sister with uneasiness. ‘If she had not known 
him to be in town she would not have written to him, as she 
did; she would have written to Combe Magna; and if he is 
in town, how odd that he should neither come nor write! 
Oh! my dear mother, you must be wrong in permitting an 
engagement between a daughter so young, a man so little 
known, to be carried on in so doubtful, so mysterious a 
manner! I long to inquire; and how will MY interference 
be borne.’
She determined, after some consideration, that if ap-
pearances continued many days longer as unpleasant as 
they now were, she would represent in the strongest man-
ner to her mother the necessity of some serious enquiry into 
the affair.
Mrs. Palmer and two elderly ladies of Mrs. Jennings’s in-
timate acquaintance, whom she had met and invited in the 
morning, dined with them. The former left them soon af-
ter tea to fulfill her evening engagements; and Elinor was 
obliged to assist in making a whist table for the others. Mar-
ianne was of no use on these occasions, as she would never 
learn the game; but though her time was therefore at her 
own disposal, the evening was by no means more produc-
tive of pleasure to her than to Elinor, for it was spent in all 
the anxiety of expectation and the pain of disappointment. 


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She sometimes endeavoured for a few minutes to read; but 
the book was soon thrown aside, and she returned to the 
more interesting employment of walking backwards and 
forwards across the room, pausing for a moment whenev-
er she came to the window, in hopes of distinguishing the 
long-expected rap.


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Chapter 27
‘I
f this open weather holds much longer,’ said Mrs. 
Jennings, when they met at breakfast the following 
morning, ‘Sir John will not like leaving Barton next week; 
‘tis a sad thing for sportsmen to lose a day’s pleasure. Poor 
souls! I always pity them when they do; they seem to take it 
so much to heart.’
‘That is true,’ cried Marianne, in a cheerful voice, and 
walking to the window as she spoke, to examine the day. 
‘I had not thought of that. This weather will keep many 
sportsmen in the country.’
It was a lucky recollection, all her good spirits were re-
stored by it. ‘It is charming weather for THEM indeed,’ she 
continued, as she sat down to the breakfast table with a hap-
py countenance. ‘How much they must enjoy it! But’ (with 
a little return of anxiety) ‘it cannot be expected to last long. 
At this time of the year, and after such a series of rain, we 
shall certainly have very little more of it. Frosts will soon 
set in, and in all probability with severity. In another day 
or two perhaps; this extreme mildness can hardly last lon-
ger—nay, perhaps it may freeze tonight!’
‘At any rate,’ said Elinor, wishing to prevent Mrs. Jen-
nings from seeing her sister’s thoughts as clearly as she did, 
‘I dare say we shall have Sir John and Lady Middleton in 
town by the end of next week.’


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‘Ay, my dear, I’ll warrant you we do. Mary always has her 
own way.’
‘And now,’ silently conjectured Elinor, ‘she will write to 
Combe by this day’s post.’
But if she DID, the letter was written and sent away with 
a privacy which eluded all her watchfulness to ascertain the 
fact. Whatever the truth of it might be, and far as Elinor 
was from feeling thorough contentment about it, yet while 
she saw Marianne in spirits, she could not be very uncom-
fortable herself. And Marianne was in spirits; happy in the 
mildness of the weather, and still happier in her expectation 
of a frost.
The morning was chiefly spent in leaving cards at the 
houses of Mrs. Jennings’s acquaintance to inform them of 
her being in town; and Marianne was all the time busy in 
observing the direction of the wind, watching the varia-
tions of the sky and imagining an alteration in the air.
‘Don’t you find it colder than it was in the morning, Eli-
nor? There seems to me a very decided difference. I can 
hardly keep my hands warm even in my muff. It was not so 
yesterday, I think. The clouds seem parting too, the sun will 
be out in a moment, and we shall have a clear afternoon.’
Elinor was alternately diverted and pained; but Mari-
anne persevered, and saw every night in the brightness of 
the fire, and every morning in the appearance of the atmo-
sphere, the certain symptoms of approaching frost.
The Miss Dashwoods had no greater reason to be dis-
satisfied with Mrs. Jennings’s style of living, and set of 
acquaintance, than with her behaviour to themselves, 


Sense and Sensibility
200
which was invariably kind. Every thing in her household 
arrangements was conducted on the most liberal plan, and 
excepting a few old city friends, whom, to Lady Middleton’s 
regret, she had never dropped, she visited no one to whom 
an introduction could at all discompose the feelings of 
her young companions. Pleased to find herself more com-
fortably situated in that particular than she had expected, 
Elinor was very willing to compound for the want of much 
real enjoyment from any of their evening parties, which, 
whether at home or abroad, formed only for cards, could 
have little to amuse her.
Colonel Brandon, who had a general invitation to the 
house, was with them almost every day; he came to look at 
Marianne and talk to Elinor, who often derived more sat-
isfaction from conversing with him than from any other 
daily occurrence, but who saw at the same time with much 
concern his continued regard for her sister. She feared it was 
a strengthening regard. It grieved her to see the earnestness 
with which he often watched Marianne, and his spirits were 
certainly worse than when at Barton.
About a week after their arrival, it became certain that 
Willoughby was also arrived. His card was on the table 
when they came in from the morning’s drive.
‘Good God!’ cried Marianne, ‘he has been here while we 
were out.’ Elinor, rejoiced to be assured of his being in Lon-
don, now ventured to say, ‘Depend upon it, he will call again 
tomorrow.’ But Marianne seemed hardly to hear her, and on 
Mrs. Jenning’s entrance, escaped with the precious card.
This event, while it raised the spirits of Elinor, restored 


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to those of her sister all, and more than all, their former 
agitation. From this moment her mind was never quiet; the 
expectation of seeing him every hour of the day, made her 
unfit for any thing. She insisted on being left behind, the 
next morning, when the others went out.
Elinor’s thoughts were full of what might be passing in 
Berkeley Street during their absence; but a moment’s glance 
at her sister when they returned was enough to inform her, 
that Willoughby had paid no second visit there. A note was 
just then brought in, and laid on the table,
‘For me!’ cried Marianne, stepping hastily forward.
‘No, ma’am, for my mistress.’
But Marianne, not convinced, took it instantly up.
‘It is indeed for Mrs. Jennings; how provoking!’
‘You are expecting a letter, then?’ said Elinor, unable to 
be longer silent.
‘Yes, a little—not much.’
After a short pause. ‘You have no confidence in me, Mar-
ianne.’
‘Nay, Elinor, this reproach from YOU—you who have 
confidence in no one!’
‘Me!’ returned Elinor in some confusion; ‘indeed, Mari-
anne, I have nothing to tell.’
‘Nor I,’ answered Marianne with energy, ‘our situations 
then are alike. We have neither of us any thing to tell; you, 
because you do not communicate, and I, because I conceal 
nothing.’
Elinor, distressed by this charge of reserve in herself, 
which she was not at liberty to do away, knew not how, un-


Sense and Sensibility
202
der such circumstances, to press for greater openness in 
Marianne.
Mrs. Jennings soon appeared, and the note being given 
her, she read it aloud. It was from Lady Middleton, an-
nouncing their arrival in Conduit Street the night before, 
and requesting the company of her mother and cousins the 
following evening. Business on Sir John’s part, and a violent 
cold on her own, prevented their calling in Berkeley Street. 
The invitation was accepted; but when the hour of appoint-
ment drew near, necessary as it was in common civility to 
Mrs. Jennings, that they should both attend her on such a 
visit, Elinor had some difficulty in persuading her sister to 
go, for still she had seen nothing of Willoughby; and there-
fore was not more indisposed for amusement abroad, than 
unwilling to run the risk of his calling again in her ab-
sence.
Elinor found, when the evening was over, that dispo-
sition is not materially altered by a change of abode, for 
although scarcely settled in town, Sir John had contrived 
to collect around him, nearly twenty young people, and 
to amuse them with a ball. This was an affair, however, of 
which Lady Middleton did not approve. In the country, an 
unpremeditated dance was very allowable; but in London, 
where the reputation of elegance was more important and 
less easily attained, it was risking too much for the gratifi-
cation of a few girls, to have it known that Lady Middleton 
had given a small dance of eight or nine couple, with two 
violins, and a mere side-board collation.
Mr. and Mrs. Palmer were of the party; from the for-


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mer, whom they had not seen before since their arrival in 
town, as he was careful to avoid the appearance of any at-
tention to his mother-in-law, and therefore never came near 
her, they received no mark of recognition on their entrance. 
He looked at them slightly, without seeming to know who 
they were, and merely nodded to Mrs. Jennings from the 
other side of the room. Marianne gave one glance round 
the apartment as she entered: it was enough—HE was not 
there—and she sat down, equally ill-disposed to receive 
or communicate pleasure. After they had been assembled 
about an hour, Mr. Palmer sauntered towards the Miss 
Dashwoods to express his surprise on seeing them in town, 
though Colonel Brandon had been first informed of their 
arrival at his house, and he had himself said something very 
droll on hearing that they were to come.
‘I thought you were both in Devonshire,’ said he.
‘Did you?’ replied Elinor.
‘When do you go back again?’
‘I do not know.’ And thus ended their discourse.
Never had Marianne been so unwilling to dance in her 
life, as she was that evening, and never so much fatigued by 
the exercise. She complained of it as they returned to Berke-
ley Street.
‘Aye, aye,’ said Mrs. Jennings, ‘we know the reason of all 
that very well; if a certain person who shall be nameless, 
had been there, you would not have been a bit tired: and to 
say the truth it was not very pretty of him not to give you 
the meeting when he was invited.’
‘Invited!’ cried Marianne.


Sense and Sensibility
204
‘So my daughter Middleton told me, for it seems Sir John 
met him somewhere in the street this morning.’ Marianne 
said no more, but looked exceedingly hurt. Impatient in this 
situation to be doing something that might lead to her sis-
ter’s relief, Elinor resolved to write the next morning to her 
mother, and hoped by awakening her fears for the health 
of Marianne, to procure those inquiries which had been so 
long delayed; and she was still more eagerly bent on this 
measure by perceiving after breakfast on the morrow, that 
Marianne was again writing to Willoughby, for she could 
not suppose it to be to any other person.
About the middle of the day, Mrs. Jennings went out by 
herself on business, and Elinor began her letter directly, 
while Marianne, too restless for employment, too anxious 
for conversation, walked from one window to the other, or 
sat down by the fire in melancholy meditation. Elinor was 
very earnest in her application to her mother, relating all 
that had passed, her suspicions of Willoughby’s inconstan-
cy, urging her by every plea of duty and affection to demand 
from Marianne an account of her real situation with respect 
to him.
Her letter was scarcely finished, when a rap foretold a 
visitor, and Colonel Brandon was announced. Marianne, 
who had seen him from the window, and who hated compa-
ny of any kind, left the room before he entered it. He looked 
more than usually grave, and though expressing satisfac-
tion at finding Miss Dashwood alone, as if he had somewhat 
in particular to tell her, sat for some time without saying a 
word. Elinor, persuaded that he had some communication 


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to make in which her sister was concerned, impatiently ex-
pected its opening. It was not the first time of her feeling 
the same kind of conviction; for, more than once before, be-
ginning with the observation of ‘your sister looks unwell 
to-day,’ or ‘your sister seems out of spirits,’ he had appeared 
on the point, either of disclosing, or of inquiring, something 
particular about her. After a pause of several minutes, their 
silence was broken, by his asking her in a voice of some agi-
tation, when he was to congratulate her on the acquisition 
of a brother? Elinor was not prepared for such a question, 
and having no answer ready, was obliged to adopt the sim-
ple and common expedient, of asking what he meant? He 
tried to smile as he replied, ‘your sister’s engagement to Mr. 
Willoughby is very generally known.’
‘It cannot be generally known,’ returned Elinor, ‘for her 
own family do not know it.’
He looked surprised and said, ‘I beg your pardon, I am 
afraid my inquiry has been impertinent; but I had not sup-
posed any secrecy intended, as they openly correspond, and 
their marriage is universally talked of.’
‘How can that be? By whom can you have heard it men-
tioned?’
‘By many—by some of whom you know nothing, by oth-
ers with whom you are most intimate, Mrs. Jennings, Mrs. 
Palmer, and the Middletons. But still I might not have be-
lieved it, for where the mind is perhaps rather unwilling 
to be convinced, it will always find something to support 
its doubts, if I had not, when the servant let me in today, 
accidentally seen a letter in his hand, directed to Mr. Wil-


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loughby in your sister’s writing. I came to inquire, but I was 
convinced before I could ask the question. Is every thing fi-
nally settled? Is it impossible to-? But I have no right, and I 
could have no chance of succeeding. Excuse me, Miss Dash-
wood. I believe I have been wrong in saying so much, but I 
hardly know what to do, and on your prudence I have the 
strongest dependence. Tell me that it is all absolutely re-
solved on, that any attempt, that in short concealment, if 
concealment be possible, is all that remains.’
These words, which conveyed to Elinor a direct avowal 
of his love for her sister, affected her very much. She was not 
immediately able to say anything, and even when her spirits 
were recovered, she debated for a short time, on the answer 
it would be most proper to give. The real state of things 
between Willoughby and her sister was so little known to 
herself, that in endeavouring to explain it, she might be as 
liable to say too much as too little. Yet as she was convinced 
that Marianne’s affection for Willoughby, could leave no 
hope of Colonel Brandon’s success, whatever the event of 
that affection might be, and at the same time wished to 
shield her conduct from censure, she thought it most pru-
dent and kind, after some consideration, to say more than 
she really knew or believed. She acknowledged, therefore, 
that though she had never been informed by themselves 
of the terms on which they stood with each other, of their 
mutual affection she had no doubt, and of their correspon-
dence she was not astonished to hear.
He listened to her with silent attention, and on her ceas-
ing to speak, rose directly from his seat, and after saying 


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in a voice of emotion, ‘to your sister I wish all imaginable 
happiness; to Willoughby that he may endeavour to deserve 
her,’—took leave, and went away.
Elinor derived no comfortable feelings from this conver-
sation, to lessen the uneasiness of her mind on other points; 
she was left, on the contrary, with a melancholy impression 
of Colonel Brandon’s unhappiness, and was prevented even 
from wishing it removed, by her anxiety for the very event 
that must confirm it.


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208
Chapter 28
N
othing occurred during the next three or four days, to 
make Elinor regret what she had done, in applying to 
her mother; for Willoughby neither came nor wrote. They 
were engaged about the end of that time to attend Lady Mid-
dleton to a party, from which Mrs. Jennings was kept away 
by the indisposition of her youngest daughter; and for this 
party, Marianne, wholly dispirited, careless of her appear-
ance, and seeming equally indifferent whether she went or 
staid, prepared, without one look of hope or one expression 
of pleasure. She sat by the drawing-room fire after tea, till 
the moment of Lady Middleton’s arrival, without once stir-
ring from her seat, or altering her attitude, lost in her own 
thoughts, and insensible of her sister’s presence; and when 
at last they were told that Lady Middleton waited for them 
at the door, she started as if she had forgotten that any one 
was expected.
They arrived in due time at the place of destination, 
and as soon as the string of carriages before them would 
allow, alighted, ascended the stairs, heard their names an-
nounced from one landing-place to another in an audible 
voice, and entered a room splendidly lit up, quite full of 
company, and insufferably hot. When they had paid their 
tribute of politeness by curtsying to the lady of the house, 
they were permitted to mingle in the crowd, and take their 


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share of the heat and inconvenience, to which their arrival 
must necessarily add. After some time spent in saying little 
or doing less, Lady Middleton sat down to Cassino, and as 
Marianne was not in spirits for moving about, she and Eli-
nor luckily succeeding to chairs, placed themselves at no 
great distance from the table.
They had not remained in this manner long, before Eli-
nor perceived Willoughby, standing within a few yards 
of them, in earnest conversation with a very fashionable 
looking young woman. She soon caught his eye, and he im-
mediately bowed, but without attempting to speak to her, 
or to approach Marianne, though he could not but see her; 
and then continued his discourse with the same lady. Elinor 
turned involuntarily to Marianne, to see whether it could 
be unobserved by her. At that moment she first perceived 
him, and her whole countenance glowing with sudden de-
light, she would have moved towards him instantly, had not 
her sister caught hold of her.
‘Good heavens!’ she exclaimed, ‘he is there—he is 
there—Oh! why does he not look at me? why cannot I speak 
to him?’
‘Pray, pray be composed,’ cried Elinor, ‘and do not betray 
what you feel to every body present. Perhaps he has not ob-
served you yet.’
This however was more than she could believe herself; 
and to be composed at such a moment was not only beyond 
the reach of Marianne, it was beyond her wish. She sat in an 
agony of impatience which affected every feature.
At last he turned round again, and regarded them both; 


Sense and Sensibility
210
she started up, and pronouncing his name in a tone of af-
fection, held out her hand to him. He approached, and 
addressing himself rather to Elinor than Marianne, as if 
wishing to avoid her eye, and determined not to observe 
her attitude, inquired in a hurried manner after Mrs. Dash-
wood, and asked how long they had been in town. Elinor 
was robbed of all presence of mind by such an address, and 
was unable to say a word. But the feelings of her sister were 
instantly expressed. Her face was crimsoned over, and she 
exclaimed, in a voice of the greatest emotion, ‘Good God! 
Willoughby, what is the meaning of this? Have you not re-
ceived my letters? Will you not shake hands with me?’
He could not then avoid it, but her touch seemed painful 
to him, and he held her hand only for a moment. During all 
this time he was evidently struggling for composure. Elinor 
watched his countenance and saw its expression becoming 
more tranquil. After a moment’s pause, he spoke with calm-
ness.
‘I did myself the honour of calling in Berkeley Street last 
Tuesday, and very much regretted that I was not fortunate 
enough to find yourselves and Mrs. Jennings at home. My 
card was not lost, I hope.’
‘But have you not received my notes?’ cried Marianne in 
the wildest anxiety. ‘Here is some mistake I am sure—some 
dreadful mistake. What can be the meaning of it? Tell me, 
Willoughby; for heaven’s sake tell me, what is the matter?’
He made no reply; his complexion changed and all his 
embarrassment returned; but as if, on catching the eye of 
the young lady with whom he had been previously talking, 


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he felt the necessity of instant exertion, he recovered himself 
again, and after saying, ‘Yes, I had the pleasure of receiving 
the information of your arrival in town, which you were so 
good as to send me,’ turned hastily away with a slight bow 
and joined his friend.
Marianne, now looking dreadfully white, and unable 
to stand, sunk into her chair, and Elinor, expecting every 
moment to see her faint, tried to screen her from the obser-
vation of others, while reviving her with lavender water.
‘Go to him, Elinor,’ she cried, as soon as she could 
speak, ‘and force him to come to me. Tell him I must see 
him again—must speak to him instantly.— I cannot rest—I 
shall not have a moment’s peace till this is explained—some 
dreadful misapprehension or other.— Oh go to him this 
moment.’
‘How can that be done? No, my dearest Marianne, you 
must wait. This is not the place for explanations. Wait only 
till tomorrow.’
With difficulty however could she prevent her from 
following him herself; and to persuade her to check her agi-
tation, to wait, at least, with the appearance of composure, 
till she might speak to him with more privacy and more 
effect, was impossible; for Marianne continued incessantly 
to give way in a low voice to the misery of her feelings, by 
exclamations of wretchedness. In a short time Elinor saw 
Willoughby quit the room by the door towards the stair-
case, and telling Marianne that he was gone, urged the 
impossibility of speaking to him again that evening, as a 
fresh argument for her to be calm. She instantly begged her 


Sense and Sensibility
212
sister would entreat Lady Middleton to take them home, as 
she was too miserable to stay a minute longer.
Lady Middleton, though in the middle of a rubber, on 
being informed that Marianne was unwell, was too polite to 
object for a moment to her wish of going away, and making 
over her cards to a friend, they departed as soon the carriage 
could be found. Scarcely a word was spoken during their re-
turn to Berkeley Street. Marianne was in a silent agony, too 
much oppressed even for tears; but as Mrs. Jennings was 
luckily not come home, they could go directly to their own 
room, where hartshorn restored her a little to herself. She 
was soon undressed and in bed, and as she seemed desirous 
of being alone, her sister then left her, and while she waited 
the return of Mrs. Jennings, had leisure enough for think-
ing over the past.
That some kind of engagement had subsisted between 
Willoughby and Marianne she could not doubt, and that 
Willoughby was weary of it, seemed equally clear; for how-
ever Marianne might still feed her own wishes, SHE could 
not attribute such behaviour to mistake or misapprehension 
of any kind. Nothing but a thorough change of sentiment 
could account for it. Her indignation would have been still 
stronger than it was, had she not witnessed that embarrass-
ment which seemed to speak a consciousness of his own 
misconduct, and prevented her from believing him so un-
principled as to have been sporting with the affections of 
her sister from the first, without any design that would bear 
investigation. Absence might have weakened his regard, 
and convenience might have determined him to overcome 


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it, but that such a regard had formerly existed she could not 
bring herself to doubt.
As for Marianne, on the pangs which so unhappy a 
meeting must already have given her, and on those still 
more severe which might await her in its probable conse-
quence, she could not reflect without the deepest concern. 
Her own situation gained in the comparison; for while she 
could ESTEEM Edward as much as ever, however they 
might be divided in future, her mind might be always sup-
ported. But every circumstance that could embitter such an 
evil seemed uniting to heighten the misery of Marianne in 
a final separation from Willoughby—in an immediate and 
irreconcilable rupture with him.


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214
Chapter 29
B
efore the house-maid had lit their fire the next day, or 
the sun gained any power over a cold, gloomy morn-
ing in January, Marianne, only half dressed, was kneeling 
against one of the window-seats for the sake of all the little 
light she could command from it, and writing as fast as a 
continual flow of tears would permit her. In this situation, 
Elinor, roused from sleep by her agitation and sobs, first 
perceived her; and after observing her for a few moments 
with silent anxiety, said, in a tone of the most considerate 
gentleness,
‘Marianne, may I ask-?’
‘No, Elinor,’ she replied, ‘ask nothing; you will soon 
know all.’
The sort of desperate calmness with which this was said, 
lasted no longer than while she spoke, and was immediately 
followed by a return of the same excessive affliction. It was 
some minutes before she could go on with her letter, and the 
frequent bursts of grief which still obliged her, at intervals, 
to withhold her pen, were proofs enough of her feeling how 
more than probable it was that she was writing for the last 
time to Willoughby.
Elinor paid her every quiet and unobtrusive attention in 
her power; and she would have tried to sooth and tranquil-
ize her still more, had not Marianne entreated her, with all 


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the eagerness of the most nervous irritability, not to speak 
to her for the world. In such circumstances, it was better 
for both that they should not be long together; and the rest-
less state of Marianne’s mind not only prevented her from 
remaining in the room a moment after she was dressed, but 
requiring at once solitude and continual change of place, 
made her wander about the house till breakfast time, avoid-
ing the sight of every body.
At breakfast she neither ate, nor attempted to eat any 
thing; and Elinor’s attention was then all employed, not in 
urging her, not in pitying her, nor in appearing to regard 
her, but in endeavouring to engage Mrs. Jenning’s notice en-
tirely to herself.
As this was a favourite meal with Mrs. Jennings, it lasted 
a considerable time, and they were just setting themselves, 
after it, round the common working table, when a letter was 
delivered to Marianne, which she eagerly caught from the 
servant, and, turning of a death-like paleness, instantly ran 
out of the room. Elinor, who saw as plainly by this, as if she 
had seen the direction, that it must come from Willoughby, 
felt immediately such a sickness at heart as made her hardly 
able to hold up her head, and sat in such a general tremour 
as made her fear it impossible to escape Mrs. Jenning’s no-
tice. That good lady, however, saw only that Marianne had 
received a letter from Willoughby, which appeared to her a 
very good joke, and which she treated accordingly, by hop-
ing, with a laugh, that she would find it to her liking. Of 
Elinor’s distress, she was too busily employed in measur-
ing lengths of worsted for her rug, to see any thing at all; 


Sense and Sensibility
216
and calmly continuing her talk, as soon as Marianne disap-
peared, she said,
‘Upon my word, I never saw a young woman so desper-
ately in love in my life! MY girls were nothing to her, and yet 
they used to be foolish enough; but as for Miss Marianne, 
she is quite an altered creature. I hope, from the bottom of 
my heart, he won’t keep her waiting much longer, for it is 
quite grievous to see her look so ill and forlorn. Pray, when 
are they to be married?’
Elinor, though never less disposed to speak than at that 
moment, obliged herself to answer such an attack as this, 
and, therefore, trying to smile, replied, ‘And have you re-
ally, Ma’am, talked yourself into a persuasion of my sister’s 
being engaged to Mr. Willoughby? I thought it had been 
only a joke, but so serious a question seems to imply more; 
and I must beg, therefore, that you will not deceive yourself 
any longer. I do assure you that nothing would surprise me 
more than to hear of their being going to be married.’
‘For shame, for shame, Miss Dashwood! how can you 
talk so? Don’t we all know that it must be a match, that they 
were over head and ears in love with each other from the 
first moment they met? Did not I see them together in Dev-
onshire every day, and all day long; and did not I know that 
your sister came to town with me on purpose to buy wed-
ding clothes? Come, come, this won’t do. Because you are so 
sly about it yourself, you think nobody else has any senses; 
but it is no such thing, I can tell you, for it has been known 
all over town this ever so long. I tell every body of it and so 
does Charlotte.’


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‘Indeed, Ma’am,’ said Elinor, very seriously, ‘you are 
mistaken. Indeed, you are doing a very unkind thing in 
spreading the report, and you will find that you have though 
you will not believe me now.’
Mrs. Jennings laughed again, but Elinor had not spirits 
to say more, and eager at all events to know what Wil-
loughby had written, hurried away to their room, where, 
on opening the door, she saw Marianne stretched on the 
bed, almost choked by grief, one letter in her hand, and two 
or three others laying by her. Elinor drew near, but with-
out saying a word; and seating herself on the bed, took her 
hand, kissed her affectionately several times, and then gave 
way to a burst of tears, which at first was scarcely less vio-
lent than Marianne’s. The latter, though unable to speak, 
seemed to feel all the tenderness of this behaviour, and af-
ter some time thus spent in joint affliction, she put all the 
letters into Elinor’s hands; and then covering her face with 
her handkerchief, almost screamed with agony. Elinor, who 
knew that such grief, shocking as it was to witness it, must 
have its course, watched by her till this excess of suffering 
had somewhat spent itself, and then turning eagerly to Wil-
loughby’s letter, read as follows:
‘Bond 
Street, 
January. 
‘MY 
DEAR 
MADAM, 
 
‘I have just had the honour of receiving your letter, for 
which I beg to return my sincere acknowledgments. I am 
much concerned to find there was anything in my behaviour 
last night that did not meet your approbation; and though 


Sense and Sensibility
218
I am quite at a loss to discover in what point I could be so 
unfortunate as to offend you, I entreat your forgiveness of 
what I can assure you to have been perfectly unintentional. 
I shall never reflect on my former acquaintance with your 
family in Devonshire without the most grateful pleasure, 
and flatter myself it will not be broken by any mistake or 
misapprehension of my actions. My esteem for your whole 
family is very sincere; but if I have been so unfortunate as to 
give rise to a belief of more than I felt, or meant to express, I 
shall reproach myself for not having been more guarded in 
my professions of that esteem. That I should ever have meant 
more you will allow to be impossible, when you understand 
that my affections have been long engaged elsewhere, and it 
will not be many weeks, I believe, before this engagement is 
fulfilled. It is with great regret that I obey your commands 
in returning the letters with which I have been honoured 
from you, and the lock of hair, which you so obligingly be-
stowed on me.
‘I am, dear Madam, ‘Your most obedient ‘humble servant, 
 
 
‘JOHN WILLOUGHBY.’ 
With what indignation such a letter as this must be 
read by Miss Dashwood, may be imagined. Though aware, 
before she began it, that it must bring a confession of his 
inconstancy, and confirm their separation for ever, she was 
not aware that such language could be suffered to announce 
it; nor could she have supposed Willoughby capable of de-
parting so far from the appearance of every honourable 


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and delicate feeling—so far from the common decorum of 
a gentleman, as to send a letter so impudently cruel: a let-
ter which, instead of bringing with his desire of a release 
any professions of regret, acknowledged no breach of faith, 
denied all peculiar affection whatever— a letter of which 
every line was an insult, and which proclaimed its writer to 
be deep in hardened villainy.
She paused over it for some time with indignant aston-
ishment; then read it again and again; but every perusal 
only served to increase her abhorrence of the man, and so 
bitter were her feelings against him, that she dared not trust 
herself to speak, lest she might wound Marianne still deep-
er by treating their disengagement, not as a loss to her of 
any possible good but as an escape from the worst and most 
irremediable of all evils, a connection, for life, with an un-
principled man, as a deliverance the most real, a blessing 
the most important.
In her earnest meditations on the contents of the let-
ter, on the depravity of that mind which could dictate it, 
and probably, on the very different mind of a very differ-
ent person, who had no other connection whatever with 
the affair than what her heart gave him with every thing 
that passed, Elinor forgot the immediate distress of her sis-
ter, forgot that she had three letters on her lap yet unread, 
and so entirely forgot how long she had been in the room, 
that when on hearing a carriage drive up to the door, she 
went to the window to see who could be coming so unrea-
sonably early, she was all astonishment to perceive Mrs. 
Jennings’s chariot, which she knew had not been ordered 


Sense and Sensibility
220
till one. Determined not to quit Marianne, though hope-
less of contributing, at present, to her ease, she hurried away 
to excuse herself from attending Mrs. Jennings, on account 
of her sister being indisposed. Mrs. Jennings, with a thor-
oughly good-humoured concern for its cause, admitted the 
excuse most readily, and Elinor, after seeing her safe off, re-
turned to Marianne, whom she found attempting to rise 
from the bed, and whom she reached just in time to prevent 
her from falling on the floor, faint and giddy from a long 
want of proper rest and food; for it was many days since 
she had any appetite, and many nights since she had really 
slept; and now, when her mind was no longer supported by 
the fever of suspense, the consequence of all this was felt in 
an aching head, a weakened stomach, and a general nervous 
faintness. A glass of wine, which Elinor procured for her di-
rectly, made her more comfortable, and she was at last able 
to express some sense of her kindness, by saying,
‘Poor Elinor! how unhappy I make you!’
‘I only wish,’ replied her sister, ‘there were any thing I 
COULD do, which might be of comfort to you.’
This, as every thing else would have been, was too much 
for Marianne, who could only exclaim, in the anguish of 
her heart, ‘Oh! Elinor, I am miserable, indeed,’ before her 
voice was entirely lost in sobs.
Elinor could no longer witness this torrent of unresisted 
grief in silence.
‘Exert yourself, dear Marianne,’ she cried, ‘if you would 
not kill yourself and all who love you. Think of your moth-
er; think of her misery while YOU suffer: for her sake you 


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must exert yourself.’
‘I cannot, I cannot,’ cried Marianne; ‘leave me, leave me, 
if I distress you; leave me, hate me, forget me! but do not 
torture me so. Oh! how easy for those, who have no sorrow 
of their own to talk of exertion! Happy, happy Elinor, YOU 
cannot have an idea of what I suffer.’
‘Do you call ME happy, Marianne? Ah! if you knew!—
And can you believe me to be so, while I see you so 
wretched!’
‘Forgive me, forgive me,’ throwing her arms round her 
sister’s neck; ‘I know you feel for me; I know what a heart 
you have; but yet you are—you must be happy; Edward loves 
you—what, oh what, can do away such happiness as that?’
‘Many, many circumstances,’ said Elinor, solemnly.
‘No, no, no,’ cried Marianne wildly, ‘he loves you, and 
only you. You CAN have no grief.’
‘I can have no pleasure while I see you in this state.’
‘And you will never see me otherwise. Mine is a misery 
which nothing can do away.’
‘You must not talk so, Marianne. Have you no comforts? 
no friends? Is your loss such as leaves no opening for con-
solation? Much as you suffer now, think of what you would 
have suffered if the discovery of his character had been 
delayed to a later period— if your engagement had been 
carried on for months and months, as it might have been, 
before he chose to put an end to it. Every additional day 
of unhappy confidence, on your side, would have made the 
blow more dreadful.’
‘Engagement!’ cried Marianne, ‘there has been no en-


Sense and Sensibility
222
gagement.’
‘No engagement!’
‘No, he is not so unworthy as you believe him. He has 
broken no faith with me.’
‘But he told you that he loved you.’
‘Yes—no—never absolutely. It was every day implied, 
but never professedly declared. Sometimes I thought it had 
been—but it never was.’
‘Yet you wrote to him?’—
‘Yes—could that be wrong after all that had passed?— 
But I cannot talk.’
Elinor said no more, and turning again to the three 
letters which now raised a much stronger curiosity than be-
fore, directly ran over the contents of all. The first, which 
was what her sister had sent him on their arrival in town, 
was to this effect.
Berkeley Street, January.
‘How surprised you will be, Willoughby, on receiving 
this; and I think you will feel something more than sur-
prise, when you know that I am in town. An opportunity of 
coming hither, though with Mrs. Jennings, was a tempta-
tion we could not resist. I wish you may receive this in time 
to come here to-night, but I will not depend on it. At any 
rate I shall expect you to-morrow. For the present, adieu.
‘M.D.’
Her second note, which had been written on the morning 
after the dance at the Middletons’, was in these words:—
‘I cannot express my disappointment in having missed 
you the day before yesterday, nor my astonishment at not 


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having received any answer to a note which I sent you above 
a week ago. I have been expecting to hear from you, and 
still more to see you, every hour of the day. Pray call again 
as soon as possible, and explain the reason of my having 
expected this in vain. You had better come earlier anoth-
er time, because we are generally out by one. We were last 
night at Lady Middleton’s, where there was a dance. I have 
been told that you were asked to be of the party. But could it 
be so? You must be very much altered indeed since we part-
ed, if that could be the case, and you not there. But I will not 
suppose this possible, and I hope very soon to receive your 
personal assurance of its being otherwise.
‘M.D.’
The contents of her last note to him were these:—
‘What am I to imagine, Willoughby, by your behaviour 
last night? Again I demand an explanation of it. I was pre-
pared to meet you with the pleasure which our separation 
naturally produced, with the familiarity which our inti-
macy at Barton appeared to me to justify. I was repulsed 
indeed! I have passed a wretched night in endeavouring 
to excuse a conduct which can scarcely be called less than 
insulting; but though I have not yet been able to form any 
reasonable apology for your behaviour, I am perfectly ready 
to hear your justification of it. You have perhaps been mis-
informed, or purposely deceived, in something concerning 
me, which may have lowered me in your opinion. Tell me 
what it is, explain the grounds on which you acted, and I 
shall be satisfied, in being able to satisfy you. It would grieve 
me indeed to be obliged to think ill of you; but if I am to do 


Sense and Sensibility
224
it, if I am to learn that you are not what we have hitherto 
believed you, that your regard for us all was insincere, that 
your behaviour to me was intended only to deceive, let it be 
told as soon as possible. My feelings are at present in a state 
of dreadful indecision; I wish to acquit you, but certainty 
on either side will be ease to what I now suffer. If your sen-
timents are no longer what they were, you will return my 
notes, and the lock of my hair which is in your possession.
‘M.D.’
That such letters, so full of affection and confidence, 
could have been so answered, Elinor, for Willoughby’s sake, 
would have been unwilling to believe. But her condemna-
tion of him did not blind her to the impropriety of their 
having been written at all; and she was silently grieving 
over the imprudence which had hazarded such unsolicited 
proofs of tenderness, not warranted by anything preceding, 
and most severely condemned by the event, when Mari-
anne, perceiving that she had finished the letters, observed 
to her that they contained nothing but what any one would 
have written in the same situation.
‘I felt myself,’ she added, ‘to be as solemnly engaged to 
him, as if the strictest legal covenant had bound us to each 
other.’
‘I can believe it,’ said Elinor; ‘but unfortunately he did 
not feel the same.’
‘He DID feel the same, Elinor—for weeks and weeks he 
felt it. I know he did. Whatever may have changed him now, 
(and nothing but the blackest art employed against me can 
have done it), I was once as dear to him as my own soul 


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could wish. This lock of hair, which now he can so readily 
give up, was begged of me with the most earnest supplica-
tion. Had you seen his look, his manner, had you heard his 
voice at that moment! Have you forgot the last evening of 
our being together at Barton? The morning that we parted 
too! When he told me that it might be many weeks before 
we met again—his distress—can I ever forget his distress?’
For a moment or two she could say no more; but when 
this emotion had passed away, she added, in a firmer tone,
‘Elinor, I have been cruelly used; but not by Willough-
by.’
‘Dearest Marianne, who but himself? By whom can he 
have been instigated?’
‘By all the world, rather than by his own heart. I could 
rather believe every creature of my acquaintance leagued 
together to ruin me in his opinion, than believe his nature 
capable of such cruelty. This woman of whom he writes—
whoever she be—or any one, in short, but your own dear 
self, mama, and Edward, may have been so barbarous to 
bely me. Beyond you three, is there a creature in the world 
whom I would not rather suspect of evil than Willoughby, 
whose heart I know so well?’
Elinor would not contend, and only replied, ‘Whoever 
may have been so detestably your enemy, let them be cheat-
ed of their malignant triumph, my dear sister, by seeing 
how nobly the consciousness of your own innocence and 
good intentions supports your spirits. It is a reasonable and 
laudable pride which resists such malevolence.’
‘No, no,’ cried Marianne, ‘misery such as mine has no 


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pride. I care not who knows that I am wretched. The tri-
umph of seeing me so may be open to all the world. Elinor, 
Elinor, they who suffer little may be proud and independent 
as they like—may resist insult, or return mortification—but 
I cannot. I must feel—I must be wretched—and they are 
welcome to enjoy the consciousness of it that can.’
‘But for my mother’s sake and mine—‘
‘I would do more than for my own. But to appear happy 
when I am so miserable—Oh! who can require it?’
Again they were both silent. Elinor was employed in 
walking thoughtfully from the fire to the window, from 
the window to the fire, without knowing that she received 
warmth from one, or discerning objects through the oth-
er; and Marianne, seated at the foot of the bed, with her 
head leaning against one of its posts, again took up Wil-
loughby’s letter, and, after shuddering over every sentence, 
exclaimed—
‘It is too much! Oh, Willoughby, Willoughby, could this 
be yours! Cruel, cruel—nothing can acquit you. Elinor, 
nothing can. Whatever he might have heard against me— 
ought he not to have suspended his belief? ought he not 
to have told me of it, to have given me the power of clear-
ing myself? ‘The lock of hair, (repeating it from the letter,) 
which you so obligingly bestowed on me’—That is unpar-
donable. Willoughby, where was your heart when you wrote 
those words? Oh, barbarously insolent!—Elinor, can he be 
justified?’
‘No, Marianne, in no possible way.’
‘And yet this woman—who knows what her art may have 


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been?—how long it may have been premeditated, and how 
deeply contrived by her!—Who is she?—Who can she be?—
Whom did I ever hear him talk of as young and attractive 
among his female acquaintance?—Oh! no one, no one—he 
talked to me only of myself.’
Another pause ensued; Marianne was greatly agitated, 
and it ended thus.
‘Elinor, I must go home. I must go and comfort mama. 
Can not we be gone to-morrow?’
‘To-morrow, Marianne!’
‘Yes, why should I stay here? I came only for Willough-
by’s sake—and now who cares for me? Who regards me?’
‘It would be impossible to go to-morrow. We owe Mrs. 
Jennings much more than civility; and civility of the com-
monest kind must prevent such a hasty removal as that.’
‘Well then, another day or two, perhaps; but I cannot 
stay here long, I cannot stay to endure the questions and 
remarks of all these people. The Middletons and Palmers—
how am I to bear their pity? The pity of such a woman as 
Lady Middleton! Oh, what would HE say to that!’
Elinor advised her to lie down again, and for a moment 
she did so; but no attitude could give her ease; and in rest-
less pain of mind and body she moved from one posture 
to another, till growing more and more hysterical, her sis-
ter could with difficulty keep her on the bed at all, and for 
some time was fearful of being constrained to call for as-
sistance. Some lavender drops, however, which she was at 
length persuaded to take, were of use; and from that time 
till Mrs. Jennings returned, she continued on the bed quiet 


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and motionless.


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Chapter 30
M
rs. Jennings came immediately to their room on her 
return, and without waiting to have her request of ad-
mittance answered, opened the door and walked in with a 
look of real concern.
‘How do you do my dear?’—said she in a voice of great 
compassion to Marianne, who turned away her face with-
out attempting to answer.
‘How is she, Miss Dashwood?—Poor thing! she looks 
very bad.— No wonder. Ay, it is but too true. He is to be 
married very soon—a good-for-nothing fellow! I have no 
patience with him. Mrs. Taylor told me of it half an hour 
ago, and she was told it by a particular friend of Miss Grey 
herself, else I am sure I should not have believed it; and I 
was almost ready to sink as it was. Well, said I, all I can say 
is, that if this be true, he has used a young lady of my ac-
quaintance abominably ill, and I wish with all my soul his 
wife may plague his heart out. And so I shall always say, my 
dear, you may depend on it. I have no notion of men’s going 
on in this way; and if ever I meet him again, I will give him 
such a dressing as he has not had this many a day. But there 
is one comfort, my dear Miss Marianne; he is not the only 
young man in the world worth having; and with your pretty 
face you will never want admirers. Well, poor thing! I won’t 
disturb her any longer, for she had better have her cry out at 


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once and have done with. The Parrys and Sandersons luck-
ily are coming tonight you know, and that will amuse her.’
She then went away, walking on tiptoe out of the room, 
as if she supposed her young friend’s affliction could be in-
creased by noise.
Marianne, to the surprise of her sister, determined on 
dining with them. Elinor even advised her against it. But 
‘no, she would go down; she could bear it very well, and 
the bustle about her would be less.’ Elinor, pleased to have 
her governed for a moment by such a motive, though be-
lieving it hardly possible that she could sit out the dinner, 
said no more; and adjusting her dress for her as well as she 
could, while Marianne still remained on the bed, was ready 
to assist her into the dining room as soon as they were sum-
moned to it.
When there, though looking most wretchedly, she ate 
more and was calmer than her sister had expected. Had 
she tried to speak, or had she been conscious of half Mrs. 
Jennings’s well-meant but ill-judged attentions to her, this 
calmness could not have been maintained; but not a syl-
lable escaped her lips; and the abstraction of her thoughts 
preserved her in ignorance of every thing that was passing 
before her.
Elinor, who did justice to Mrs. Jennings’s kindness, 
though its effusions were often distressing, and sometimes 
almost ridiculous, made her those acknowledgments, and 
returned her those civilities, which her sister could not 
make or return for herself. Their good friend saw that Mari-
anne was unhappy, and felt that every thing was due to her 


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which might make her at all less so. She treated her there-
fore, with all the indulgent fondness of a parent towards 
a favourite child on the last day of its holidays. Marianne 
was to have the best place by the fire, was to be tempted to 
eat by every delicacy in the house, and to be amused by the 
relation of all the news of the day. Had not Elinor, in the 
sad countenance of her sister, seen a check to all mirth, she 
could have been entertained by Mrs. Jennings’s endeavours 
to cure a disappointment in love, by a variety of sweetmeats 
and olives, and a good fire. As soon, however, as the con-
sciousness of all this was forced by continual repetition on 
Marianne, she could stay no longer. With a hasty exclama-
tion of Misery, and a sign to her sister not to follow her, she 
directly got up and hurried out of the room.
‘Poor soul!’ cried Mrs. Jennings, as soon as she was gone, 
‘how it grieves me to see her! And I declare if she is not 
gone away without finishing her wine! And the dried cher-
ries too! Lord! nothing seems to do her any good. I am sure 
if I knew of any thing she would like, I would send all over 
the town for it. Well, it is the oddest thing to me, that a man 
should use such a pretty girl so ill! But when there is plenty 
of money on one side, and next to none on the other, Lord 
bless you! they care no more about such things!—‘
‘The lady then—Miss Grey I think you called her— is 
very rich?’
‘Fifty thousand pounds, my dear. Did you ever see her? 
a smart, stylish girl they say, but not handsome. I remem-
ber her aunt very well, Biddy Henshawe; she married a very 
wealthy man. But the family are all rich together. Fifty thou-


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232
sand pounds! and by all accounts, it won’t come before it’s 
wanted; for they say he is all to pieces. No wonder! dashing 
about with his curricle and hunters! Well, it don’t signify 
talking; but when a young man, be who he will, comes and 
makes love to a pretty girl, and promises marriage, he has 
no business to fly off from his word only because he grows 
poor, and a richer girl is ready to have him. Why don’t he, 
in such a case, sell his horses, let his house, turn off his ser-
vants, and make a thorough reform at once? I warrant you, 
Miss Marianne would have been ready to wait till matters 
came round. But that won’t do now-a-days; nothing in the 
way of pleasure can ever be given up by the young men of 
this age.’
‘Do you know what kind of a girl Miss Grey is? Is she said 
to be amiable?’
‘I never heard any harm of her; indeed I hardly ever 
heard her mentioned; except that Mrs. Taylor did say this 
morning, that one day Miss Walker hinted to her, that she 
believed Mr. and Mrs. Ellison would not be sorry to have 
Miss Grey married, for she and Mrs. Ellison could never 
agree.’—
‘And who are the Ellisons?’
‘Her guardians, my dear. But now she is of age and may 
choose for herself; and a pretty choice she has made!—What 
now,’ after pausing a moment—‘your poor sister is gone to 
her own room, I suppose, to moan by herself. Is there noth-
ing one can get to comfort her? Poor dear, it seems quite 
cruel to let her be alone. Well, by-and-by we shall have a few 
friends, and that will amuse her a little. What shall we play 


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at? She hates whist I know; but is there no round game she 
cares for?’
‘Dear ma’am, this kindness is quite unnecessary. Mari-
anne, I dare say, will not leave her room again this evening. 
I shall persuade her if I can to go early to bed, for I am sure 
she wants rest.’
‘Aye, I believe that will be best for her. Let her name her 
own supper, and go to bed. Lord! no wonder she has been 
looking so bad and so cast down this last week or two, for 
this matter I suppose has been hanging over her head as long 
as that. And so the letter that came today finished it! Poor 
soul! I am sure if I had had a notion of it, I would not have 
joked her about it for all my money. But then you know, how 
should I guess such a thing? I made sure of its being noth-
ing but a common love letter, and you know young people 
like to be laughed at about them. Lord! how concerned Sir 
John and my daughters will be when they hear it! If I had 
my senses about me I might have called in Conduit Street 
in my way home, and told them of it. But I shall see them 
tomorrow.’
‘It would be unnecessary I am sure, for you to caution 
Mrs. Palmer and Sir John against ever naming Mr. Wil-
loughby, or making the slightest allusion to what has passed, 
before my sister. Their own good-nature must point out to 
them the real cruelty of appearing to know any thing about 
it when she is present; and the less that may ever be said to 
myself on the subject, the more my feelings will be spared, 
as you my dear madam will easily believe.’
‘Oh! Lord! yes, that I do indeed. It must be terrible for 


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234
you to hear it talked of; and as for your sister, I am sure I 
would not mention a word about it to her for the world. You 
saw I did not all dinner time. No more would Sir John, nor 
my daughters, for they are all very thoughtful and consid-
erate; especially if I give them a hint, as I certainly will. For 
my part, I think the less that is said about such things, the 
better, the sooner ‘tis blown over and forgot. And what does 
talking ever do you know?’
‘In this affair it can only do harm; more so perhaps than 
in many cases of a similar kind, for it has been attended by 
circumstances which, for the sake of every one concerned in 
it, make it unfit to become the public conversation. I must 
do THIS justice to Mr. Willoughby—he has broken no posi-
tive engagement with my sister.’
‘Law, my dear! Don’t pretend to defend him. No posi-
tive engagement indeed! after taking her all over Allenham 
House, and fixing on the very rooms they were to live in 
hereafter!’
Elinor, for her sister’s sake, could not press the subject 
farther, and she hoped it was not required of her for Wil-
loughby’s; since, though Marianne might lose much, he 
could gain very little by the enforcement of the real truth. 
After a short silence on both sides, Mrs. Jennings, with all 
her natural hilarity, burst forth again.
‘Well, my dear, ‘tis a true saying about an ill-wind, for it 
will be all the better for Colonel Brandon. He will have her 
at last; aye, that he will. Mind me, now, if they an’t married 
by Mid-summer. Lord! how he’ll chuckle over this news! 
I hope he will come tonight. It will be all to one a better 


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match for your sister. Two thousand a year without debt or 
drawback—except the little love-child, indeed; aye, I had 
forgot her; but she may be ‘prenticed out at a small cost, 
and then what does it signify? Delaford is a nice place, I can 
tell you; exactly what I call a nice old fashioned place, full 
of comforts and conveniences; quite shut in with great gar-
den walls that are covered with the best fruit-trees in the 
country; and such a mulberry tree in one corner! Lord! how 
Charlotte and I did stuff the only time we were there! Then, 
there is a dove-cote, some delightful stew-ponds, and a very 
pretty canal; and every thing, in short, that one could wish 
for; and, moreover, it is close to the church, and only a quar-
ter of a mile from the turnpike-road, so ‘tis never dull, for 
if you only go and sit up in an old yew arbour behind the 
house, you may see all the carriages that pass along. Oh! 
‘tis a nice place! A butcher hard by in the village, and the 
parsonage-house within a stone’s throw. To my fancy, a 
thousand times prettier than Barton Park, where they are 
forced to send three miles for their meat, and have not a 
neighbour nearer than your mother. Well, I shall spirit up 
the Colonel as soon as I can. One shoulder of mutton, you 
know, drives another down. If we CAN but put Willoughby 
out of her head!’
‘Ay, if we can do THAT, Ma’am,’ said Elinor, ‘we shall do 
very well with or without Colonel Brandon.’ And then ris-
ing, she went away to join Marianne, whom she found, as 
she expected, in her own room, leaning, in silent misery, 
over the small remains of a fire, which, till Elinor’s entrance, 
had been her only light.


Sense and Sensibility
236
‘You had better leave me,’ was all the notice that her sis-
ter received from her.
‘I will leave you,’ said Elinor, ‘if you will go to bed.’ But 
this, from the momentary perverseness of impatient suffer-
ing, she at first refused to do. Her sister’s earnest, though 
gentle persuasion, however, soon softened her to compli-
ance, and Elinor saw her lay her aching head on the pillow, 
and as she hoped, in a way to get some quiet rest before she 
left her.
In the drawing-room, whither she then repaired, she 
was soon joined by Mrs. Jennings, with a wine-glass, full of 
something, in her hand.
‘My dear,’ said she, entering, ‘I have just recollected that 
I have some of the finest old Constantia wine in the house 
that ever was tasted, so I have brought a glass of it for your 
sister. My poor husband! how fond he was of it! Whenever 
he had a touch of his old colicky gout, he said it did him 
more good than any thing else in the world. Do take it to 
your sister.’
‘Dear Ma’am,’ replied Elinor, smiling at the difference of 
the complaints for which it was recommended, ‘how good 
you are! But I have just left Marianne in bed, and, I hope, 
almost asleep; and as I think nothing will be of so much 
service to her as rest, if you will give me leave, I will drink 
the wine myself.’
Mrs. Jennings, though regretting that she had not been 
five minutes earlier, was satisfied with the compromise; 
and Elinor, as she swallowed the chief of it, reflected, that 
though its effects on a colicky gout were, at present, of lit-


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tle importance to her, its healing powers, on a disappointed 
heart might be as reasonably tried on herself as on her sis-
ter.
Colonel Brandon came in while the party were at tea, 
and by his manner of looking round the room for Mari-
anne, Elinor immediately fancied that he neither expected 
nor wished to see her there, and, in short, that he was al-
ready aware of what occasioned her absence. Mrs. Jennings 
was not struck by the same thought; for soon after his en-
trance, she walked across the room to the tea-table where 
Elinor presided, and whispered— ‘The Colonel looks as 
grave as ever you see. He knows nothing of it; do tell him, 
my dear.’
He shortly afterwards drew a chair close to her’s, and, 
with a look which perfectly assured her of his good infor-
mation, inquired after her sister.
‘Marianne is not well,’ said she. ‘She has been indisposed 
all day, and we have persuaded her to go to bed.’
‘Perhaps, then,’ he hesitatingly replied, ‘what I heard 
this morning may be—there may be more truth in it than I 
could believe possible at first.’
‘What did you hear?’
‘That a gentleman, whom I had reason to think—in 
short, that a man, whom I KNEW to be engaged—but how 
shall I tell you? If you know it already, as surely you must, I 
may be spared.’
‘You mean,’ answered Elinor, with forced calmness, ‘Mr. 
Willoughby’s marriage with Miss Grey. Yes, we DO know it 
all. This seems to have been a day of general elucidation, for 


Sense and Sensibility
238
this very morning first unfolded it to us. Mr. Willoughby is 
unfathomable! Where did you hear it?’
‘In a stationer’s shop in Pall Mall, where I had business. 
Two ladies were waiting for their carriage, and one of them 
was giving the other an account of the intended match, in 
a voice so little attempting concealment, that it was impos-
sible for me not to hear all. The name of Willoughby, John 
Willoughby, frequently repeated, first caught my attention; 
and what followed was a positive assertion that every thing 
was now finally settled respecting his marriage with Miss 
Grey—it was no longer to be a secret—it would take place 
even within a few weeks, with many particulars of prepara-
tions and other matters. One thing, especially, I remember, 
because it served to identify the man still more:—as soon as 
the ceremony was over, they were to go to Combe Magna, 
his seat in Somersetshire. My astonishment!—but it would 
be impossible to describe what I felt. The communicative 
lady I learnt, on inquiry, for I stayed in the shop till they 
were gone, was a Mrs. Ellison, and that, as I have been since 
informed, is the name of Miss Grey’s guardian.’
‘It is. But have you likewise heard that Miss Grey has fifty 
thousand pounds? In that, if in any thing, we may find an 
explanation.’
‘It may be so; but Willoughby is capable—at least I 
think’—he stopped a moment; then added in a voice which 
seemed to distrust itself, ‘And your sister— how did she—‘
‘Her sufferings have been very severe. I have only to 
hope that they may be proportionately short. It has been, it 
is a most cruel affliction. Till yesterday, I believe, she never 


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doubted his regard; and even now, perhaps—but I am al-
most convinced that he never was really attached to her. He 
has been very deceitful! and, in some points, there seems a 
hardness of heart about him.’
‘Ah!’ said Colonel Brandon, ‘there is, indeed! But your 
sister does not—I think you said so—she does not consider 
quite as you do?’
‘You know her disposition, and may believe how eagerly 
she would still justify him if she could.’
He made no answer; and soon afterwards, by the re-
moval of the tea-things, and the arrangement of the card 
parties, the subject was necessarily dropped. Mrs. Jennings, 
who had watched them with pleasure while they were talk-
ing, and who expected to see the effect of Miss Dashwood’s 
communication, in such an instantaneous gaiety on Colonel 
Brandon’s side, as might have become a man in the bloom 
of youth, of hope and happiness, saw him, with amazement, 
remain the whole evening more serious and thoughtful 
than usual.


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240
Chapter 31
F
rom a night of more sleep than she had expected, Mari-
anne awoke the next morning to the same consciousness 
of misery in which she had closed her eyes.
Elinor encouraged her as much as possible to talk of 
what she felt; and before breakfast was ready, they had gone 
through the subject again and again; and with the same 
steady conviction and affectionate counsel on Elinor’s side, 
the same impetuous feelings and varying opinions on Mar-
ianne’s, as before. Sometimes she could believe Willoughby 
to be as unfortunate and as innocent as herself, and at oth-
ers, lost every consolation in the impossibility of acquitting 
him. At one moment she was absolutely indifferent to the 
observation of all the world, at another she would seclude 
herself from it for ever, and at a third could resist it with en-
ergy. In one thing, however, she was uniform, when it came 
to the point, in avoiding, where it was possible, the pres-
ence of Mrs. Jennings, and in a determined silence when 
obliged to endure it. Her heart was hardened against the 
belief of Mrs. Jennings’s entering into her sorrows with any 
compassion.
‘No, no, no, it cannot be,’ she cried; ‘she cannot feel. Her 
kindness is not sympathy; her good-nature is not tender-
ness. All that she wants is gossip, and she only likes me now 
because I supply it.’


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Elinor had not needed this to be assured of the injustice 
to which her sister was often led in her opinion of others, by 
the irritable refinement of her own mind, and the too great 
importance placed by her on the delicacies of a strong sen-
sibility, and the graces of a polished manner. Like half the 
rest of the world, if more than half there be that are clever 
and good, Marianne, with excellent abilities and an excel-
lent disposition, was neither reasonable nor candid. She 
expected from other people the same opinions and feelings 
as her own, and she judged of their motives by the imme-
diate effect of their actions on herself. Thus a circumstance 
occurred, while the sisters were together in their own room 
after breakfast, which sunk the heart of Mrs. Jennings still 
lower in her estimation; because, through her own weak-
ness, it chanced to prove a source of fresh pain to herself, 
though Mrs. Jennings was governed in it by an impulse of 
the utmost goodwill.
With a letter in her outstretched hand, and countenance 
gaily smiling, from the persuasion of bringing comfort, she 
entered their room, saying,
‘Now, my dear, I bring you something that I am sure will 
do you good.’
Marianne heard enough. In one moment her imagination 
placed before her a letter from Willoughby, full of tender-
ness and contrition, explanatory of all that had passed, 
satisfactory, convincing; and instantly followed by Wil-
loughby himself, rushing eagerly into the room to inforce, 
at her feet, by the eloquence of his eyes, the assurances of his 
letter. The work of one moment was destroyed by the next. 


Sense and Sensibility
242
The hand writing of her mother, never till then unwelcome, 
was before her; and, in the acuteness of the disappointment 
which followed such an ecstasy of more than hope, she felt 
as if, till that instant, she had never suffered.
The cruelty of Mrs. Jennings no language, within her 
reach in her moments of happiest eloquence, could have ex-
pressed; and now she could reproach her only by the tears 
which streamed from her eyes with passionate violence—a 
reproach, however, so entirely lost on its object, that after 
many expressions of pity, she withdrew, still referring her 
to the letter of comfort. But the letter, when she was calm 
enough to read it, brought little comfort. Willoughby filled 
every page. Her mother, still confident of their engagement, 
and relying as warmly as ever on his constancy, had only 
been roused by Elinor’s application, to intreat from Mari-
anne greater openness towards them both; and this, with 
such tenderness towards her, such affection for Willoughby, 
and such a conviction of their future happiness in each oth-
er, that she wept with agony through the whole of it.
All her impatience to be at home again now returned; 
her mother was dearer to her than ever; dearer through 
the very excess of her mistaken confidence in Willoughby, 
and she was wildly urgent to be gone. Elinor, unable herself 
to determine whether it were better for Marianne to be in 
London or at Barton, offered no counsel of her own except 
of patience till their mother’s wishes could be known; and 
at length she obtained her sister’s consent to wait for that 
knowledge.
Mrs. Jennings left them earlier than usual; for she could 


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not be easy till the Middletons and Palmers were able to 
grieve as much as herself; and positively refusing Elinor’s 
offered attendance, went out alone for the rest of the morn-
ing. Elinor, with a very heavy heart, aware of the pain she 
was going to communicate, and perceiving, by Marianne’s 
letter, how ill she had succeeded in laying any foundation 
for it, then sat down to write her mother an account of what 
had passed, and entreat her directions for the future; while 
Marianne, who came into the drawing-room on Mrs. Jen-
nings’s going away, remained fixed at the table where Elinor 
wrote, watching the advancement of her pen, grieving over 
her for the hardship of such a task, and grieving still more 
fondly over its effect on her mother.
In this manner they had continued about a quarter of an 
hour, when Marianne, whose nerves could not then bear 
any sudden noise, was startled by a rap at the door.
‘Who can this be?’ cried Elinor. ‘So early too! I thought 
we HAD been safe.’
Marianne moved to the window—
‘It is Colonel Brandon!’ said she, with vexation. ‘We are 
never safe from HIM.’
‘He will not come in, as Mrs. Jennings is from home.’
‘I will not trust to THAT,’ retreating to her own room. ‘A 
man who has nothing to do with his own time has no con-
science in his intrusion on that of others.’
The event proved her conjecture right, though it was 
founded on injustice and error; for Colonel Brandon DID 
come in; and Elinor, who was convinced that solicitude for 
Marianne brought him thither, and who saw THAT so-


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244
licitude in his disturbed and melancholy look, and in his 
anxious though brief inquiry after her, could not forgive her 
sister for esteeming him so lightly.
‘I met Mrs. Jennings in Bond Street,’ said he, after the 
first salutation, ‘and she encouraged me to come on; and I 
was the more easily encouraged, because I thought it proba-
ble that I might find you alone, which I was very desirous of 
doing. My object—my wish—my sole wish in desiring it—I 
hope, I believe it is—is to be a means of giving comfort;—no, 
I must not say comfort—not present comfort—but convic-
tion, lasting conviction to your sister’s mind. My regard 
for her, for yourself, for your mother—will you allow me 
to prove it, by relating some circumstances which nothing 
but a VERY sincere regard—nothing but an earnest desire 
of being useful—I think I am justified—though where so 
many hours have been spent in convincing myself that I am 
right, is there not some reason to fear I may be wrong?’ He 
stopped.
‘I understand you,’ said Elinor. ‘You have something to 
tell me of Mr. Willoughby, that will open his character far-
ther. Your telling it will be the greatest act of friendship 
that can be shewn Marianne. MY gratitude will be insured 
immediately by any information tending to that end, and 
HERS must be gained by it in time. Pray, pray let me hear 
it.’
‘You shall; and, to be brief, when I quitted Barton last 
October,—but this will give you no idea—I must go farther 
back. You will find me a very awkward narrator, Miss Dash-
wood; I hardly know where to begin. A short account of 


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myself, I believe, will be necessary, and it SHALL be a short 
one. On such a subject,’ sighing heavily, ‘can I have little 
temptation to be diffuse.’
He stopt a moment for recollection, and then, with an-
other sigh, went on.
‘You have probably entirely forgotten a conversation— 
(it is not to be supposed that it could make any impression 
on you)—a conversation between us one evening at Barton 
Park—it was the evening of a dance—in which I alluded to 
a lady I had once known, as resembling, in some measure, 
your sister Marianne.’
‘Indeed,’ answered Elinor, ‘I have NOT forgotten it.’ He 
looked pleased by this remembrance, and added,
‘If I am not deceived by the uncertainty, the partiality of 
tender recollection, there is a very strong resemblance be-
tween them, as well in mind as person. The same warmth 
of heart, the same eagerness of fancy and spirits. This lady 
was one of my nearest relations, an orphan from her in-
fancy, and under the guardianship of my father. Our ages 
were nearly the same, and from our earliest years we were 
playfellows and friends. I cannot remember the time when 
I did not love Eliza; and my affection for her, as we grew up, 
was such, as perhaps, judging from my present forlorn and 
cheerless gravity, you might think me incapable of having 
ever felt. Her’s, for me, was, I believe, fervent as the attach-
ment of your sister to Mr. Willoughby and it was, though 
from a different cause, no less unfortunate. At seventeen she 
was lost to me for ever. She was married—married against 
her inclination to my brother. Her fortune was large, and 


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our family estate much encumbered. And this, I fear, is all 
that can be said for the conduct of one, who was at once her 
uncle and guardian. My brother did not deserve her; he did 
not even love her. I had hoped that her regard for me would 
support her under any difficulty, and for some time it did; 
but at last the misery of her situation, for she experienced 
great unkindness, overcame all her resolution, and though 
she had promised me that nothing—but how blindly I re-
late! I have never told you how this was brought on. We 
were within a few hours of eloping together for Scotland. 
The treachery, or the folly, of my cousin’s maid betrayed us. 
I was banished to the house of a relation far distant, and she 
was allowed no liberty, no society, no amusement, till my 
father’s point was gained. I had depended on her fortitude 
too far, and the blow was a severe one— but had her mar-
riage been happy, so young as I then was, a few months must 
have reconciled me to it, or at least I should not have now 
to lament it. This however was not the case. My brother had 
no regard for her; his pleasures were not what they ought 
to have been, and from the first he treated her unkindly. 
The consequence of this, upon a mind so young, so lively, so 
inexperienced as Mrs. Brandon’s, was but too natural. She 
resigned herself at first to all the misery of her situation; and 
happy had it been if she had not lived to overcome those re-
grets which the remembrance of me occasioned. But can we 
wonder that, with such a husband to provoke inconstancy, 
and without a friend to advise or restrain her (for my father 
lived only a few months after their marriage, and I was with 
my regiment in the East Indies) she should fall? Had I re-


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mained in England, perhaps—but I meant to promote the 
happiness of both by removing from her for years, and for 
that purpose had procured my exchange. The shock which 
her marriage had given me,’ he continued, in a voice of great 
agitation, ‘was of trifling weight—was nothing to what I felt 
when I heard, about two years afterwards, of her divorce. It 
was THAT which threw this gloom,—even now the recol-
lection of what I suffered—‘
He could say no more, and rising hastily walked for a 
few minutes about the room. Elinor, affected by his relation, 
and still more by his distress, could not speak. He saw her 
concern, and coming to her, took her hand, pressed it, and 
kissed it with grateful respect. A few minutes more of silent 
exertion enabled him to proceed with composure.
‘It was nearly three years after this unhappy period be-
fore I returned to England. My first care, when I DID arrive, 
was of course to seek for her; but the search was as fruitless 
as it was melancholy. I could not trace her beyond her first 
seducer, and there was every reason to fear that she had re-
moved from him only to sink deeper in a life of sin. Her 
legal allowance was not adequate to her fortune, nor suffi-
cient for her comfortable maintenance, and I learnt from my 
brother that the power of receiving it had been made over 
some months before to another person. He imagined, and 
calmly could he imagine it, that her extravagance, and con-
sequent distress, had obliged her to dispose of it for some 
immediate relief. At last, however, and after I had been six 
months in England, I DID find her. Regard for a former 
servant of my own, who had since fallen into misfortune, 


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carried me to visit him in a spunging-house, where he was 
confined for debt; and there, the same house, under a simi-
lar confinement, was my unfortunate sister. So altered—so 
faded—worn down by acute suffering of every kind! hardly 
could I believe the melancholy and sickly figure before me, 
to be the remains of the lovely, blooming, healthful girl, on 
whom I had once doted. What I endured in so beholding 
her—but I have no right to wound your feelings by attempt-
ing to describe it—I have pained you too much already. 
That she was, to all appearance, in the last stage of a con-
sumption, was—yes, in such a situation it was my greatest 
comfort. Life could do nothing for her, beyond giving time 
for a better preparation for death; and that was given. I saw 
her placed in comfortable lodgings, and under proper at-
tendants; I visited her every day during the rest of her short 
life: I was with her in her last moments.’
Again he stopped to recover himself; and Elinor spoke 
her feelings in an exclamation of tender concern, at the fate 
of his unfortunate friend.
‘Your sister, I hope, cannot be offended,’ said he, ‘by the 
resemblance I have fancied between her and my poor dis-
graced relation. Their fates, their fortunes, cannot be the 
same; and had the natural sweet disposition of the one been 
guarded by a firmer mind, or a happier marriage, she might 
have been all that you will live to see the other be. But to 
what does all this lead? I seem to have been distressing you 
for nothing. Ah! Miss Dashwood—a subject such as this—
untouched for fourteen years—it is dangerous to handle 
it at all! I WILL be more collected—more concise. She left 


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to my care her only child, a little girl, the offspring of her 
first guilty connection, who was then about three years old. 
She loved the child, and had always kept it with her. It was 
a valued, a precious trust to me; and gladly would I have 
discharged it in the strictest sense, by watching over her ed-
ucation myself, had the nature of our situations allowed it; 
but I had no family, no home; and my little Eliza was there-
fore placed at school. I saw her there whenever I could, and 
after the death of my brother, (which happened about five 
years ago, and which left to me the possession of the family 
property,) she visited me at Delaford. I called her a distant 
relation; but I am well aware that I have in general been sus-
pected of a much nearer connection with her. It is now three 
years ago (she had just reached her fourteenth year,) that I 
removed her from school, to place her under the care of a 
very respectable woman, residing in Dorsetshire, who had 
the charge of four or five other girls of about the same time 
of life; and for two years I had every reason to be pleased 
with her situation. But last February, almost a twelvemonth 
back, she suddenly disappeared. I had allowed her, (impru-
dently, as it has since turned out,) at her earnest desire, to go 
to Bath with one of her young friends, who was attending 
her father there for his health. I knew him to be a very good 
sort of man, and I thought well of his daughter—better than 
she deserved, for, with a most obstinate and ill-judged se-
crecy, she would tell nothing, would give no clue, though 
she certainly knew all. He, her father, a well-meaning, but 
not a quick-sighted man, could really, I believe, give no in-
formation; for he had been generally confined to the house, 


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while the girls were ranging over the town and making 
what acquaintance they chose; and he tried to convince me, 
as thoroughly as he was convinced himself, of his daugh-
ter’s being entirely unconcerned in the business. In short, I 
could learn nothing but that she was gone; all the rest, for 
eight long months, was left to conjecture. What I thought, 
what I feared, may be imagined; and what I suffered too.’
‘Good heavens!’ cried Elinor, ‘could it be—could 
Willoughby!’—
‘The first news that reached me of her,’ he continued, 
‘came in a letter from herself, last October. It was forwarded 
to me from Delaford, and I received it on the very morning 
of our intended party to Whitwell; and this was the reason 
of my leaving Barton so suddenly, which I am sure must at 
the time have appeared strange to every body, and which 
I believe gave offence to some. Little did Mr. Willoughby 
imagine, I suppose, when his looks censured me for incivil-
ity in breaking up the party, that I was called away to the 
relief of one whom he had made poor and miserable; but 
HAD he known it, what would it have availed? Would he 
have been less gay or less happy in the smiles of your sister? 
No, he had already done that, which no man who CAN feel 
for another would do. He had left the girl whose youth and 
innocence he had seduced, in a situation of the utmost dis-
tress, with no creditable home, no help, no friends, ignorant 
of his address! He had left her, promising to return; he nei-
ther returned, nor wrote, nor relieved her.’
‘This is beyond every thing!’ exclaimed Elinor.
‘His character is now before you; expensive, dissipated, 


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and worse than both. Knowing all this, as I have now known 
it many weeks, guess what I must have felt on seeing your 
sister as fond of him as ever, and on being assured that she 
was to marry him: guess what I must have felt for all your 
sakes. When I came to you last week and found you alone, I 
came determined to know the truth; though irresolute what 
to do when it WAS known. My behaviour must have seemed 
strange to you then; but now you will comprehend it. To 
suffer you all to be so deceived; to see your sister—but what 
could I do? I had no hope of interfering with success; and 
sometimes I thought your sister’s influence might yet re-
claim him. But now, after such dishonorable usage, who can 
tell what were his designs on her. Whatever they may have 
been, however, she may now, and hereafter doubtless WILL 
turn with gratitude towards her own condition, when she 
compares it with that of my poor Eliza, when she considers 
the wretched and hopeless situation of this poor girl, and 
pictures her to herself, with an affection for him so strong, 
still as strong as her own, and with a mind tormented by 
self-reproach, which must attend her through life. Surely 
this comparison must have its use with her. She will feel her 
own sufferings to be nothing. They proceed from no mis-
conduct, and can bring no disgrace. On the contrary, every 
friend must be made still more her friend by them. Concern 
for her unhappiness, and respect for her fortitude under it, 
must strengthen every attachment. Use your own discre-
tion, however, in communicating to her what I have told 
you. You must know best what will be its effect; but had 
I not seriously, and from my heart believed it might be of 


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service, might lessen her regrets, I would not have suffered 
myself to trouble you with this account of my family afflic-
tions, with a recital which may seem to have been intended 
to raise myself at the expense of others.’
Elinor’s thanks followed this speech with grateful ear-
nestness; attended too with the assurance of her expecting 
material advantage to Marianne, from the communication 
of what had passed.
‘I have been more pained,’ said she, ‘by her endeavors 
to acquit him than by all the rest; for it irritates her mind 
more than the most perfect conviction of his unworthiness 
can do. Now, though at first she will suffer much, I am sure 
she will soon become easier. Have you,’ she continued, af-
ter a short silence, ‘ever seen Mr. Willoughby since you left 
him at Barton?’
‘Yes,’ he replied gravely, ‘once I have. One meeting was 
unavoidable.’
Elinor, startled by his manner, looked at him anxiously, 
saying,
‘What? have you met him to—‘
‘I could meet him no other way. Eliza had confessed to 
me, though most reluctantly, the name of her lover; and 
when he returned to town, which was within a fortnight 
after myself, we met by appointment, he to defend, I to pun-
ish his conduct. We returned unwounded, and the meeting, 
therefore, never got abroad.’
Elinor sighed over the fancied necessity of this; but to a 
man and a soldier she presumed not to censure it.
‘Such,’ said Colonel Brandon, after a pause, ‘has been 


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the unhappy resemblance between the fate of mother and 
daughter! and so imperfectly have I discharged my trust!’
‘Is she still in town?’
‘No; as soon as she recovered from her lying-in, for I 
found her near her delivery, I removed her and her child 
into the country, and there she remains.’
Recollecting, soon afterwards, that he was probably 
dividing Elinor from her sister, he put an end to his visit, re-
ceiving from her again the same grateful acknowledgments, 
and leaving her full of compassion and esteem for him.


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Chapter 32
W
hen the particulars of this conversation were repeat-
ed by Miss Dashwood to her sister, as they very soon 
were, the effect on her was not entirely such as the former 
had hoped to see. Not that Marianne appeared to distrust 
the truth of any part of it, for she listened to it all with the 
most steady and submissive attention, made neither objec-
tion nor remark, attempted no vindication of Willoughby, 
and seemed to shew by her tears that she felt it to be im-
possible. But though this behaviour assured Elinor that the 
conviction of this guilt WAS carried home to her mind, 
though she saw with satisfaction the effect of it, in her no 
longer avoiding Colonel Brandon when he called, in her 
speaking to him, even voluntarily speaking, with a kind 
of compassionate respect, and though she saw her spirits 
less violently irritated than before, she did not see her less 
wretched. Her mind did become settled, but it was settled in 
a gloomy dejection. She felt the loss of Willoughby’s char-
acter yet more heavily than she had felt the loss of his heart; 
his seduction and desertion of Miss Williams, the misery 
of that poor girl, and the doubt of what his designs might 
ONCE have been on herself, preyed altogether so much on 
her spirits, that she could not bring herself to speak of what 
she felt even to Elinor; and, brooding over her sorrows in 
silence, gave more pain to her sister than could have been 


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communicated by the most open and most frequent confes-
sion of them.
To give the feelings or the language of Mrs. Dashwood 
on receiving and answering Elinor’s letter would be only 
to give a repetition of what her daughters had already felt 
and said; of a disappointment hardly less painful than Mar-
ianne’s, and an indignation even greater than Elinor’s. Long 
letters from her, quickly succeeding each other, arrived to 
tell all that she suffered and thought; to express her anxious 
solicitude for Marianne, and entreat she would bear up with 
fortitude under this misfortune. Bad indeed must the na-
ture of Marianne’s affliction be, when her mother could talk 
of fortitude! mortifying and humiliating must be the origin 
of those regrets, which SHE could wish her not to indulge!
Against the interest of her own individual comfort, Mrs. 
Dashwood had determined that it would be better for Mari-
anne to be any where, at that time, than at Barton, where 
every thing within her view would be bringing back the past 
in the strongest and most afflicting manner, by constantly 
placing Willoughby before her, such as she had always seen 
him there. She recommended it to her daughters, therefore, 
by all means not to shorten their visit to Mrs. Jennings; the 
length of which, though never exactly fixed, had been ex-
pected by all to comprise at least five or six weeks. A variety 
of occupations, of objects, and of company, which could not 
be procured at Barton, would be inevitable there, and might 
yet, she hoped, cheat Marianne, at times, into some interest 
beyond herself, and even into some amusement, much as 
the ideas of both might now be spurned by her.


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From all danger of seeing Willoughby again, her mother 
considered her to be at least equally safe in town as in the 
country, since his acquaintance must now be dropped by all 
who called themselves her friends. Design could never bring 
them in each other’s way: negligence could never leave them 
exposed to a surprise; and chance had less in its favour in 
the crowd of London than even in the retirement of Barton, 
where it might force him before her while paying that visit 
at Allenham on his marriage, which Mrs. Dashwood, from 
foreseeing at first as a probable event, had brought herself to 
expect as a certain one.
She had yet another reason for wishing her children to 
remain where they were; a letter from her son-in-law had 
told her that he and his wife were to be in town before the 
middle of February, and she judged it right that they should 
sometimes see their brother.
Marianne had promised to be guided by her mother’s 
opinion, and she submitted to it therefore without oppo-
sition, though it proved perfectly different from what she 
wished and expected, though she felt it to be entirely wrong, 
formed on mistaken grounds, and that by requiring her 
longer continuance in London it deprived her of the only 
possible alleviation of her wretchedness, the personal sym-
pathy of her mother, and doomed her to such society and 
such scenes as must prevent her ever knowing a moment’s 
rest.
But it was a matter of great consolation to her, that what 
brought evil to herself would bring good to her sister; and 
Elinor, on the other hand, suspecting that it would not be 


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in her power to avoid Edward entirely, comforted herself 
by thinking, that though their longer stay would therefore 
militate against her own happiness, it would be better for 
Marianne than an immediate return into Devonshire.
Her carefulness in guarding her sister from ever hear-
ing Willoughby’s name mentioned, was not thrown away. 
Marianne, though without knowing it herself, reaped all its 
advantage; for neither Mrs. Jennings, nor Sir John, nor even 
Mrs. Palmer herself, ever spoke of him before her. Elinor 
wished that the same forbearance could have extended to-
wards herself, but that was impossible, and she was obliged 
to listen day after day to the indignation of them all.
Sir John, could not have thought it possible. ‘A man of 
whom he had always had such reason to think well! Such a 
good-natured fellow! He did not believe there was a bold-
er rider in England! It was an unaccountable business. He 
wished him at the devil with all his heart. He would not 
speak another word to him, meet him where he might, for 
all the world! No, not if it were to be by the side of Barton 
covert, and they were kept watching for two hours together. 
Such a scoundrel of a fellow! such a deceitful dog! It was 
only the last time they met that he had offered him one of 
Folly’s puppies! and this was the end of it!’
Mrs. Palmer, in her way, was equally angry. ‘She was de-
termined to drop his acquaintance immediately, and she 
was very thankful that she had never been acquainted with 
him at all. She wished with all her heart Combe Magna was 
not so near Cleveland; but it did not signify, for it was a great 
deal too far off to visit; she hated him so much that she was 


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resolved never to mention his name again, and she should 
tell everybody she saw, how good-for-nothing he was.’
The rest of Mrs. Palmer’s sympathy was shewn in pro-
curing all the particulars in her power of the approaching 
marriage, and communicating them to Elinor. She could 
soon tell at what coachmaker’s the new carriage was build-
ing, by what painter Mr. Willoughby’s portrait was drawn, 
and at what warehouse Miss Grey’s clothes might be seen.
The calm and polite unconcern of Lady Middleton on 
the occasion was a happy relief to Elinor’s spirits, oppressed 
as they often were by the clamorous kindness of the others. 
It was a great comfort to her to be sure of exciting no inter-
est in ONE person at least among their circle of friends: a 
great comfort to know that there was ONE who would meet 
her without feeling any curiosity after particulars, or any 
anxiety for her sister’s health.
Every qualification is raised at times, by the circum-
stances of the moment, to more than its real value; and she 
was sometimes worried down by officious condolence to 
rate good-breeding as more indispensable to comfort than 
good-nature.
Lady Middleton expressed her sense of the affair about 
once every day, or twice, if the subject occurred very often, 
by saying, ‘It is very shocking, indeed!’ and by the means 
of this continual though gentle vent, was able not only to 
see the Miss Dashwoods from the first without the smallest 
emotion, but very soon to see them without recollecting a 
word of the matter; and having thus supported the dignity 
of her own sex, and spoken her decided censure of what was 


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wrong in the other, she thought herself at liberty to attend 
to the interest of her own assemblies, and therefore deter-
mined (though rather against the opinion of Sir John) that 
as Mrs. Willoughby would at once be a woman of elegance 
and fortune, to leave her card with her as soon as she mar-
ried.
Colonel Brandon’s delicate, unobtrusive enquiries were 
never unwelcome to Miss Dashwood. He had abundantly 
earned the privilege of intimate discussion of her sister’s 
disappointment, by the friendly zeal with which he had 
endeavoured to soften it, and they always conversed with 
confidence. His chief reward for the painful exertion of dis-
closing past sorrows and present humiliations, was given in 
the pitying eye with which Marianne sometimes observed 
him, and the gentleness of her voice whenever (though it 
did not often happen) she was obliged, or could oblige her-
self to speak to him. THESE assured him that his exertion 
had produced an increase of good-will towards himself, and 
THESE gave Elinor hopes of its being farther augmented 
hereafter; but Mrs. Jennings, who knew nothing of all this, 
who knew only that the Colonel continued as grave as ever, 
and that she could neither prevail on him to make the of-
fer himself, nor commission her to make it for him, began, 
at the end of two days, to think that, instead of Midsum-
mer, they would not be married till Michaelmas, and by the 
end of a week that it would not be a match at all. The good 
understanding between the Colonel and Miss Dashwood 
seemed rather to declare that the honours of the mulberry-
tree, the canal, and the yew arbour, would all be made over 


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260
to HER; and Mrs. Jennings had, for some time ceased to 
think at all of Mrs. Ferrars.
Early in February, within a fortnight from the receipt of 
Willoughby’s letter, Elinor had the painful office of inform-
ing her sister that he was married. She had taken care to 
have the intelligence conveyed to herself, as soon as it was 
known that the ceremony was over, as she was desirous that 
Marianne should not receive the first notice of it from the 
public papers, which she saw her eagerly examining every 
morning.
She received the news with resolute composure; made no 
observation on it, and at first shed no tears; but after a short 
time they would burst out, and for the rest of the day, she 
was in a state hardly less pitiable than when she first learnt 
to expect the event.
The Willoughbys left town as soon as they were married; 
and Elinor now hoped, as there could be no danger of her 
seeing either of them, to prevail on her sister, who had never 
yet left the house since the blow first fell, to go out again by 
degrees as she had done before.
About this time the two Miss Steeles, lately arrived at 
their cousin’s house in Bartlett’s Buildings, Holburn, pre-
sented themselves again before their more grand relations 
in Conduit and Berkeley Streets; and were welcomed by 
them all with great cordiality.
Elinor only was sorry to see them. Their presence always 
gave her pain, and she hardly knew how to make a very gra-
cious return to the overpowering delight of Lucy in finding 
her STILL in town.


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‘I should have been quite disappointed if I had not found 
you here STILL,’ said she repeatedly, with a strong emphasis 
on the word. ‘But I always thought I SHOULD. I was almost 
sure you would not leave London yet awhile; though you 
TOLD me, you know, at Barton, that you should not stay 
above a MONTH. But I thought, at the time, that you would 
most likely change your mind when it came to the point. It 
would have been such a great pity to have went away before 
your brother and sister came. And now to be sure you will 
be in no hurry to be gone. I am amazingly glad you did not 
keep to YOUR WORD.’
Elinor perfectly understood her, and was forced to use 
all her self-command to make it appear that she did NOT.
‘Well, my dear,’ said Mrs. Jennings, ‘and how did you 
travel?’
‘Not in the stage, I assure you,’ replied Miss Steele, with 
quick exultation; ‘we came post all the way, and had a very 
smart beau to attend us. Dr. Davies was coming to town, 
and so we thought we’d join him in a post-chaise; and he 
behaved very genteelly, and paid ten or twelve shillings 
more than we did.’
‘Oh, oh!’ cried Mrs. Jennings; ‘very pretty, indeed! and 
the Doctor is a single man, I warrant you.’
‘There now,’ said Miss Steele, affectedly simpering, ‘every-
body laughs at me so about the Doctor, and I cannot think 
why. My cousins say they are sure I have made a conquest; 
but for my part I declare I never think about him from one 
hour’s end to another. ‘Lord! here comes your beau, Nancy,’ 
my cousin said t’other day, when she saw him crossing the 


Sense and Sensibility
262
street to the house. My beau, indeed! said I—I cannot think 
who you mean. The Doctor is no beau of mine.’
‘Aye, aye, that is very pretty talking—but it won’t do— 
the Doctor is the man, I see.’
‘No, indeed!’ replied her cousin, with affected earnest-
ness, ‘and I beg you will contradict it, if you ever hear it 
talked of.’
Mrs. Jennings directly gave her the gratifying assurance 
that she certainly would NOT, and Miss Steele was made 
completely happy.
‘I suppose you will go and stay with your brother and 
sister, Miss Dashwood, when they come to town,’ said Lucy, 
returning, after a cessation of hostile hints, to the charge.
‘No, I do not think we shall.’
‘Oh, yes, I dare say you will.’
Elinor would not humour her by farther opposition.
‘What a charming thing it is that Mrs. Dashwood can 
spare you both for so long a time together!’
‘Long a time, indeed!’ interposed Mrs. Jennings. ‘Why, 
their visit is but just begun!’
Lucy was silenced.
‘I am sorry we cannot see your sister, Miss Dashwood,’ 
said Miss Steele. ‘I am sorry she is not well—‘ for Marianne 
had left the room on their arrival.
‘You are very good. My sister will be equally sorry to 
miss the pleasure of seeing you; but she has been very much 
plagued lately with nervous head-aches, which make her 
unfit for company or conversation.’
‘Oh, dear, that is a great pity! but such old friends as Lucy 


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and me!—I think she might see US; and I am sure we would 
not speak a word.’
Elinor, with great civility, declined the proposal. Her sis-
ter was perhaps laid down upon the bed, or in her dressing 
gown, and therefore not able to come to them.
‘Oh, if that’s all,’ cried Miss Steele, ‘we can just as well go 
and see HER.’
Elinor began to find this impertinence too much for her 
temper; but she was saved the trouble of checking it, by Lu-
cy’s sharp reprimand, which now, as on many occasions, 
though it did not give much sweetness to the manners of 
one sister, was of advantage in governing those of the oth-
er.


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Chapter 33
A
fter some opposition, Marianne yielded to her sister’s 
entreaties, and consented to go out with her and Mrs. 
Jennings one morning for half an hour. She expressly condi-
tioned, however, for paying no visits, and would do no more 
than accompany them to Gray’s in Sackville Street, where 
Elinor was carrying on a negotiation for the exchange of a 
few old-fashioned jewels of her mother.
When they stopped at the door, Mrs. Jennings recol-
lected that there was a lady at the other end of the street 
on whom she ought to call; and as she had no business at 
Gray’s, it was resolved, that while her young friends trans-
acted their’s, she should pay her visit and return for them.
On ascending the stairs, the Miss Dashwoods found so 
many people before them in the room, that there was not 
a person at liberty to tend to their orders; and they were 
obliged to wait. All that could be done was, to sit down at 
that end of the counter which seemed to promise the quick-
est succession; one gentleman only was standing there, and 
it is probable that Elinor was not without hope of exciting 
his politeness to a quicker despatch. But the correctness of 
his eye, and the delicacy of his taste, proved to be beyond 
his politeness. He was giving orders for a toothpick-case 
for himself, and till its size, shape, and ornaments were de-
termined, all of which, after examining and debating for a 


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quarter of an hour over every toothpick-case in the shop, 
were finally arranged by his own inventive fancy, he had 
no leisure to bestow any other attention on the two ladies, 
than what was comprised in three or four very broad stares; 
a kind of notice which served to imprint on Elinor the re-
membrance of a person and face, of strong, natural, sterling 
insignificance, though adorned in the first style of fashion.
Marianne was spared from the troublesome feelings of 
contempt and resentment, on this impertinent examina-
tion of their features, and on the puppyism of his manner 
in deciding on all the different horrors of the different 
toothpick-cases presented to his inspection, by remaining 
unconscious of it all; for she was as well able to collect her 
thoughts within herself, and be as ignorant of what was 
passing around her, in Mr. Gray’s shop, as in her own bed-
room.
At last the affair was decided. The ivory, the gold, and the 
pearls, all received their appointment, and the gentleman 
having named the last day on which his existence could be 
continued without the possession of the toothpick-case, 
drew on his gloves with leisurely care, and bestowing anoth-
er glance on the Miss Dashwoods, but such a one as seemed 
rather to demand than express admiration, walked off with 
a happy air of real conceit and affected indifference.
Elinor lost no time in bringing her business forward, was 
on the point of concluding it, when another gentleman pre-
sented himself at her side. She turned her eyes towards his 
face, and found him with some surprise to be her brother.
Their affection and pleasure in meeting was just enough 


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to make a very creditable appearance in Mr. Gray’s shop. 
John Dashwood was really far from being sorry to see his 
sisters again; it rather gave them satisfaction; and his inqui-
ries after their mother were respectful and attentive.
Elinor found that he and Fanny had been in town two 
days.
‘I wished very much to call upon you yesterday,’ said he, 
‘but it was impossible, for we were obliged to take Harry to 
see the wild beasts at Exeter Exchange; and we spent the 
rest of the day with Mrs. Ferrars. Harry was vastly pleased. 
THIS morning I had fully intended to call on you, if I could 
possibly find a spare half hour, but one has always so much 
to do on first coming to town. I am come here to bespeak 
Fanny a seal. But tomorrow I think I shall certainly be able 
to call in Berkeley Street, and be introduced to your friend 
Mrs. Jennings. I understand she is a woman of very good 
fortune. And the Middletons too, you must introduce me to 
THEM. As my mother-in-law’s relations, I shall be happy to 
show them every respect. They are excellent neighbours to 
you in the country, I understand.’
‘Excellent indeed. Their attention to our comfort, their 
friendliness in every particular, is more than I can ex-
press.’
‘I am extremely glad to hear it, upon my word; extremely 
glad indeed. But so it ought to be; they are people of large 
fortune, they are related to you, and every civility and ac-
commodation that can serve to make your situation pleasant 
might be reasonably expected. And so you are most com-
fortably settled in your little cottage and want for nothing! 


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Edward brought us a most charming account of the place: 
the most complete thing of its kind, he said, that ever was, 
and you all seemed to enjoy it beyond any thing. It was a 
great satisfaction to us to hear it, I assure you.’
Elinor did feel a little ashamed of her brother; and was 
not sorry to be spared the necessity of answering him, by 
the arrival of Mrs. Jennings’s servant, who came to tell her 
that his mistress waited for them at the door.
Mr. Dashwood attended them down stairs, was intro-
duced to Mrs. Jennings at the door of her carriage, and 
repeating his hope of being able to call on them the next 
day, took leave.
His visit was duly paid. He came with a pretence at an 
apology from their sister-in-law, for not coming too; ‘but 
she was so much engaged with her mother, that really she 
had no leisure for going any where.’ Mrs. Jennings, how-
ever, assured him directly, that she should not stand upon 
ceremony, for they were all cousins, or something like it, 
and she should certainly wait on Mrs. John Dashwood 
very soon, and bring her sisters to see her. His manners to 
THEM, though calm, were perfectly kind; to Mrs. Jennings, 
most attentively civil; and on Colonel Brandon’s coming 
in soon after himself, he eyed him with a curiosity which 
seemed to say, that he only wanted to know him to be rich, 
to be equally civil to HIM.
After staying with them half an hour, he asked Elinor 
to walk with him to Conduit Street, and introduce him to 
Sir John and Lady Middleton. The weather was remarkably 
fine, and she readily consented. As soon as they were out of 


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the house, his enquiries began.
‘Who is Colonel Brandon? Is he a man of fortune?’
‘Yes; he has very good property in Dorsetshire.’
‘I am glad of it. He seems a most gentlemanlike man; and 
I think, Elinor, I may congratulate you on the prospect of a 
very respectable establishment in life.’
‘Me, brother! what do you mean?’
‘He likes you. I observed him narrowly, and am con-
vinced of it. What is the amount of his fortune?’
‘I believe about two thousand a year.’
‘Two thousand a-year;’ and then working himself up to 
a pitch of enthusiastic generosity, he added, ‘Elinor, I wish 
with all my heart it were TWICE as much, for your sake.’
‘Indeed I believe you,’ replied Elinor; ‘but I am very sure 
that Colonel Brandon has not the smallest wish of marry-
ing ME.’
‘You are mistaken, Elinor; you are very much mistaken. 
A very little trouble on your side secures him. Perhaps just at 
present he may be undecided; the smallness of your fortune 
may make him hang back; his friends may all advise him 
against it. But some of those little attentions and encourage-
ments which ladies can so easily give will fix him, in spite 
of himself. And there can be no reason why you should not 
try for him. It is not to be supposed that any prior attach-
ment on your side—in short, you know as to an attachment 
of that kind, it is quite out of the question, the objections 
are insurmountable— you have too much sense not to see 
all that. Colonel Brandon must be the man; and no civil-
ity shall be wanting on my part to make him pleased with 


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you and your family. It is a match that must give universal 
satisfaction. In short, it is a kind of thing that’—lowering 
his voice to an important whisper—‘will be exceedingly 
welcome to ALL PARTIES.’ Recollecting himself, however, 
he added, ‘That is, I mean to say—your friends are all truly 
anxious to see you well settled; Fanny particularly, for she 
has your interest very much at heart, I assure you. And her 
mother too, Mrs. Ferrars, a very good-natured woman, I am 
sure it would give her great pleasure; she said as much the 
other day.’
Elinor would not vouchsafe any answer.
‘It would be something remarkable, now,’ he continued, 
‘something droll, if Fanny should have a brother and I a 
sister settling at the same time. And yet it is not very un-
likely.’
‘Is Mr. Edward Ferrars,’ said Elinor, with resolution, ‘go-
ing to be married?’
‘It is not actually settled, but there is such a thing in agi-
tation. He has a most excellent mother. Mrs. Ferrars, with 
the utmost liberality, will come forward, and settle on him 
a thousand a year, if the match takes place. The lady is the 
Hon. Miss Morton, only daughter of the late Lord Morton, 
with thirty thousand pounds. A very desirable connection 
on both sides, and I have not a doubt of its taking place in 
time. A thousand a-year is a great deal for a mother to give 
away, to make over for ever; but Mrs. Ferrars has a noble 
spirit. To give you another instance of her liberality:—The 
other day, as soon as we came to town, aware that money 
could not be very plenty with us just now, she put bank-


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270
notes into Fanny’s hands to the amount of two hundred 
pounds. And extremely acceptable it is, for we must live at a 
great expense while we are here.’
He paused for her assent and compassion; and she forced 
herself to say,
‘Your expenses both in town and country must certainly 
be considerable; but your income is a large one.’
‘Not so large, I dare say, as many people suppose. I do not 
mean to complain, however; it is undoubtedly a comfort-
able one, and I hope will in time be better. The enclosure 
of Norland Common, now carrying on, is a most serious 
drain. And then I have made a little purchase within this 
half year; East Kingham Farm, you must remember the 
place, where old Gibson used to live. The land was so very 
desirable for me in every respect, so immediately adjoining 
my own property, that I felt it my duty to buy it. I could not 
have answered it to my conscience to let it fall into any oth-
er hands. A man must pay for his convenience; and it HAS 
cost me a vast deal of money.’
‘More than you think it really and intrinsically worth.’
‘Why, I hope not that. I might have sold it again, the next 
day, for more than I gave: but, with regard to the purchase-
money, I might have been very unfortunate indeed; for the 
stocks were at that time so low, that if I had not happened to 
have the necessary sum in my banker’s hands, I must have 
sold out to very great loss.’
Elinor could only smile.
‘Other great and inevitable expenses too we have had on 
first coming to Norland. Our respected father, as you well 


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know, bequeathed all the Stanhill effects that remained at 
Norland (and very valuable they were) to your mother. Far 
be it from me to repine at his doing so; he had an undoubt-
ed right to dispose of his own property as he chose, but, in 
consequence of it, we have been obliged to make large pur-
chases of linen, china, &c. to supply the place of what was 
taken away. You may guess, after all these expenses, how 
very far we must be from being rich, and how acceptable 
Mrs. Ferrars’s kindness is.’
‘Certainly,’ said Elinor; ‘and assisted by her liberality, I 
hope you may yet live to be in easy circumstances.’
‘Another year or two may do much towards it,’ he gravely 
replied; ‘but however there is still a great deal to be done. 
There is not a stone laid of Fanny’s green-house, and noth-
ing but the plan of the flower-garden marked out.’
‘Where is the green-house to be?’
‘Upon the knoll behind the house. The old walnut trees 
are all come down to make room for it. It will be a very fine 
object from many parts of the park, and the flower-garden 
will slope down just before it, and be exceedingly pretty. We 
have cleared away all the old thorns that grew in patches 
over the brow.’
Elinor kept her concern and her censure to herself; and 
was very thankful that Marianne was not present, to share 
the provocation.
Having now said enough to make his poverty clear, and 
to do away the necessity of buying a pair of ear-rings for 
each of his sisters, in his next visit at Gray’s his thoughts 
took a cheerfuller turn, and he began to congratulate Elinor 


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on having such a friend as Mrs. Jennings.
‘She seems a most valuable woman indeed—Her house, 
her style of living, all bespeak an exceeding good income; 
and it is an acquaintance that has not only been of great use 
to you hitherto, but in the end may prove materially advan-
tageous.—Her inviting you to town is certainly a vast thing 
in your favour; and indeed, it speaks altogether so great a 
regard for you, that in all probability when she dies you will 
not be forgotten.— She must have a great deal to leave.’
‘Nothing at all, I should rather suppose; for she has only 
her jointure, which will descend to her children.’
‘But it is not to be imagined that she lives up to her in-
come. Few people of common prudence will do THAT; and 
whatever she saves, she will be able to dispose of.’
‘And do you not think it more likely that she should leave 
it to her daughters, than to us?’
‘Her daughters are both exceedingly well married, and 
therefore I cannot perceive the necessity of her remember-
ing them farther. Whereas, in my opinion, by her taking so 
much notice of you, and treating you in this kind of way, she 
has given you a sort of claim on her future consideration, 
which a conscientious woman would not disregard. Noth-
ing can be kinder than her behaviour; and she can hardly do 
all this, without being aware of the expectation it raises.’
‘But she raises none in those most concerned. Indeed, 
brother, your anxiety for our welfare and prosperity carries 
you too far.’
‘Why, to be sure,’ said he, seeming to recollect himself, 
‘people have little, have very little in their power. But, my 


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dear Elinor, what is the matter with Marianne?— she looks 
very unwell, has lost her colour, and is grown quite thin. Is 
she ill?’
‘She is not well, she has had a nervous complaint on her 
for several weeks.’
‘I am sorry for that. At her time of life, any thing of an ill-
ness destroys the bloom for ever! Her’s has been a very short 
one! She was as handsome a girl last September, as I ever 
saw; and as likely to attract the man. There was something 
in her style of beauty, to please them particularly. I remem-
ber Fanny used to say that she would marry sooner and 
better than you did; not but what she is exceedingly fond of 
YOU, but so it happened to strike her. She will be mistaken, 
however. I question whether Marianne NOW, will marry 
a man worth more than five or six hundred a-year, at the 
utmost, and I am very much deceived if YOU do not do bet-
ter. Dorsetshire! I know very little of Dorsetshire; but, my 
dear Elinor, I shall be exceedingly glad to know more of it; 
and I think I can answer for your having Fanny and myself 
among the earliest and best pleased of your visitors.’
Elinor tried very seriously to convince him that there 
was no likelihood of her marrying Colonel Brandon; but 
it was an expectation of too much pleasure to himself to be 
relinquished, and he was really resolved on seeking an inti-
macy with that gentleman, and promoting the marriage by 
every possible attention. He had just compunction enough 
for having done nothing for his sisters himself, to be ex-
ceedingly anxious that everybody else should do a great 
deal; and an offer from Colonel Brandon, or a legacy from 


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Mrs. Jennings, was the easiest means of atoning for his own 
neglect.
They were lucky enough to find Lady Middleton at 
home, and Sir John came in before their visit ended. Abun-
dance of civilities passed on all sides. Sir John was ready to 
like anybody, and though Mr. Dashwood did not seem to 
know much about horses, he soon set him down as a very 
good-natured fellow: while Lady Middleton saw enough of 
fashion in his appearance to think his acquaintance worth 
having; and Mr. Dashwood went away delighted with both.
‘I shall have a charming account to carry to Fanny,’ said 
he, as he walked back with his sister. ‘Lady Middleton is 
really a most elegant woman! Such a woman as I am sure 
Fanny will be glad to know. And Mrs. Jennings too, an ex-
ceedingly well-behaved woman, though not so elegant as 
her daughter. Your sister need not have any scruple even of 
visiting HER, which, to say the truth, has been a little the 
case, and very naturally; for we only knew that Mrs. Jen-
nings was the widow of a man who had got all his money in 
a low way; and Fanny and Mrs. Ferrars were both strongly 
prepossessed, that neither she nor her daughters were such 
kind of women as Fanny would like to associate with. But 
now I can carry her a most satisfactory account of both.’


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Chapter 34
M
rs. John Dashwood had so much confidence in her 
husband’s judgment, that she waited the very next 
day both on Mrs. Jennings and her daughter; and her con-
fidence was rewarded by finding even the former, even the 
woman with whom her sisters were staying, by no means 
unworthy her notice; and as for Lady Middleton, she found 
her one of the most charming women in the world!
Lady Middleton was equally pleased with Mrs. Dash-
wood. There was a kind of cold hearted selfishness on both 
sides, which mutually attracted them; and they sympathi-
sed with each other in an insipid propriety of demeanor, 
and a general want of understanding.
The same manners, however, which recommended Mrs. 
John Dashwood to the good opinion of Lady Middleton 
did not suit the fancy of Mrs. Jennings, and to HER she ap-
peared nothing more than a little proud-looking woman of 
uncordial address, who met her husband’s sisters without 
any affection, and almost without having anything to say 
to them; for of the quarter of an hour bestowed on Berkeley 
Street, she sat at least seven minutes and a half in silence.
Elinor wanted very much to know, though she did not 
chuse to ask, whether Edward was then in town; but nothing 
would have induced Fanny voluntarily to mention his name 
before her, till able to tell her that his marriage with Miss 


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276
Morton was resolved on, or till her husband’s expectations 
on Colonel Brandon were answered; because she believed 
them still so very much attached to each other, that they 
could not be too sedulously divided in word and deed on 
every occasion. The intelligence however, which SHE would 
not give, soon flowed from another quarter. Lucy came very 
shortly to claim Elinor’s compassion on being unable to see 
Edward, though he had arrived in town with Mr. and Mrs. 
Dashwood. He dared not come to Bartlett’s Buildings for 
fear of detection, and though their mutual impatience to 
meet, was not to be told, they could do nothing at present 
but write.
Edward assured them himself of his being in town, with-
in a very short time, by twice calling in Berkeley Street. 
Twice was his card found on the table, when they returned 
from their morning’s engagements. Elinor was pleased that 
he had called; and still more pleased that she had missed 
him.
The Dashwoods were so prodigiously delighted with the 
Middletons, that, though not much in the habit of giving 
anything, they determined to give them— a dinner; and 
soon after their acquaintance began, invited them to dine 
in Harley Street, where they had taken a very good house 
for three months. Their sisters and Mrs. Jennings were in-
vited likewise, and John Dashwood was careful to secure 
Colonel Brandon, who, always glad to be where the Miss 
Dashwoods were, received his eager civilities with some 
surprise, but much more pleasure. They were to meet Mrs. 
Ferrars; but Elinor could not learn whether her sons were 


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to be of the party. The expectation of seeing HER, however, 
was enough to make her interested in the engagement; for 
though she could now meet Edward’s mother without that 
strong anxiety which had once promised to attend such an 
introduction, though she could now see her with perfect in-
difference as to her opinion of herself, her desire of being in 
company with Mrs. Ferrars, her curiosity to know what she 
was like, was as lively as ever.
The interest with which she thus anticipated the par-
ty, was soon afterwards increased, more powerfully than 
pleasantly, by her hearing that the Miss Steeles were also 
to be at it.
So well had they recommended themselves to Lady Mid-
dleton, so agreeable had their assiduities made them to her, 
that though Lucy was certainly not so elegant, and her sister 
not even genteel, she was as ready as Sir John to ask them to 
spend a week or two in Conduit Street; and it happened to 
be particularly convenient to the Miss Steeles, as soon as the 
Dashwoods’ invitation was known, that their visit should 
begin a few days before the party took place.
Their claims to the notice of Mrs. John Dashwood, as the 
nieces of the gentleman who for many years had had the 
care of her brother, might not have done much, however, 
towards procuring them seats at her table; but as Lady Mid-
dleton’s guests they must be welcome; and Lucy, who had 
long wanted to be personally known to the family, to have a 
nearer view of their characters and her own difficulties, and 
to have an opportunity of endeavouring to please them, had 
seldom been happier in her life, than she was on receiving 


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Mrs. John Dashwood’s card.
On Elinor its effect was very different. She began im-
mediately to determine, that Edward who lived with his 
mother, must be asked as his mother was, to a party given 
by his sister; and to see him for the first time, after all that 
passed, in the company of Lucy!—she hardly knew how she 
could bear it!
These apprehensions, perhaps, were not founded entirely 
on reason, and certainly not at all on truth. They were re-
lieved however, not by her own recollection, but by the good 
will of Lucy, who believed herself to be inflicting a severe 
disappointment when she told her that Edward certainly 
would not be in Harley Street on Tuesday, and even hoped 
to be carrying the pain still farther by persuading her that 
he was kept away by the extreme affection for herself, which 
he could not conceal when they were together.
The important Tuesday came that was to introduce the 
two young ladies to this formidable mother-in-law.
‘Pity me, dear Miss Dashwood!’ said Lucy, as they walked 
up the stairs together—for the Middletons arrived so di-
rectly after Mrs. Jennings, that they all followed the servant 
at the same time—‘There is nobody here but you, that can 
feel for me.—I declare I can hardly stand. Good gracious!—
In a moment I shall see the person that all my happiness 
depends on—that is to be my mother!’—
Elinor could have given her immediate relief by suggest-
ing the possibility of its being Miss Morton’s mother, rather 
than her own, whom they were about to behold; but instead 
of doing that, she assured her, and with great sincerity, that 


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she did pity her—to the utter amazement of Lucy, who, 
though really uncomfortable herself, hoped at least to be an 
object of irrepressible envy to Elinor.
Mrs. Ferrars was a little, thin woman, upright, even to 
formality, in her figure, and serious, even to sourness, in 
her aspect. Her complexion was sallow; and her features 
small, without beauty, and naturally without expression; 
but a lucky contraction of the brow had rescued her counte-
nance from the disgrace of insipidity, by giving it the strong 
characters of pride and ill nature. She was not a woman of 
many words; for, unlike people in general, she proportioned 
them to the number of her ideas; and of the few syllables 
that did escape her, not one fell to the share of Miss Dash-
wood, whom she eyed with the spirited determination of 
disliking her at all events.
Elinor could not NOW be made unhappy by this 
behaviour.— A few months ago it would have hurt her ex-
ceedingly; but it was not in Mrs. Ferrars’ power to distress 
her by it now;— and the difference of her manners to the 
Miss Steeles, a difference which seemed purposely made 
to humble her more, only amused her. She could not but 
smile to see the graciousness of both mother and daughter 
towards the very person— for Lucy was particularly dis-
tinguished—whom of all others, had they known as much 
as she did, they would have been most anxious to morti-
fy; while she herself, who had comparatively no power to 
wound them, sat pointedly slighted by both. But while she 
smiled at a graciousness so misapplied, she could not re-
flect on the mean-spirited folly from which it sprung, nor 


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observe the studied attentions with which the Miss Steeles 
courted its continuance, without thoroughly despising 
them all four.
Lucy was all exultation on being so honorably distin-
guished; and Miss Steele wanted only to be teazed about Dr. 
Davis to be perfectly happy.
The dinner was a grand one, the servants were numer-
ous, and every thing bespoke the Mistress’s inclination for 
show, and the Master’s ability to support it. In spite of the 
improvements and additions which were making to the 
Norland estate, and in spite of its owner having once been 
within some thousand pounds of being obliged to sell out at 
a loss, nothing gave any symptom of that indigence which 
he had tried to infer from it;— no poverty of any kind, ex-
cept of conversation, appeared— but there, the deficiency 
was considerable. John Dashwood had not much to say for 
himself that was worth hearing, and his wife had still less. 
But there was no peculiar disgrace in this; for it was very 
much the case with the chief of their visitors, who almost 
all laboured under one or other of these disqualifications 
for being agreeable—Want of sense, either natural or im-
proved—want of elegance—want of spirits—or want of 
temper.
When the ladies withdrew to the drawing-room after 
dinner, this poverty was particularly evident, for the gen-
tlemen HAD supplied the discourse with some variety—the 
variety of politics, inclosing land, and breaking horses—but 
then it was all over; and one subject only engaged the ladies 
till coffee came in, which was the comparative heights of 


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Harry Dashwood, and Lady Middleton’s second son Wil-
liam, who were nearly of the same age.
Had both the children been there, the affair might have 
been determined too easily by measuring them at once; but 
as Harry only was present, it was all conjectural assertion 
on both sides; and every body had a right to be equally posi-
tive in their opinion, and to repeat it over and over again as 
often as they liked.
The parties stood thus:
The two mothers, though each really convinced that her 
own son was the tallest, politely decided in favour of the 
other.
The two grandmothers, with not less partiality, but more 
sincerity, were equally earnest in support of their own de-
scendant.
Lucy, who was hardly less anxious to please one parent 
than the other, thought the boys were both remarkably tall 
for their age, and could not conceive that there could be the 
smallest difference in the world between them; and Miss 
Steele, with yet greater address gave it, as fast as she could, 
in favour of each.
Elinor, having once delivered her opinion on William’s 
side, by which she offended Mrs. Ferrars and Fanny still 
more, did not see the necessity of enforcing it by any farther 
assertion; and Marianne, when called on for her’s, offended 
them all, by declaring that she had no opinion to give, as she 
had never thought about it.
Before her removing from Norland, Elinor had painted 
a very pretty pair of screens for her sister-in-law, which be-


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282
ing now just mounted and brought home, ornamented her 
present drawing room; and these screens, catching the eye 
of John Dashwood on his following the other gentlemen 
into the room, were officiously handed by him to Colonel 
Brandon for his admiration.
‘These are done by my eldest sister,’ said he; ‘and you, as 
a man of taste, will, I dare say, be pleased with them. I do 
not know whether you have ever happened to see any of her 
performances before, but she is in general reckoned to draw 
extremely well.’
The Colonel, though disclaiming all pretensions to con-
noisseurship, warmly admired the screens, as he would have 
done any thing painted by Miss Dashwood; and on the curi-
osity of the others being of course excited, they were handed 
round for general inspection. Mrs. Ferrars, not aware of 
their being Elinor’s work, particularly requested to look at 
them; and after they had received gratifying testimony of 
Lady Middletons’s approbation, Fanny presented them to 
her mother, considerately informing her, at the same time, 
that they were done by Miss Dashwood.
‘Hum’—said Mrs. Ferrars—‘very pretty,’—and without 
regarding them at all, returned them to her daughter.
Perhaps Fanny thought for a moment that her mother 
had been quite rude enough,—for, colouring a little, she im-
mediately said,
‘They are very pretty, ma’am—an’t they?’ But then again, 
the dread of having been too civil, too encouraging herself, 
probably came over her, for she presently added,
‘Do you not think they are something in Miss Morton’s 


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style of painting, Ma’am?—She DOES paint most delight-
fully!—How beautifully her last landscape is done!’
‘Beautifully indeed! But SHE does every thing well.’
Marianne could not bear this.—She was already greatly 
displeased with Mrs. Ferrars; and such ill-timed praise of 
another, at Elinor’s expense, though she had not any notion 
of what was principally meant by it, provoked her immedi-
ately to say with warmth,
‘This is admiration of a very particular kind!— what is 
Miss Morton to us?—who knows, or who cares, for her?—it 
is Elinor of whom WE think and speak.’
And so saying, she took the screens out of her sister-
in-law’s hands, to admire them herself as they ought to be 
admired.
Mrs. Ferrars looked exceedingly angry, and drawing 
herself up more stiffly than ever, pronounced in retort this 
bitter philippic, ‘Miss Morton is Lord Morton’s daughter.’
Fanny looked very angry too, and her husband was all in 
a fright at his sister’s audacity. Elinor was much more hurt 
by Marianne’s warmth than she had been by what produced 
it; but Colonel Brandon’s eyes, as they were fixed on Mari-
anne, declared that he noticed only what was amiable in it, 
the affectionate heart which could not bear to see a sister 
slighted in the smallest point.
Marianne’s feelings did not stop here. The cold insolence 
of Mrs. Ferrars’s general behaviour to her sister, seemed, to 
her, to foretell such difficulties and distresses to Elinor, as 
her own wounded heart taught her to think of with horror; 
and urged by a strong impulse of affectionate sensibility, she 


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moved after a moment, to her sister’s chair, and putting one 
arm round her neck, and one cheek close to hers, said in a 
low, but eager, voice,
‘Dear, dear Elinor, don’t mind them. Don’t let them make 
YOU unhappy.’
She could say no more; her spirits were quite overcome, 
and hiding her face on Elinor’s shoulder, she burst into 
tears. Every body’s attention was called, and almost ev-
ery body was concerned.—Colonel Brandon rose up and 
went to them without knowing what he did.—Mrs. Jen-
nings, with a very intelligent ‘Ah! poor dear,’ immediately 
gave her her salts; and Sir John felt so desperately enraged 
against the author of this nervous distress, that he instantly 
changed his seat to one close by Lucy Steele, and gave her, in 
a whisper, a brief account of the whole shocking affair.
In a few minutes, however, Marianne was recovered 
enough to put an end to the bustle, and sit down among the 
rest; though her spirits retained the impression of what had 
passed, the whole evening.
‘Poor Marianne!’ said her brother to Colonel Brandon, 
in a low voice, as soon as he could secure his attention,— 
‘She has not such good health as her sister,—she is very 
nervous,—she has not Elinor’s constitution;—and one must 
allow that there is something very trying to a young woman 
who HAS BEEN a beauty in the loss of her personal attrac-
tions. You would not think it perhaps, but Marianne WAS 
remarkably handsome a few months ago; quite as hand-
some as Elinor.— Now you see it is all gone.’


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Chapter 35
E
linor’s curiosity to see Mrs. Ferrars was satisfied.— She 
had found in her every thing that could tend to make a 
farther connection between the families undesirable.— She 
had seen enough of her pride, her meanness, and her de-
termined prejudice against herself, to comprehend all the 
difficulties that must have perplexed the engagement, and 
retarded the marriage, of Edward and herself, had he been 
otherwise free;—and she had seen almost enough to be 
thankful for her OWN sake, that one greater obstacle pre-
served her from suffering under any other of Mrs. Ferrars’s 
creation, preserved her from all dependence upon her ca-
price, or any solicitude for her good opinion. Or at least, if 
she did not bring herself quite to rejoice in Edward’s being 
fettered to Lucy, she determined, that had Lucy been more 
amiable, she OUGHT to have rejoiced.
She wondered that Lucy’s spirits could be so very much 
elevated by the civility of Mrs. Ferrars;—that her interest 
and her vanity should so very much blind her as to make 
the attention which seemed only paid her because she was 
NOT ELINOR, appear a compliment to herself—or to allow 
her to derive encouragement from a preference only given 
her, because her real situation was unknown. But that it was 
so, had not only been declared by Lucy’s eyes at the time, 
but was declared over again the next morning more openly, 


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for at her particular desire, Lady Middleton set her down in 
Berkeley Street on the chance of seeing Elinor alone, to tell 
her how happy she was.
The chance proved a lucky one, for a message from Mrs. 
Palmer soon after she arrived, carried Mrs. Jennings away.
‘My dear friend,’ cried Lucy, as soon as they were by 
themselves, ‘I come to talk to you of my happiness. Could 
anything be so flattering as Mrs. Ferrars’s way of treating 
me yesterday? So exceeding affable as she was!—You know 
how I dreaded the thoughts of seeing her;— but the very 
moment I was introduced, there was such an affability in 
her behaviour as really should seem to say, she had quite 
took a fancy to me. Now was not it so?— You saw it all; and 
was not you quite struck with it?’
‘She was certainly very civil to you.’
‘Civil!—Did you see nothing but only civility?— I saw 
a vast deal more. Such kindness as fell to the share of no-
body but me!—No pride, no hauteur, and your sister just the 
same—all sweetness and affability!’
Elinor wished to talk of something else, but Lucy still 
pressed her to own that she had reason for her happiness; 
and Elinor was obliged to go on.—
‘Undoubtedly, if they had known your engagement,’ said 
she, ‘nothing could be more flattering than their treatment 
of you;—but as that was not the case’—
‘I guessed you would say so’—replied Lucy quickly—‘but 
there was no reason in the world why Mrs. Ferrars should 
seem to like me, if she did not, and her liking me is every 
thing. You shan’t talk me out of my satisfaction. I am sure 


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it will all end well, and there will be no difficulties at all, to 
what I used to think. Mrs. Ferrars is a charming woman, 
and so is your sister. They are both delightful women, in-
deed!—I wonder I should never hear you say how agreeable 
Mrs. Dashwood was!’
To this Elinor had no answer to make, and did not at-
tempt any.
‘Are you ill, Miss Dashwood?—you seem low—you don’t 
speak;—sure you an’t well.’
‘I never was in better health.’
‘I am glad of it with all my heart; but really you did not 
look it. I should be sorry to have YOU ill; you, that have 
been the greatest comfort to me in the world!—Heaven 
knows what I should have done without your friendship.’—
Elinor tried to make a civil answer, though doubting her 
own success. But it seemed to satisfy Lucy, for she directly 
replied,
‘Indeed I am perfectly convinced of your regard for me, 
and next to Edward’s love, it is the greatest comfort I have.—
Poor Edward!—But now there is one good thing, we shall be 
able to meet, and meet pretty often, for Lady Middleton’s 
delighted with Mrs. Dashwood, so we shall be a good deal 
in Harley Street, I dare say, and Edward spends half his time 
with his sister—besides, Lady Middleton and Mrs. Ferrars 
will visit now;— and Mrs. Ferrars and your sister were both 
so good to say more than once, they should always be glad 
to see me.— They are such charming women!—I am sure 
if ever you tell your sister what I think of her, you cannot 
speak too high.’


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But Elinor would not give her any encouragement to 
hope that she SHOULD tell her sister. Lucy continued.
‘I am sure I should have seen it in a moment, if Mrs. Fer-
rars had took a dislike to me. If she had only made me a 
formal courtesy, for instance, without saying a word, and 
never after had took any notice of me, and never looked 
at me in a pleasant way—you know what I mean—if I had 
been treated in that forbidding sort of way, I should have 
gave it all up in despair. I could not have stood it. For where 
she DOES dislike, I know it is most violent.’
Elinor was prevented from making any reply to this civil 
triumph, by the door’s being thrown open, the servant’s an-
nouncing Mr. Ferrars, and Edward’s immediately walking 
in.
It was a very awkward moment; and the countenance 
of each shewed that it was so. They all looked exceedingly 
foolish; and Edward seemed to have as great an inclination 
to walk out of the room again, as to advance farther into 
it. The very circumstance, in its unpleasantest form, which 
they would each have been most anxious to avoid, had fall-
en on them.—They were not only all three together, but 
were together without the relief of any other person. The 
ladies recovered themselves first. It was not Lucy’s business 
to put herself forward, and the appearance of secrecy must 
still be kept up. She could therefore only LOOK her tender-
ness, and after slightly addressing him, said no more.
But Elinor had more to do; and so anxious was she, for 
his sake and her own, to do it well, that she forced herself, 
after a moment’s recollection, to welcome him, with a look 


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and manner that were almost easy, and almost open; and 
another struggle, another effort still improved them. She 
would not allow the presence of Lucy, nor the conscious-
ness of some injustice towards herself, to deter her from 
saying that she was happy to see him, and that she had very 
much regretted being from home, when he called before in 
Berkeley Street. She would not be frightened from paying 
him those attentions which, as a friend and almost a rela-
tion, were his due, by the observant eyes of Lucy, though she 
soon perceived them to be narrowly watching her.
Her manners gave some re-assurance to Edward, and he 
had courage enough to sit down; but his embarrassment still 
exceeded that of the ladies in a proportion, which the case 
rendered reasonable, though his sex might make it rare; for 
his heart had not the indifference of Lucy’s, nor could his 
conscience have quite the ease of Elinor’s.
Lucy, with a demure and settled air, seemed determined 
to make no contribution to the comfort of the others, and 
would not say a word; and almost every thing that WAS 
said, proceeded from Elinor, who was obliged to volunteer 
all the information about her mother’s health, their coming 
to town, &c. which Edward ought to have inquired about, 
but never did.
Her exertions did not stop here; for she soon afterwards 
felt herself so heroically disposed as to determine, under 
pretence of fetching Marianne, to leave the others by them-
selves; and she really did it, and THAT in the handsomest 
manner, for she loitered away several minutes on the land-
ing-place, with the most high-minded fortitude, before she 


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went to her sister. When that was once done, however, it 
was time for the raptures of Edward to cease; for Marianne’s 
joy hurried her into the drawing-room immediately. Her 
pleasure in seeing him was like every other of her feelings, 
strong in itself, and strongly spoken. She met him with a 
hand that would be taken, and a voice that expressed the af-
fection of a sister.
‘Dear Edward!’ she cried, ‘this is a moment of great hap-
piness!—This would almost make amends for every thing?’
Edward tried to return her kindness as it deserved, but 
before such witnesses he dared not say half what he real-
ly felt. Again they all sat down, and for a moment or two 
all were silent; while Marianne was looking with the most 
speaking tenderness, sometimes at Edward and sometimes 
at Elinor, regretting only that their delight in each other 
should be checked by Lucy’s unwelcome presence. Edward 
was the first to speak, and it was to notice Marianne’s al-
tered looks, and express his fear of her not finding London 
agree with her.
‘Oh, don’t think of me!’ she replied with spirited earnest-
ness, though her eyes were filled with tears as she spoke, 
‘don’t think of MY health. Elinor is well, you see. That must 
be enough for us both.’
This remark was not calculated to make Edward or Eli-
nor more easy, nor to conciliate the good will of Lucy, who 
looked up at Marianne with no very benignant expression.
‘Do you like London?’ said Edward, willing to say any 
thing that might introduce another subject.
‘Not at all. I expected much pleasure in it, but I have 


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found none. The sight of you, Edward, is the only comfort 
it has afforded; and thank Heaven! you are what you always 
were!’
She paused—no one spoke.
‘I think, Elinor,’ she presently added, ‘we must employ 
Edward to take care of us in our return to Barton. In a week 
or two, I suppose, we shall be going; and, I trust, Edward 
will not be very unwilling to accept the charge.’
Poor Edward muttered something, but what it was, no-
body knew, not even himself. But Marianne, who saw his 
agitation, and could easily trace it to whatever cause best 
pleased herself, was perfectly satisfied, and soon talked of 
something else.
‘We spent such a day, Edward, in Harley Street yesterday! 
So dull, so wretchedly dull!—But I have much to say to you 
on that head, which cannot be said now.’
And with this admirable discretion did she defer the 
assurance of her finding their mutual relatives more dis-
agreeable than ever, and of her being particularly disgusted 
with his mother, till they were more in private.
‘But why were you not there, Edward?—Why did you not 
come?’
‘I was engaged elsewhere.’
‘Engaged! But what was that, when such friends were to 
be met?’
‘Perhaps, Miss Marianne,’ cried Lucy, eager to take some 
revenge on her, ‘you think young men never stand upon en-
gagements, if they have no mind to keep them, little as well 
as great.’


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292
Elinor was very angry, but Marianne seemed entirely in-
sensible of the sting; for she calmly replied,
‘Not so, indeed; for, seriously speaking, I am very sure 
that conscience only kept Edward from Harley Street. And 
I really believe he HAS the most delicate conscience in the 
world; the most scrupulous in performing every engage-
ment, however minute, and however it may make against 
his interest or pleasure. He is the most fearful of giving pain, 
of wounding expectation, and the most incapable of being 
selfish, of any body I ever saw. Edward, it is so, and I will say 
it. What! are you never to hear yourself praised!—Then you 
must be no friend of mine; for those who will accept of my 
love and esteem, must submit to my open commendation.’
The nature of her commendation, in the present case, 
however, happened to be particularly ill-suited to the 
feelings of two thirds of her auditors, and was so very unex-
hilarating to Edward, that he very soon got up to go away.
‘Going so soon!’ said Marianne; ‘my dear Edward, this 
must not be.’
And drawing him a little aside, she whispered her per-
suasion that Lucy could not stay much longer. But even 
this encouragement failed, for he would go; and Lucy, who 
would have outstaid him, had his visit lasted two hours, 
soon afterwards went away.
‘What can bring her here so often?’ said Marianne, on 
her leaving them. ‘Could not she see that we wanted her 
gone!—how teazing to Edward!’
‘Why so?—we were all his friends, and Lucy has been the 
longest known to him of any. It is but natural that he should 


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like to see her as well as ourselves.’
Marianne looked at her steadily, and said, ‘You know, 
Elinor, that this is a kind of talking which I cannot bear. 
If you only hope to have your assertion contradicted, as I 
must suppose to be the case, you ought to recollect that I am 
the last person in the world to do it. I cannot descend to be 
tricked out of assurances, that are not really wanted.’
She then left the room; and Elinor dared not follow her 
to say more, for bound as she was by her promise of secrecy 
to Lucy, she could give no information that would convince 
Marianne; and painful as the consequences of her still con-
tinuing in an error might be, she was obliged to submit to 
it. All that she could hope, was that Edward would not often 
expose her or himself to the distress of hearing Marianne’s 
mistaken warmth, nor to the repetition of any other part of 
the pain that had attended their recent meeting—and this 
she had every reason to expect.


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Chapter 36
W
ithin a few days after this meeting, the newspapers 
announced to the world, that the lady of Thomas 
Palmer, Esq. was safely delivered of a son and heir; a very 
interesting and satisfactory paragraph, at least to all those 
intimate connections who knew it before.
This event, highly important to Mrs. Jennings’s happi-
ness, produced a temporary alteration in the disposal of her 
time, and influenced, in a like degree, the engagements of 
her young friends; for as she wished to be as much as possi-
ble with Charlotte, she went thither every morning as soon 
as she was dressed, and did not return till late in the eve-
ning; and the Miss Dashwoods, at the particular request of 
the Middletons, spent the whole of every day, in every day 
in Conduit Street. For their own comfort they would much 
rather have remained, at least all the morning, in Mrs. Jen-
nings’s house; but it was not a thing to be urged against the 
wishes of everybody. Their hours were therefore made over 
to Lady Middleton and the two Miss Steeles, by whom their 
company, in fact was as little valued, as it was professedly 
sought.
They had too much sense to be desirable companions to 
the former; and by the latter they were considered with a 
jealous eye, as intruding on THEIR ground, and sharing 
the kindness which they wanted to monopolize. Though 


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nothing could be more polite than Lady Middleton’s behav-
iour to Elinor and Marianne, she did not really like them at 
all. Because they neither flattered herself nor her children, 
she could not believe them good-natured; and because they 
were fond of reading, she fancied them satirical: perhaps 
without exactly knowing what it was to be satirical; but 
THAT did not signify. It was censure in common use, and 
easily given.
Their presence was a restraint both on her and on Lucy. 
It checked the idleness of one, and the business of the oth-
er. Lady Middleton was ashamed of doing nothing before 
them, and the flattery which Lucy was proud to think of and 
administer at other times, she feared they would despise her 
for offering. Miss Steele was the least discomposed of the 
three, by their presence; and it was in their power to recon-
cile her to it entirely. Would either of them only have given 
her a full and minute account of the whole affair between 
Marianne and Mr. Willoughby, she would have thought 
herself amply rewarded for the sacrifice of the best place by 
the fire after dinner, which their arrival occasioned. But this 
conciliation was not granted; for though she often threw out 
expressions of pity for her sister to Elinor, and more than 
once dropt a reflection on the inconstancy of beaux before 
Marianne, no effect was produced, but a look of indiffer-
ence from the former, or of disgust in the latter. An effort 
even yet lighter might have made her their friend. Would 
they only have laughed at her about the Doctor! But so little 
were they, anymore than the others, inclined to oblige her, 
that if Sir John dined from home, she might spend a whole 


Sense and Sensibility
296
day without hearing any other raillery on the subject, than 
what she was kind enough to bestow on herself.
All these jealousies and discontents, however, were so to-
tally unsuspected by Mrs. Jennings, that she thought it a 
delightful thing for the girls to be together; and generally 
congratulated her young friends every night, on having es-
caped the company of a stupid old woman so long. She joined 
them sometimes at Sir John’s, sometimes at her own house; 
but wherever it was, she always came in excellent spirits, 
full of delight and importance, attributing Charlotte’s well 
doing to her own care, and ready to give so exact, so minute 
a detail of her situation, as only Miss Steele had curiosity 
enough to desire. One thing DID disturb her; and of that 
she made her daily complaint. Mr. Palmer maintained the 
common, but unfatherly opinion among his sex, of all in-
fants being alike; and though she could plainly perceive, at 
different times, the most striking resemblance between this 
baby and every one of his relations on both sides, there was 
no convincing his father of it; no persuading him to believe 
that it was not exactly like every other baby of the same age; 
nor could he even be brought to acknowledge the simple 
proposition of its being the finest child in the world.
I come now to the relation of a misfortune, which about 
this time befell Mrs. John Dashwood. It so happened that 
while her two sisters with Mrs. Jennings were first calling 
on her in Harley Street, another of her acquaintance had 
dropt in—a circumstance in itself not apparently likely to 
produce evil to her. But while the imaginations of other 
people will carry them away to form wrong judgments of 


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our conduct, and to decide on it by slight appearances, one’s 
happiness must in some measure be always at the mercy of 
chance. In the present instance, this last-arrived lady al-
lowed her fancy to so far outrun truth and probability, that 
on merely hearing the name of the Miss Dashwoods, and 
understanding them to be Mr. Dashwood’s sisters, she im-
mediately concluded them to be staying in Harley Street; 
and this misconstruction produced within a day or two af-
terwards, cards of invitation for them as well as for their 
brother and sister, to a small musical party at her house. The 
consequence of which was, that Mrs. John Dashwood was 
obliged to submit not only to the exceedingly great incon-
venience of sending her carriage for the Miss Dashwoods, 
but, what was still worse, must be subject to all the unpleas-
antness of appearing to treat them with attention: and who 
could tell that they might not expect to go out with her a 
second time? The power of disappointing them, it was true, 
must always be her’s. But that was not enough; for when 
people are determined on a mode of conduct which they 
know to be wrong, they feel injured by the expectation of 
any thing better from them.
Marianne had now been brought by degrees, so much 
into the habit of going out every day, that it was become a 
matter of indifference to her, whether she went or not: and 
she prepared quietly and mechanically for every evening’s 
engagement, though without expecting the smallest amuse-
ment from any, and very often without knowing, till the last 
moment, where it was to take her.
To her dress and appearance she was grown so perfect-


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298
ly indifferent, as not to bestow half the consideration on it, 
during the whole of her toilet, which it received from Miss 
Steele in the first five minutes of their being together, when 
it was finished. Nothing escaped HER minute observation 
and general curiosity; she saw every thing, and asked ev-
ery thing; was never easy till she knew the price of every 
part of Marianne’s dress; could have guessed the number of 
her gowns altogether with better judgment than Marianne 
herself, and was not without hopes of finding out before 
they parted, how much her washing cost per week, and how 
much she had every year to spend upon herself. The imper-
tinence of these kind of scrutinies, moreover, was generally 
concluded with a compliment, which though meant as its 
douceur, was considered by Marianne as the greatest im-
pertinence of all; for after undergoing an examination into 
the value and make of her gown, the colour of her shoes, 
and the arrangement of her hair, she was almost sure of be-
ing told that upon ‘her word she looked vastly smart, and 
she dared to say she would make a great many conquests.’
With such encouragement as this, was she dismissed on 
the present occasion, to her brother’s carriage; which they 
were ready to enter five minutes after it stopped at the door, 
a punctuality not very agreeable to their sister-in-law, who 
had preceded them to the house of her acquaintance, and 
was there hoping for some delay on their part that might 
inconvenience either herself or her coachman.
The events of this evening were not very remarkable. 
The party, like other musical parties, comprehended a great 
many people who had real taste for the performance, and 


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a great many more who had none at all; and the perform-
ers themselves were, as usual, in their own estimation, and 
that of their immediate friends, the first private performers 
in England.
As Elinor was neither musical, nor affecting to be so, 
she made no scruple of turning her eyes from the grand pi-
anoforte, whenever it suited her, and unrestrained even by 
the presence of a harp, and violoncello, would fix them at 
pleasure on any other object in the room. In one of these ex-
cursive glances she perceived among a group of young men, 
the very he, who had given them a lecture on toothpick-cas-
es at Gray’s. She perceived him soon afterwards looking at 
herself, and speaking familiarly to her brother; and had just 
determined to find out his name from the latter, when they 
both came towards her, and Mr. Dashwood introduced him 
to her as Mr. Robert Ferrars.
He addressed her with easy civility, and twisted his head 
into a bow which assured her as plainly as words could have 
done, that he was exactly the coxcomb she had heard him 
described to be by Lucy. Happy had it been for her, if her re-
gard for Edward had depended less on his own merit, than 
on the merit of his nearest relations! For then his brother’s 
bow must have given the finishing stroke to what the ill-hu-
mour of his mother and sister would have begun. But while 
she wondered at the difference of the two young men, she 
did not find that the emptiness of conceit of the one, put 
her out of all charity with the modesty and worth of the 
other. Why they WERE different, Robert exclaimed to her 
himself in the course of a quarter of an hour’s conversation; 


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for, talking of his brother, and lamenting the extreme GAU-
CHERIE which he really believed kept him from mixing 
in proper society, he candidly and generously attributed it 
much less to any natural deficiency, than to the misfortune 
of a private education; while he himself, though probably 
without any particular, any material superiority by nature, 
merely from the advantage of a public school, was as well 
fitted to mix in the world as any other man.
‘Upon my soul,’ he added, ‘I believe it is nothing more; 
and so I often tell my mother, when she is grieving about 
it. ‘My dear Madam,’ I always say to her, ‘you must make 
yourself easy. The evil is now irremediable, and it has been 
entirely your own doing. Why would you be persuaded by 
my uncle, Sir Robert, against your own judgment, to place 
Edward under private tuition, at the most critical time of 
his life? If you had only sent him to Westminster as well as 
myself, instead of sending him to Mr. Pratt’s, all this would 
have been prevented.’ This is the way in which I always con-
sider the matter, and my mother is perfectly convinced of 
her error.’
Elinor would not oppose his opinion, because, whatever 
might be her general estimation of the advantage of a public 
school, she could not think of Edward’s abode in Mr. Pratt’s 
family, with any satisfaction.
‘You reside in Devonshire, I think,’—was his next obser-
vation, ‘in a cottage near Dawlish.’
Elinor set him right as to its situation; and it seemed 
rather surprising to him that anybody could live in Devon-
shire, without living near Dawlish. He bestowed his hearty 


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approbation however on their species of house.
‘For my own part,’ said he, ‘I am excessively fond of a 
cottage; there is always so much comfort, so much elegance 
about them. And I protest, if I had any money to spare, I 
should buy a little land and build one myself, within a short 
distance of London, where I might drive myself down at any 
time, and collect a few friends about me, and be happy. I ad-
vise every body who is going to build, to build a cottage. My 
friend Lord Courtland came to me the other day on pur-
pose to ask my advice, and laid before me three different 
plans of Bonomi’s. I was to decide on the best of them. ‘My 
dear Courtland,’ said I, immediately throwing them all into 
the fire, ‘do not adopt either of them, but by all means build 
a cottage.’ And that I fancy, will be the end of it.
‘Some people imagine that there can be no accommoda-
tions, no space in a cottage; but this is all a mistake. I was 
last month at my friend Elliott’s, near Dartford. Lady El-
liott wished to give a dance. ‘But how can it be done?’ said 
she; ‘my dear Ferrars, do tell me how it is to be managed. 
There is not a room in this cottage that will hold ten cou-
ple, and where can the supper be?’ I immediately saw that 
there could be no difficulty in it, so I said, ‘My dear Lady 
Elliott, do not be uneasy. The dining parlour will admit 
eighteen couple with ease; card-tables may be placed in the 
drawing-room; the library may be open for tea and other 
refreshments; and let the supper be set out in the saloon.’ 
Lady Elliott was delighted with the thought. We measured 
the dining-room, and found it would hold exactly eighteen 
couple, and the affair was arranged precisely after my plan. 


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So that, in fact, you see, if people do but know how to set 
about it, every comfort may be as well enjoyed in a cottage 
as in the most spacious dwelling.’
Elinor agreed to it all, for she did not think he deserved 
the compliment of rational opposition.
As John Dashwood had no more pleasure in music than 
his eldest sister, his mind was equally at liberty to fix on any 
thing else; and a thought struck him during the evening, 
which he communicated to his wife, for her approbation, 
when they got home. The consideration of Mrs. Dennison’s 
mistake, in supposing his sisters their guests, had suggested 
the propriety of their being really invited to become such, 
while Mrs. Jenning’s engagements kept her from home. The 
expense would be nothing, the inconvenience not more; 
and it was altogether an attention which the delicacy of his 
conscience pointed out to be requisite to its complete en-
franchisement from his promise to his father. Fanny was 
startled at the proposal.
‘I do not see how it can be done,’ said she, ‘without af-
fronting Lady Middleton, for they spend every day with her; 
otherwise I should be exceedingly glad to do it. You know I 
am always ready to pay them any attention in my power, as 
my taking them out this evening shews. But they are Lady 
Middleton’s visitors. How can I ask them away from her?’
Her husband, but with great humility, did not see the 
force of her objection. ‘They had already spent a week in 
this manner in Conduit Street, and Lady Middleton could 
not be displeased at their giving the same number of days to 
such near relations.’


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Fanny paused a moment, and then, with fresh vigor, 
said,
‘My love I would ask them with all my heart, if it was in 
my power. But I had just settled within myself to ask the 
Miss Steeles to spend a few days with us. They are very well 
behaved, good kind of girls; and I think the attention is due 
to them, as their uncle did so very well by Edward. We can 
ask your sisters some other year, you know; but the Miss 
Steeles may not be in town any more. I am sure you will like 
them; indeed, you DO like them, you know, very much al-
ready, and so does my mother; and they are such favourites 
with Harry!’
Mr. Dashwood was convinced. He saw the necessity of 
inviting the Miss Steeles immediately, and his conscience 
was pacified by the resolution of inviting his sisters another 
year; at the same time, however, slyly suspecting that an-
other year would make the invitation needless, by bringing 
Elinor to town as Colonel Brandon’s wife, and Marianne as 
THEIR visitor.
Fanny, rejoicing in her escape, and proud of the ready 
wit that had procured it, wrote the next morning to Lucy, 
to request her company and her sister’s, for some days, in 
Harley Street, as soon as Lady Middleton could spare them. 
This was enough to make Lucy really and reasonably happy. 
Mrs. Dashwood seemed actually working for her, herself; 
cherishing all her hopes, and promoting all her views! Such 
an opportunity of being with Edward and his family was, 
above all things, the most material to her interest, and such 
an invitation the most gratifying to her feelings! It was an 


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advantage that could not be too gratefully acknowledged, 
nor too speedily made use of; and the visit to Lady Mid-
dleton, which had not before had any precise limits, was 
instantly discovered to have been always meant to end in 
two days’ time.
When the note was shown to Elinor, as it was within 
ten minutes after its arrival, it gave her, for the first time, 
some share in the expectations of Lucy; for such a mark of 
uncommon kindness, vouchsafed on so short an acquain-
tance, seemed to declare that the good-will towards her 
arose from something more than merely malice against 
herself; and might be brought, by time and address, to do 
every thing that Lucy wished. Her flattery had already sub-
dued the pride of Lady Middleton, and made an entry into 
the close heart of Mrs. John Dashwood; and these were ef-
fects that laid open the probability of greater.
The Miss Steeles removed to Harley Street, and all that 
reached Elinor of their influence there, strengthened her 
expectation of the event. Sir John, who called on them more 
than once, brought home such accounts of the favour they 
were in, as must be universally striking. Mrs. Dashwood 
had never been so much pleased with any young women 
in her life, as she was with them; had given each of them 
a needle book made by some emigrant; called Lucy by her 
Christian name; and did not know whether she should ever 
be able to part with them.
[At this point in the first and second edtions, Volume II 
ended.]


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Chapter 37
M
rs. Palmer was so well at the end of a fortnight, that 
her mother felt it no longer necessary to give up the 
whole of her time to her; and, contenting herself with visit-
ing her once or twice a day, returned from that period to her 
own home, and her own habits, in which she found the Miss 
Dashwoods very ready to ressume their former share.
About the third or fourth morning after their being thus 
resettled in Berkeley Street, Mrs. Jennings, on returning 
from her ordinary visit to Mrs. Palmer, entered the draw-
ing-room, where Elinor was sitting by herself, with an air 
of such hurrying importance as prepared her to hear some-
thing wonderful; and giving her time only to form that idea, 
began directly to justify it, by saying,
‘Lord! my dear Miss Dashwood! have you heard the 
news?’
‘No, ma’am. What is it?’
‘Something so strange! But you shall hear it all.— When 
I got to Mr. Palmer’s, I found Charlotte quite in a fuss about 
the child. She was sure it was very ill—it cried, and fret-
ted, and was all over pimples. So I looked at it directly, and, 
‘Lord! my dear,’ says I, ‘it is nothing in the world, but the 
red gum—‘ and nurse said just the same. But Charlotte, she 
would not be satisfied, so Mr. Donavan was sent for; and 
luckily he happened to just come in from Harley Street, 


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so he stepped over directly, and as soon as ever he saw the 
child, be said just as we did, that it was nothing in the world 
but the red gum, and then Charlotte was easy. And so, just 
as he was going away again, it came into my head, I am sure 
I do not know how I happened to think of it, but it came into 
my head to ask him if there was any news. So upon that, he 
smirked, and simpered, and looked grave, and seemed to 
know something or other, and at last he said in a whisper, 
‘For fear any unpleasant report should reach the young la-
dies under your care as to their sister’s indisposition, I think 
it advisable to say, that I believe there is no great reason for 
alarm; I hope Mrs. Dashwood will do very well.’’
‘What! is Fanny ill?’
‘That is exactly what I said, my dear. ‘Lord!’ says I, ‘is 
Mrs. Dashwood ill?’ So then it all came out; and the long 
and the short of the matter, by all I can learn, seems to be 
this. Mr. Edward Ferrars, the very young man I used to joke 
with you about (but however, as it turns out, I am mon-
strous glad there was never any thing in it), Mr. Edward 
Ferrars, it seems, has been engaged above this twelvemonth 
to my cousin Lucy!—There’s for you, my dear!—And not a 
creature knowing a syllable of the matter, except Nancy!—
Could you have believed such a thing possible?— There 
is no great wonder in their liking one another; but that 
matters should be brought so forward between them, and 
nobody suspect it!—THAT is strange!—I never happened 
to see them together, or I am sure I should have found it out 
directly. Well, and so this was kept a great secret, for fear of 
Mrs. Ferrars, and neither she nor your brother or sister sus-


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pected a word of the matter;— till this very morning, poor 
Nancy, who, you know, is a well-meaning creature, but no 
conjurer, popt it all out. ‘Lord!’ thinks she to herself, ‘they 
are all so fond of Lucy, to be sure they will make no diffi-
culty about it;’ and so, away she went to your sister, who was 
sitting all alone at her carpet-work, little suspecting what 
was to come—for she had just been saying to your brother, 
only five minutes before, that she thought to make a match 
between Edward and some Lord’s daughter or other, I forget 
who. So you may think what a blow it was to all her vanity 
and pride. She fell into violent hysterics immediately, with 
such screams as reached your brother’s ears, as he was sit-
ting in his own dressing-room down stairs, thinking about 
writing a letter to his steward in the country. So up he flew 
directly, and a terrible scene took place, for Lucy was come 
to them by that time, little dreaming what was going on. 
Poor soul! I pity HER. And I must say, I think she was used 
very hardly; for your sister scolded like any fury, and soon 
drove her into a fainting fit. Nancy, she fell upon her knees, 
and cried bitterly; and your brother, he walked about the 
room, and said he did not know what to do. Mrs. Dashwood 
declared they should not stay a minute longer in the house, 
and your brother was forced to go down upon HIS knees 
too, to persuade her to let them stay till they had packed 
up their clothes. THEN she fell into hysterics again, and he 
was so frightened that he would send for Mr. Donavan, and 
Mr. Donavan found the house in all this uproar. The car-
riage was at the door ready to take my poor cousins away, 
and they were just stepping in as he came off; poor Lucy in 


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such a condition, he says, she could hardly walk; and Nan-
cy, she was almost as bad. I declare, I have no patience with 
your sister; and I hope, with all my heart, it will be a match 
in spite of her. Lord! what a taking poor Mr. Edward will 
be in when he hears of it! To have his love used so scorn-
fully! for they say he is monstrous fond of her, as well he 
may. I should not wonder, if he was to be in the greatest pas-
sion!—and Mr. Donavan thinks just the same. He and I had 
a great deal of talk about it; and the best of all is, that he is 
gone back again to Harley Street, that he may be within call 
when Mrs. Ferrars is told of it, for she was sent for as soon as 
ever my cousins left the house, for your sister was sure SHE 
would be in hysterics too; and so she may, for what I care. I 
have no pity for either of them. I have no notion of people’s 
making such a to-do about money and greatness. There is 
no reason on earth why Mr. Edward and Lucy should not 
marry; for I am sure Mrs. Ferrars may afford to do very well 
by her son, and though Lucy has next to nothing herself, 
she knows better than any body how to make the most of 
every thing; I dare say, if Mrs. Ferrars would only allow him 
five hundred a-year, she would make as good an appearance 
with it as any body else would with eight. Lord! how snug 
they might live in such another cottage as yours—or a little 
bigger—with two maids, and two men; and I believe I could 
help them to a housemaid, for my Betty has a sister out of 
place, that would fit them exactly.’
Here Mrs. Jennings ceased, and as Elinor had had time 
enough to collect her thoughts, she was able to give such an 
answer, and make such observations, as the subject might 


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naturally be supposed to produce. Happy to find that she 
was not suspected of any extraordinary interest in it; that 
Mrs. Jennings (as she had of late often hoped might be the 
case) had ceased to imagine her at all attached to Edward; 
and happy above all the rest, in the absence of Marianne, 
she felt very well able to speak of the affair without embar-
rassment, and to give her judgment, as she believed, with 
impartiality on the conduct of every one concerned in it.
She could hardly determine what her own expectation 
of its event really was; though she earnestly tried to drive 
away the notion of its being possible to end otherwise at 
last, than in the marriage of Edward and Lucy. What Mrs. 
Ferrars would say and do, though there could not be a doubt 
of its nature, she was anxious to hear; and still more anx-
ious to know how Edward would conduct himself. For HIM 
she felt much compassion;— for Lucy very little—and it cost 
her some pains to procure that little;—for the rest of the 
party none at all.
As Mrs. Jennings could talk on no other subject, Elinor 
soon saw the necessity of preparing Marianne for its discus-
sion. No time was to be lost in undeceiving her, in making 
her acquainted with the real truth, and in endeavouring to 
bring her to hear it talked of by others, without betraying 
that she felt any uneasiness for her sister, or any resentment 
against Edward.
Elinor’s office was a painful one.—She was going to 
remove what she really believed to be her sister’s chief con-
solation,—to give such particulars of Edward as she feared 
would ruin him for ever in her good opinion,-and to make 


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310
Marianne, by a resemblance in their situations, which to 
HER fancy would seem strong, feel all her own disappoint-
ment over again. But unwelcome as such a task must be, it 
was necessary to be done, and Elinor therefore hastened to 
perform it.
She was very far from wishing to dwell on her own feel-
ings, or to represent herself as suffering much, any otherwise 
than as the self-command she had practised since her first 
knowledge of Edward’s engagement, might suggest a hint 
of what was practicable to Marianne. Her narration was 
clear and simple; and though it could not be given without 
emotion, it was not accompanied by violent agitation, nor 
impetuous grief.—THAT belonged rather to the hearer, for 
Marianne listened with horror, and cried excessively. Elinor 
was to be the comforter of others in her own distresses, no 
less than in theirs; and all the comfort that could be given 
by assurances of her own composure of mind, and a very 
earnest vindication of Edward from every charge but of im-
prudence, was readily offered.
But Marianne for some time would give credit to neither. 
Edward seemed a second Willoughby; and acknowledging 
as Elinor did, that she HAD loved him most sincerely, could 
she feel less than herself! As for Lucy Steele, she considered 
her so totally unamiable, so absolutely incapable of attach-
ing a sensible man, that she could not be persuaded at first 
to believe, and afterwards to pardon, any former affection 
of Edward for her. She would not even admit it to have been 
natural; and Elinor left her to be convinced that it was so, 
by that which only could convince her, a better knowledge 


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of mankind.
Her first communication had reached no farther than to 
state the fact of the engagement, and the length of time it 
had existed.—Marianne’s feelings had then broken in, and 
put an end to all regularity of detail; and for some time all 
that could be done was to soothe her distress, lessen her 
alarms, and combat her resentment. The first question on 
her side, which led to farther particulars, was,
‘How long has this been known to you, Elinor? has he 
written to you?’
‘I have known it these four months. When Lucy first 
came to Barton Park last November, she told me in confi-
dence of her engagement.’
At these words, Marianne’s eyes expressed the astonish-
ment which her lips could not utter. After a pause of wonder, 
she exclaimed—
‘Four months!—Have you known of this four months?’
Elinor confirmed it.
‘What!—while attending me in all my misery, has this 
been on your heart?—And I have reproached you for being 
happy!’—
‘It was not fit that you should then know how much I was 
the reverse!’
‘Four months!’—cried Marianne again.—‘So calm!— so 
cheerful!—how have you been supported?’—
‘By feeling that I was doing my duty.—My promise to 
Lucy, obliged me to be secret. I owed it to her, therefore, to 
avoid giving any hint of the truth; and I owed it to my fam-
ily and friends, not to create in them a solicitude about me, 


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which it could not be in my power to satisfy.’
Marianne seemed much struck.
‘I have very often wished to undeceive yourself and my 
mother,’ added Elinor; ‘and once or twice I have attempt-
ed it;— but without betraying my trust, I never could have 
convinced you.’
‘Four months!—and yet you loved him!’—
‘Yes. But I did not love only him;—and while the com-
fort of others was dear to me, I was glad to spare them from 
knowing how much I felt. Now, I can think and speak of it 
with little emotion. I would not have you suffer on my ac-
count; for I assure you I no longer suffer materially myself. I 
have many things to support me. I am not conscious of hav-
ing provoked the disappointment by any imprudence of my 
own, I have borne it as much as possible without spreading 
it farther. I acquit Edward of essential misconduct. I wish 
him very happy; and I am so sure of his always doing his 
duty, that though now he may harbour some regret, in the 
end he must become so. Lucy does not want sense, and that 
is the foundation on which every thing good may be built.—
And after all, Marianne, after all that is bewitching in the 
idea of a single and constant attachment, and all that can 
be said of one’s happiness depending entirely on any par-
ticular person, it is not meant—it is not fit—it is not possible 
that it should be so.— Edward will marry Lucy; he will mar-
ry a woman superior in person and understanding to half 
her sex; and time and habit will teach him to forget that he 
ever thought another superior to HER.’—
‘If such is your way of thinking,’ said Marianne, ‘if the 


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loss of what is most valued is so easily to be made up by 
something else, your resolution, your self-command, are, 
perhaps, a little less to be wondered at.—They are brought 
more within my comprehension.’
‘I understand you.—You do not suppose that I have ever 
felt much.—For four months, Marianne, I have had all this 
hanging on my mind, without being at liberty to speak of it 
to a single creature; knowing that it would make you and my 
mother most unhappy whenever it were explained to you, 
yet unable to prepare you for it in the least.— It was told 
me,—it was in a manner forced on me by the very person 
herself, whose prior engagement ruined all my prospects; 
and told me, as I thought, with triumph.— This person’s 
suspicions, therefore, I have had to oppose, by endeavour-
ing to appear indifferent where I have been most deeply 
interested;—and it has not been only once;—I have had her 
hopes and exultation to listen to again and again.— I have 
known myself to be divided from Edward for ever, without 
hearing one circumstance that could make me less desire 
the connection.—Nothing has proved him unworthy; nor 
has anything declared him indifferent to me.— I have had 
to contend against the unkindness of his sister, and the in-
solence of his mother; and have suffered the punishment of 
an attachment, without enjoying its advantages.— And all 
this has been going on at a time, when, as you know too well, 
it has not been my only unhappiness.— If you can think me 
capable of ever feeling—surely you may suppose that I have 
suffered NOW. The composure of mind with which I have 
brought myself at present to consider the matter, the conso-


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314
lation that I have been willing to admit, have been the effect 
of constant and painful exertion;—they did not spring up 
of themselves;— they did not occur to relieve my spirits 
at first.— No, Marianne.—THEN, if I had not been bound 
to silence, perhaps nothing could have kept me entirely—
not even what I owed to my dearest friends—from openly 
shewing that I was VERY unhappy.’—
Marianne was quite subdued.—
‘Oh! Elinor,’ she cried, ‘you have made me hate myself 
for ever.—How barbarous have I been to you!— you, who 
have been my only comfort, who have borne with me in all 
my misery, who have seemed to be only suffering for me!—
Is this my gratitude?—Is this the only return I can make 
you?—Because your merit cries out upon myself, I have 
been trying to do it away.’
The tenderest caresses followed this confession. In such 
a frame of mind as she was now in, Elinor had no difficulty 
in obtaining from her whatever promise she required; and 
at her request, Marianne engaged never to speak of the af-
fair to any one with the least appearance of bitterness;—to 
meet Lucy without betraying the smallest increase of dislike 
to her;—and even to see Edward himself, if chance should 
bring them together, without any diminution of her usu-
al cordiality.— These were great concessions;—but where 
Marianne felt that she had injured, no reparation could be 
too much for her to make.
She performed her promise of being discreet, to admi-
ration.—She attended to all that Mrs. Jennings had to say 
upon the subject, with an unchanging complexion, dissent-


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ed from her in nothing, and was heard three times to say, 
‘Yes, ma’am.’—She listened to her praise of Lucy with only 
moving from one chair to another, and when Mrs. Jennings 
talked of Edward’s affection, it cost her only a spasm in her 
throat.—Such advances towards heroism in her sister, made 
Elinor feel equal to any thing herself.
The next morning brought a farther trial of it, in a visit 
from their brother, who came with a most serious aspect 
to talk over the dreadful affair, and bring them news of his 
wife.
‘You have heard, I suppose,’ said he with great solemnity, 
as soon as he was seated, ‘of the very shocking discovery 
that took place under our roof yesterday.’
They all looked their assent; it seemed too awful a mo-
ment for speech.
‘Your sister,’ he continued, ‘has suffered dreadfully. Mrs. 
Ferrars too—in short it has been a scene of such complicated 
distress—but I will hope that the storm may be weathered 
without our being any of us quite overcome. Poor Fanny! 
she was in hysterics all yesterday. But I would not alarm you 
too much. Donavan says there is nothing materially to be 
apprehended; her constitution is a good one, and her res-
olution equal to any thing. She has borne it all, with the 
fortitude of an angel! She says she never shall think well 
of anybody again; and one cannot wonder at it, after be-
ing so deceived!— meeting with such ingratitude, where 
so much kindness had been shewn, so much confidence 
had been placed! It was quite out of the benevolence of her 
heart, that she had asked these young women to her house; 


Sense and Sensibility
316
merely because she thought they deserved some attention, 
were harmless, well-behaved girls, and would be pleasant 
companions; for otherwise we both wished very much to 
have invited you and Marianne to be with us, while your 
kind friend there, was attending her daughter. And now to 
be so rewarded! ‘I wish, with all my heart,’ says poor Fanny 
in her affectionate way, ‘that we had asked your sisters in-
stead of them.’’
Here he stopped to be thanked; which being done, he 
went on.
‘What poor Mrs. Ferrars suffered, when first Fanny 
broke it to her, is not to be described. While she with the 
truest affection had been planning a most eligible connec-
tion for him, was it to be supposed that he could be all the 
time secretly engaged to another person!—such a suspicion 
could never have entered her head! If she suspected ANY 
prepossession elsewhere, it could not be in THAT quarter. 
‘THERE, to be sure,’ said she, ‘I might have thought my-
self safe.’ She was quite in an agony. We consulted together, 
however, as to what should be done, and at last she deter-
mined to send for Edward. He came. But I am sorry to relate 
what ensued. All that Mrs. Ferrars could say to make him 
put an end to the engagement, assisted too as you may well 
suppose by my arguments, and Fanny’s entreaties, was of no 
avail. Duty, affection, every thing was disregarded. I nev-
er thought Edward so stubborn, so unfeeling before. His 
mother explained to him her liberal designs, in case of his 
marrying Miss Morton; told him she would settle on him 
the Norfolk estate, which, clear of land-tax, brings in a good 


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thousand a-year; offered even, when matters grew desper-
ate, to make it twelve hundred; and in opposition to this, if 
he still persisted in this low connection, represented to him 
the certain penury that must attend the match. His own two 
thousand pounds she protested should be his all; she would 
never see him again; and so far would she be from affording 
him the smallest assistance, that if he were to enter into any 
profession with a view of better support, she would do all in 
her power to prevent him advancing in it.’
Here Marianne, in an ecstasy of indignation, clapped her 
hands together, and cried, ‘Gracious God! can this be pos-
sible!’
‘Well may you wonder, Marianne,’ replied her broth-
er, ‘at the obstinacy which could resist such arguments as 
these. Your exclamation is very natural.’
Marianne was going to retort, but she remembered her 
promises, and forbore.
‘All this, however,’ he continued, ‘was urged in vain. Ed-
ward said very little; but what he did say, was in the most 
determined manner. Nothing should prevail on him to give 
up his engagement. He would stand to it, cost him what it 
might.’
‘Then,’ cried Mrs. Jennings with blunt sincerity, no lon-
ger able to be silent, ‘he has acted like an honest man! I beg 
your pardon, Mr. Dashwood, but if he had done otherwise, I 
should have thought him a rascal. I have some little concern 
in the business, as well as yourself, for Lucy Steele is my 
cousin, and I believe there is not a better kind of girl in the 
world, nor one who more deserves a good husband.’


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John Dashwood was greatly astonished; but his nature 
was calm, not open to provocation, and he never wished 
to offend anybody, especially anybody of good fortune. He 
therefore replied, without any resentment,
‘I would by no means speak disrespectfully of any re-
lation of yours, madam. Miss Lucy Steele is, I dare say, a 
very deserving young woman, but in the present case you 
know, the connection must be impossible. And to have en-
tered into a secret engagement with a young man under 
her uncle’s care, the son of a woman especially of such very 
large fortune as Mrs. Ferrars, is perhaps, altogether a little 
extraordinary. In short, I do not mean to reflect upon the 
behaviour of any person whom you have a regard for, Mrs. 
Jennings. We all wish her extremely happy; and Mrs. Fer-
rars’s conduct throughout the whole, has been such as every 
conscientious, good mother, in like circumstances, would 
adopt. It has been dignified and liberal. Edward has drawn 
his own lot, and I fear it will be a bad one.’
Marianne sighed out her similar apprehension; and Eli-
nor’s heart wrung for the feelings of Edward, while braving 
his mother’s threats, for a woman who could not reward 
him.
‘Well, sir,’ said Mrs. Jennings, ‘and how did it end?’
‘I am sorry to say, ma’am, in a most unhappy rupture:— 
Edward is dismissed for ever from his mother’s notice. He 
left her house yesterday, but where he is gone, or whether he 
is still in town, I do not know; for WE of course can make 
no inquiry.’
‘Poor young man!—and what is to become of him?’


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‘What, indeed, ma’am! It is a melancholy consideration. 
Born to the prospect of such affluence! I cannot conceive 
a situation more deplorable. The interest of two thousand 
pounds—how can a man live on it?—and when to that is 
added the recollection, that he might, but for his own fol-
ly, within three months have been in the receipt of two 
thousand, five hundred a-year (for Miss Morton has thir-
ty thousand pounds,) I cannot picture to myself a more 
wretched condition. We must all feel for him; and the more 
so, because it is totally out of our power to assist him.’
‘Poor young man!’ cried Mrs. Jennings, ‘I am sure he 
should be very welcome to bed and board at my house; and 
so I would tell him if I could see him. It is not fit that he 
should be living about at his own charge now, at lodgings 
and taverns.’
Elinor’s heart thanked her for such kindness towards 
Edward, though she could not forbear smiling at the form 
of it.
‘If he would only have done as well by himself,’ said John 
Dashwood, ‘as all his friends were disposed to do by him, 
he might now have been in his proper situation, and would 
have wanted for nothing. But as it is, it must be out of any-
body’s power to assist him. And there is one thing more 
preparing against him, which must be worse than all—his 
mother has determined, with a very natural kind of spir-
it, to settle THAT estate upon Robert immediately, which 
might have been Edward’s, on proper conditions. I left her 
this morning with her lawyer, talking over the business.’
‘Well!’ said Mrs. Jennings, ‘that is HER revenge. Every-


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320
body has a way of their own. But I don’t think mine would 
be, to make one son independent, because another had 
plagued me.’
Marianne got up and walked about the room.
‘Can anything be more galling to the spirit of a man,’ 
continued John, ‘than to see his younger brother in pos-
session of an estate which might have been his own? Poor 
Edward! I feel for him sincerely.’
A few minutes more spent in the same kind of effusion, 
concluded his visit; and with repeated assurances to his sis-
ters that he really believed there was no material danger in 
Fanny’s indisposition, and that they need not therefore be 
very uneasy about it, he went away; leaving the three ladies 
unanimous in their sentiments on the present occasion, as 
far at least as it regarded Mrs. Ferrars’s conduct, the Dash-
woods’, and Edward’s.
Marianne’s indignation burst forth as soon as he quitted 
the room; and as her vehemence made reserve impossible in 
Elinor, and unnecessary in Mrs. Jennings, they all joined in 
a very spirited critique upon the party.


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Chapter 38
M
rs. Jennings was very warm in her praise of Edward’s 
conduct, but only Elinor and Marianne understood 
its true merit. THEY only knew how little he had had to 
tempt him to be disobedient, and how small was the conso-
lation, beyond the consciousness of doing right, that could 
remain to him in the loss of friends and fortune. Elinor glo-
ried in his integrity; and Marianne forgave all his offences 
in compassion for his punishment. But though confidence 
between them was, by this public discovery, restored to its 
proper state, it was not a subject on which either of them 
were fond of dwelling when alone. Elinor avoided it upon 
principle, as tending to fix still more upon her thoughts, by 
the too warm, too positive assurances of Marianne, that be-
lief of Edward’s continued affection for herself which she 
rather wished to do away; and Marianne’s courage soon 
failed her, in trying to converse upon a topic which always 
left her more dissatisfied with herself than ever, by the com-
parison it necessarily produced between Elinor’s conduct 
and her own.
She felt all the force of that comparison; but not as her sis-
ter had hoped, to urge her to exertion now; she felt it with all 
the pain of continual self-reproach, regretted most bitterly 
that she had never exerted herself before; but it brought only 
the torture of penitence, without the hope of amendment. 


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Her mind was so much weakened that she still fancied pres-
ent exertion impossible, and therefore it only dispirited her 
more.
Nothing new was heard by them, for a day or two after-
wards, of affairs in Harley Street, or Bartlett’s Buildings. But 
though so much of the matter was known to them already, 
that Mrs. Jennings might have had enough to do in spread-
ing that knowledge farther, without seeking after more, she 
had resolved from the first to pay a visit of comfort and in-
quiry to her cousins as soon as she could; and nothing but 
the hindrance of more visitors than usual, had prevented 
her going to them within that time.
The third day succeeding their knowledge of the particu-
lars, was so fine, so beautiful a Sunday as to draw many to 
Kensington Gardens, though it was only the second week 
in March. Mrs. Jennings and Elinor were of the number; 
but Marianne, who knew that the Willoughbys were again 
in town, and had a constant dread of meeting them, chose 
rather to stay at home, than venture into so public a place.
An intimate acquaintance of Mrs. Jennings joined them 
soon after they entered the Gardens, and Elinor was not 
sorry that by her continuing with them, and engaging all 
Mrs. Jennings’s conversation, she was herself left to quiet 
reflection. She saw nothing of the Willoughbys, nothing of 
Edward, and for some time nothing of anybody who could 
by any chance whether grave or gay, be interesting to her. 
But at last she found herself with some surprise, accosted by 
Miss Steele, who, though looking rather shy, expressed great 
satisfaction in meeting them, and on receiving encourage-


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ment from the particular kindness of Mrs. Jennings, left her 
own party for a short time, to join their’s. Mrs. Jennings im-
mediately whispered to Elinor,
‘Get it all out of her, my dear. She will tell you any thing 
if you ask. You see I cannot leave Mrs. Clarke.’
It was lucky, however, for Mrs. Jennings’s curiosity and 
Elinor’s too, that she would tell any thing WITHOUT being 
asked; for nothing would otherwise have been learnt.
‘I am so glad to meet you;’ said Miss Steele, taking her 
familiarly by the arm—‘for I wanted to see you of all things 
in the world.’ And then lowering her voice, ‘I suppose Mrs. 
Jennings has heard all about it. Is she angry?’
‘Not at all, I believe, with you.’
‘That is a good thing. And Lady Middleton, is SHE an-
gry?’
‘I cannot suppose it possible that she should.’
‘I am monstrous glad of it. Good gracious! I have had 
such a time of it! I never saw Lucy in such a rage in my life. 
She vowed at first she would never trim me up a new bon-
net, nor do any thing else for me again, so long as she lived; 
but now she is quite come to, and we are as good friends as 
ever. Look, she made me this bow to my hat, and put in the 
feather last night. There now, YOU are going to laugh at me 
too. But why should not I wear pink ribbons? I do not care 
if it IS the Doctor’s favourite colour. I am sure, for my part, 
I should never have known he DID like it better than any 
other colour, if he had not happened to say so. My cous-
ins have been so plaguing me! I declare sometimes I do not 
know which way to look before them.’


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She had wandered away to a subject on which Elinor had 
nothing to say, and therefore soon judged it expedient to 
find her way back again to the first.
‘Well, but Miss Dashwood,’ speaking triumphantly, 
‘people may say what they chuse about Mr. Ferrars’s declar-
ing he would not have Lucy, for it is no such thing I can tell 
you; and it is quite a shame for such ill-natured reports to be 
spread abroad. Whatever Lucy might think about it herself, 
you know, it was no business of other people to set it down 
for certain.’
‘I never heard any thing of the kind hinted at before, I as-
sure you,’ said Elinor.
‘Oh, did not you? But it WAS said, I know, very well, and 
by more than one; for Miss Godby told Miss Sparks, that 
nobody in their senses could expect Mr. Ferrars to give up 
a woman like Miss Morton, with thirty thousand pounds 
to her fortune, for Lucy Steele that had nothing at all; and I 
had it from Miss Sparks myself. And besides that, my cous-
in Richard said himself, that when it came to the point he 
was afraid Mr. Ferrars would be off; and when Edward did 
not come near us for three days, I could not tell what to 
think myself; and I believe in my heart Lucy gave it up all 
for lost; for we came away from your brother’s Wednes-
day, and we saw nothing of him not all Thursday, Friday, 
and Saturday, and did not know what was become of him. 
Once Lucy thought to write to him, but then her spirits rose 
against that. However this morning he came just as we came 
home from church; and then it all came out, how he had 
been sent for Wednesday to Harley Street, and been talked 


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to by his mother and all of them, and how he had declared 
before them all that he loved nobody but Lucy, and nobody 
but Lucy would he have. And how he had been so worried 
by what passed, that as soon as he had went away from his 
mother’s house, he had got upon his horse, and rid into the 
country, some where or other; and how he had stayed about 
at an inn all Thursday and Friday, on purpose to get the 
better of it. And after thinking it all over and over again, he 
said, it seemed to him as if, now he had no fortune, and no 
nothing at all, it would be quite unkind to keep her on to the 
engagement, because it must be for her loss, for he had noth-
ing but two thousand pounds, and no hope of any thing else; 
and if he was to go into orders, as he had some thoughts, he 
could get nothing but a curacy, and how was they to live 
upon that?—He could not bear to think of her doing no bet-
ter, and so he begged, if she had the least mind for it, to put 
an end to the matter directly, and leave him shift for him-
self. I heard him say all this as plain as could possibly be. 
And it was entirely for HER sake, and upon HER account, 
that he said a word about being off, and not upon his own. 
I will take my oath he never dropt a syllable of being tired 
of her, or of wishing to marry Miss Morton, or any thing 
like it. But, to be sure, Lucy would not give ear to such kind 
of talking; so she told him directly (with a great deal about 
sweet and love, you know, and all that—Oh, la! one can’t re-
peat such kind of things you know)—she told him directly, 
she had not the least mind in the world to be off, for she 
could live with him upon a trifle, and how little so ever he 
might have, she should be very glad to have it all, you know, 


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or something of the kind. So then he was monstrous happy, 
and talked on some time about what they should do, and 
they agreed he should take orders directly, and they must 
wait to be married till he got a living. And just then I could 
not hear any more, for my cousin called from below to tell 
me Mrs. Richardson was come in her coach, and would take 
one of us to Kensington Gardens; so I was forced to go into 
the room and interrupt them, to ask Lucy if she would like 
to go, but she did not care to leave Edward; so I just run up 
stairs and put on a pair of silk stockings and came off with 
the Richardsons.’
‘I do not understand what you mean by interrupting 
them,’ said Elinor; ‘you were all in the same room together, 
were not you?’
‘No, indeed, not us. La! Miss Dashwood, do you think 
people make love when any body else is by? Oh, for shame!—
To be sure you must know better than that. (Laughing 
affectedly.)—No, no; they were shut up in the drawing-room 
together, and all I heard was only by listening at the door.’
‘How!’ cried Elinor; ‘have you been repeating to me what 
you only learnt yourself by listening at the door? I am sorry 
I did not know it before; for I certainly would not have suf-
fered you to give me particulars of a conversation which you 
ought not to have known yourself. How could you behave 
so unfairly by your sister?’
‘Oh, la! there is nothing in THAT. I only stood at the 
door, and heard what I could. And I am sure Lucy would 
have done just the same by me; for a year or two back, 
when Martha Sharpe and I had so many secrets together, 


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she never made any bones of hiding in a closet, or behind a 
chimney-board, on purpose to hear what we said.’
Elinor tried to talk of something else; but Miss Steele 
could not be kept beyond a couple of minutes, from what 
was uppermost in her mind.
‘Edward talks of going to Oxford soon,’ said she; ‘but 
now he is lodging at No. —, Pall Mall. What an ill-natured 
woman his monther is, an’t she? And your brother and 
sister were not very kind! However, I shan’t say anything 
against them to YOU; and to be sure they did send us home 
in their own chariot, which was more than I looked for. And 
for my part, I was all in a fright for fear your sister should 
ask us for the huswifes she had gave us a day or two before; 
but, however, nothing was said about them, and I took care 
to keep mine out of sight. Edward have got some business 
at Oxford, he says; so he must go there for a time; and after 
THAT, as soon as he can light upon a Bishop, he will be or-
dained. I wonder what curacy he will get!—Good gracious! 
(giggling as she spoke) I’d lay my life I know what my cous-
ins will say, when they hear of it. They will tell me I should 
write to the Doctor, to get Edward the curacy of his new liv-
ing. I know they will; but I am sure I would not do such a 
thing for all the world.— ‘La!’ I shall say directly, ‘I wonder 
how you could think of such a thing? I write to the Doctor, 
indeed!’’
‘Well,’ said Elinor, ‘it is a comfort to be prepared against 
the worst. You have got your answer ready.’
Miss Steele was going to reply on the same subject, but 
the approach of her own party made another more neces-


Sense and Sensibility
328
sary.
‘Oh, la! here come the Richardsons. I had a vast deal more 
to say to you, but I must not stay away from them not any 
longer. I assure you they are very genteel people. He makes 
a monstrous deal of money, and they keep their own coach. 
I have not time to speak to Mrs. Jennings about it myself, 
but pray tell her I am quite happy to hear she is not in anger 
against us, and Lady Middleton the same; and if anything 
should happen to take you and your sister away, and Mrs. 
Jennings should want company, I am sure we should be very 
glad to come and stay with her for as long a time as she likes. 
I suppose Lady Middleton won’t ask us any more this bout. 
Good-by; I am sorry Miss Marianne was not here. Remem-
ber me kindly to her. La! if you have not got your spotted 
muslin on!—I wonder you was not afraid of its being torn.’
Such was her parting concern; for after this, she had time 
only to pay her farewell compliments to Mrs. Jennings, be-
fore her company was claimed by Mrs. Richardson; and 
Elinor was left in possession of knowledge which might 
feed her powers of reflection some time, though she had 
learnt very little more than what had been already foreseen 
and foreplanned in her own mind. Edward’s marriage with 
Lucy was as firmly determined on, and the time of its taking 
place remained as absolutely uncertain, as she had conclud-
ed it would be;—every thing depended, exactly after her 
expectation, on his getting that preferment, of which, at 
present, there seemed not the smallest chance.
As soon as they returned to the carriage, Mrs. Jennings 
was eager for information; but as Elinor wished to spread as 


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little as possible intelligence that had in the first place been 
so unfairly obtained, she confined herself to the brief rep-
etition of such simple particulars, as she felt assured that 
Lucy, for the sake of her own consequence, would choose to 
have known. The continuance of their engagement, and the 
means that were able to be taken for promoting its end, was 
all her communication; and this produced from Mrs. Jen-
nings the following natural remark.
‘Wait for his having a living!—ay, we all know how 
THAT will end:—they will wait a twelvemonth, and find-
ing no good comes of it, will set down upon a curacy of 
fifty pounds a-year, with the interest of his two thousand 
pounds, and what little matter Mr. Steele and Mr. Pratt can 
give her.—Then they will have a child every year! and Lord 
help ‘em! how poor they will be!—I must see what I can give 
them towards furnishing their house. Two maids and two 
men, indeed!—as I talked of t’other day.—No, no, they must 
get a stout girl of all works.— Betty’s sister would never do 
for them NOW.’
The next morning brought Elinor a letter by the two-
penny post from Lucy herself. It was as follows:
‘Bartlett’s Building, March.
‘I hope my dear Miss Dashwood will excuse the liberty 
I take of writing to her; but I know your friendship for me 
will make you pleased to hear such a good account of my-
self and my dear Edward, after all the troubles we have went 
through lately, therefore will make no more apologies, but 


Sense and Sensibility
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proceed to say that, thank God! though we have suffered 
dreadfully, we are both quite well now, and as happy as we 
must always be in one another’s love. We have had great tri-
als, and great persecutions, but however, at the same time, 
gratefully acknowledge many friends, yourself not the least 
among them, whose great kindness I shall always thankful-
ly remember, as will Edward too, who I have told of it. I am 
sure you will be glad to hear, as likewise dear Mrs. Jennings, 
I spent two happy hours with him yesterday afternoon, he 
would not hear of our parting, though earnestly did I, as I 
thought my duty required, urge him to it for prudence sake, 
and would have parted for ever on the spot, would he con-
sent to it; but he said it should never be, he did not regard his 
mother’s anger, while he could have my affections; our pros-
pects are not very bright, to be sure, but we must wait, and 
hope for the best; he will be ordained shortly; and should 
it ever be in your power to recommend him to any body 
that has a living to bestow, am very sure you will not forget 
us, and dear Mrs. Jennings too, trust she will speak a good 
word for us to Sir John, or Mr. Palmer, or any friend that 
may be able to assist us.—Poor Anne was much to blame 
for what she did, but she did it for the best, so I say nothing; 
hope Mrs. Jennings won’t think it too much trouble to give 
us a call, should she come this way any morning, ‘twould be 
a great kindness, and my cousins would be proud to know 
her.—My paper reminds me to conclude; and begging to be 
most gratefully and respectfully remembered to her, and to 
Sir John, and Lady Middleton, and the dear children, when 
you chance to see them, and love to Miss Marianne,


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‘I am, &c.’
As soon as Elinor had finished it, she performed what 
she concluded to be its writer’s real design, by placing it in 
the hands of Mrs. Jennings, who read it aloud with many 
comments of satisfaction and praise.
‘Very well indeed!—how prettily she writes!—aye, that 
was quite proper to let him be off if he would. That was 
just like Lucy.—Poor soul! I wish I COULD get him a liv-
ing, with all my heart.—She calls me dear Mrs. Jennings, 
you see. She is a good-hearted girl as ever lived.—Very well 
upon my word. That sentence is very prettily turned. Yes, 
yes, I will go and see her, sure enough. How attentive she is, 
to think of every body!—Thank you, my dear, for shewing it 
me. It is as pretty a letter as ever I saw, and does Lucy’s head 
and heart great credit.’


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Chapter 39
T
he Miss Dashwoods had now been rather more than 
two months in town, and Marianne’s impatience to be 
gone increased every day. She sighed for the air, the liber-
ty, the quiet of the country; and fancied that if any place 
could give her ease, Barton must do it. Elinor was hard-
ly less anxious than herself for their removal, and only so 
much less bent on its being effected immediately, as that 
she was conscious of the difficulties of so long a journey, 
which Marianne could not be brought to acknowledge. She 
began, however, seriously to turn her thoughts towards its 
accomplishment, and had already mentioned their wishes 
to their kind hostess, who resisted them with all the elo-
quence of her good-will, when a plan was suggested, which, 
though detaining them from home yet a few weeks longer, 
appeared to Elinor altogether much more eligible than any 
other. The Palmers were to remove to Cleveland about the 
end of March, for the Easter holidays; and Mrs. Jennings, 
with both her friends, received a very warm invitation from 
Charlotte to go with them. This would not, in itself, have 
been sufficient for the delicacy of Miss Dashwood;—but it 
was inforced with so much real politeness by Mr. Palmer 
himself, as, joined to the very great amendment of his man-
ners towards them since her sister had been known to be 
unhappy, induced her to accept it with pleasure.


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When she told Marianne what she had done, however, 
her first reply was not very auspicious.
‘Cleveland!’—she cried, with great agitation. ‘No, I 
cannot go to Cleveland.’—
‘You forget,’ said Elinor gently, ‘that its situation is not...
that it is not in the neighbourhood of..’
‘But it is in Somersetshire.—I cannot go into Somerset-
shire.—There, where I looked forward to going...No, Elinor, 
you cannot expect me to go there.’
Elinor would not argue upon the propriety of overcom-
ing such feelings;—she only endeavoured to counteract 
them by working on others;—represented it, therefore, as a 
measure which would fix the time of her returning to that 
dear mother, whom she so much wished to see, in a more el-
igible, more comfortable manner, than any other plan could 
do, and perhaps without any greater delay. From Cleveland, 
which was within a few miles of Bristol, the distance to Bar-
ton was not beyond one day, though a long day’s journey; 
and their mother’s servant might easily come there to at-
tend them down; and as there could be no occasion of their 
staying above a week at Cleveland, they might now be at 
home in little more than three weeks’ time. As Marianne’s 
affection for her mother was sincere, it must triumph with 
little difficulty, over the imaginary evils she had started.
Mrs. Jennings was so far from being weary of her guest, 
that she pressed them very earnestly to return with her 
again from Cleveland. Elinor was grateful for the attention, 
but it could not alter her design; and their mother’s con-
currence being readily gained, every thing relative to their 


Sense and Sensibility
334
return was arranged as far as it could be;— and Marianne 
found some relief in drawing up a statement of the hours 
that were yet to divide her from Barton.
‘Ah! Colonel, I do not know what you and I shall do with-
out the Miss Dashwoods;’—was Mrs. Jennings’s address to 
him when he first called on her, after their leaving her was 
settled—‘for they are quite resolved upon going home from 
the Palmers;—and how forlorn we shall be, when I come 
back!—Lord! we shall sit and gape at one another as dull as 
two cats.’
Perhaps Mrs. Jennings was in hopes, by this vigorous 
sketch of their future ennui, to provoke him to make that 
offer, which might give himself an escape from it;— and if 
so, she had soon afterwards good reason to think her object 
gained; for, on Elinor’s moving to the window to take more 
expeditiously the dimensions of a print, which she was go-
ing to copy for her friend, he followed her to it with a look of 
particular meaning, and conversed with her there for sever-
al minutes. The effect of his discourse on the lady too, could 
not escape her observation, for though she was too honor-
able to listen, and had even changed her seat, on purpose 
that she might NOT hear, to one close by the piano forte 
on which Marianne was playing, she could not keep her-
self from seeing that Elinor changed colour, attended with 
agitation, and was too intent on what he said to pursue her 
employment.— Still farther in confirmation of her hopes, 
in the interval of Marianne’s turning from one lesson to 
another, some words of the Colonel’s inevitably reached 
her ear, in which he seemed to be apologising for the bad-


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ness of his house. This set the matter beyond a doubt. She 
wondered, indeed, at his thinking it necessary to do so; but 
supposed it to be the proper etiquette. What Elinor said in 
reply she could not distinguish, but judged from the motion 
of her lips, that she did not think THAT any material objec-
tion;—and Mrs. Jennings commended her in her heart for 
being so honest. They then talked on for a few minutes lon-
ger without her catching a syllable, when another lucky stop 
in Marianne’s performance brought her these words in the 
Colonel’s calm voice,—
‘I am afraid it cannot take place very soon.’
Astonished and shocked at so unlover-like a speech, 
she was almost ready to cry out, ‘Lord! what should hinder 
it?’—but checking her desire, confined herself to this silent 
ejaculation.
‘This is very strange!—sure he need not wait to be old-
er.’
This delay on the Colonel’s side, however, did not seem 
to offend or mortify his fair companion in the least, for 
on their breaking up the conference soon afterwards, and 
moving different ways, Mrs. Jennings very plainly heard 
Elinor say, and with a voice which shewed her to feel what 
she said,
‘I shall always think myself very much obliged to you.’
Mrs. Jennings was delighted with her gratitude, and only 
wondered that after hearing such a sentence, the Colonel 
should be able to take leave of them, as he immediately did, 
with the utmost sang-froid, and go away without making 
her any reply!—She had not thought her old friend could 


Sense and Sensibility
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have made so indifferent a suitor.
What had really passed between them was to this effect.
‘I have heard,’ said he, with great compassion, ‘of the in-
justice your friend Mr. Ferrars has suffered from his family; 
for if I understand the matter right, he has been entirely 
cast off by them for persevering in his engagement with a 
very deserving young woman.— Have I been rightly in-
formed?—Is it so?—‘
Elinor told him that it was.
‘The cruelty, the impolitic cruelty,’—he replied, with great 
feeling,—‘of dividing, or attempting to divide, two young 
people long attached to each other, is terrible.— Mrs. Fer-
rars does not know what she may be doing—what she may 
drive her son to. I have seen Mr. Ferrars two or three times 
in Harley Street, and am much pleased with him. He is not 
a young man with whom one can be intimately acquainted 
in a short time, but I have seen enough of him to wish him 
well for his own sake, and as a friend of yours, I wish it still 
more. I understand that he intends to take orders. Will you 
be so good as to tell him that the living of Delaford, now 
just vacant, as I am informed by this day’s post, is his, if he 
think it worth his acceptance—but THAT, perhaps, so un-
fortunately circumstanced as he is now, it may be nonsense 
to appear to doubt; I only wish it were more valuable.— It 
is a rectory, but a small one; the late incumbent, I believe, 
did not make more than 200 L per annum, and though it 
is certainly capable of improvement, I fear, not to such an 
amount as to afford him a very comfortable income. Such 
as it is, however, my pleasure in presenting him to it, will be 


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very great. Pray assure him of it.’
Elinor’s astonishment at this commission could hardly 
have been greater, had the Colonel been really making her 
an offer of his hand. The preferment, which only two days 
before she had considered as hopeless for Edward, was al-
ready provided to enable him to marry;— and SHE, of all 
people in the world, was fixed on to bestow it!—Her emo-
tion was such as Mrs. Jennings had attributed to a very 
different cause;—but whatever minor feelings less pure, less 
pleasing, might have a share in that emotion, her esteem for 
the general benevolence, and her gratitude for the particu-
lar friendship, which together prompted Colonel Brandon 
to this act, were strongly felt, and warmly expressed. She 
thanked him for it with all her heart, spoke of Edward’s 
principles and disposition with that praise which she knew 
them to deserve; and promised to undertake the commis-
sion with pleasure, if it were really his wish to put off so 
agreeable an office to another. But at the same time, she 
could not help thinking that no one could so well perform 
it as himself. It was an office in short, from which, unwill-
ing to give Edward the pain of receiving an obligation from 
HER, she would have been very glad to be spared her-
self;— but Colonel Brandon, on motives of equal delicacy, 
declining it likewise, still seemed so desirous of its being 
given through her means, that she would not on any ac-
count make farther opposition. Edward, she believed, was 
still in town, and fortunately she had heard his address 
from Miss Steele. She could undertake therefore to inform 
him of it, in the course of the day. After this had been set-


Sense and Sensibility
338
tled, Colonel Brandon began to talk of his own advantage 
in securing so respectable and agreeable a neighbour, and 
THEN it was that he mentioned with regret, that the house 
was small and indifferent;—an evil which Elinor, as Mrs. 
Jennings had supposed her to do, made very light of, at least 
as far as regarded its size.
‘The smallness of the house,’ said she, ‘I cannot imagine 
any inconvenience to them, for it will be in proportion to 
their family and income.’
By which the Colonel was surprised to find that SHE was 
considering Mr. Ferrars’s marriage as the certain conse-
quence of the presentation; for he did not suppose it possible 
that Delaford living could supply such an income, as any-
body in his style of life would venture to settle on— and he 
said so.
‘This little rectory CAN do no more than make Mr. Fer-
rars comfortable as a bachelor; it cannot enable him to 
marry. I am sorry to say that my patronage ends with this; 
and my interest is hardly more extensive. If, however, by an 
unforeseen chance it should be in my power to serve him 
farther, I must think very differently of him from what I 
now do, if I am not as ready to be useful to him then as I 
sincerely wish I could be at present. What I am now doing 
indeed, seems nothing at all, since it can advance him so 
little towards what must be his principal, his only object of 
happiness. His marriage must still be a distant good;—at 
least, I am afraid it cannot take place very soon.—‘
Such was the sentence which, when misunderstood, so 
justly offended the delicate feelings of Mrs. Jennings; but 


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after this narration of what really passed between Colonel 
Brandon and Elinor, while they stood at the window, the 
gratitude expressed by the latter on their parting, may per-
haps appear in general, not less reasonably excited, nor less 
properly worded than if it had arisen from an offer of mar-
riage.


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Chapter 40
‘W
ell, Miss Dashwood,’ said Mrs. Jennings, sagacious-
ly smiling, as soon as the gentleman had withdrawn, 
‘I do not ask you what the Colonel has been saying to you; 
for though, upon my honour, I TRIED to keep out of hear-
ing, I could not help catching enough to understand his 
business. And I assure you I never was better pleased in my 
life, and I wish you joy of it with all my heart.’
‘Thank you, ma’am,’ said Elinor. ‘It is a matter of great 
joy to me; and I feel the goodness of Colonel Brandon most 
sensibly. There are not many men who would act as he has 
done. Few people who have so compassionate a heart! I nev-
er was more astonished in my life.’
‘Lord! my dear, you are very modest. I an’t the least as-
tonished at it in the world, for I have often thought of late, 
there was nothing more likely to happen.’
‘You judged from your knowledge of the Colonel’s gen-
eral benevolence; but at least you could not foresee that the 
opportunity would so very soon occur.’
‘Opportunity!’ repeated Mrs. Jennings—‘Oh! as to that, 
when a man has once made up his mind to such a thing, 
somehow or other he will soon find an opportunity. Well, 
my dear, I wish you joy of it again and again; and if ever 
there was a happy couple in the world, I think I shall soon 
know where to look for them.’


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‘You mean to go to Delaford after them I suppose,’ said 
Elinor, with a faint smile.
‘Aye, my dear, that I do, indeed. And as to the house be-
ing a bad one, I do not know what the Colonel would be at, 
for it is as good a one as ever I saw.’
‘He spoke of its being out of repair.’
‘Well, and whose fault is that? why don’t he repair it?— 
who should do it but himself?’
They were interrupted by the servant’s coming in to an-
nounce the carriage being at the door; and Mrs. Jennings 
immediately preparing to go, said,—
‘Well, my dear, I must be gone before I have had half my 
talk out. But, however, we may have it all over in the eve-
ning; for we shall be quite alone. I do not ask you to go with 
me, for I dare say your mind is too full of the matter to care 
for company; and besides, you must long to tell your sister 
all about it.’
Marianne had left the room before the conversation be-
gan.
‘Certainly, ma’am, I shall tell Marianne of it; but I shall 
not mention it at present to any body else.’
‘Oh! very well,’ said Mrs. Jennings rather disappointed. 
‘Then you would not have me tell it to Lucy, for I think of 
going as far as Holborn to-day.’
‘No, ma’am, not even Lucy if you please. One day’s delay 
will not be very material; and till I have written to Mr. Fer-
rars, I think it ought not to be mentioned to any body else. 
I shall do THAT directly. It is of importance that no time 
should be lost with him, for he will of course have much to 


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do relative to his ordination.’
This speech at first puzzled Mrs. Jennings exceedingly. 
Why Mr. Ferrars was to have been written to about it in 
such a hurry, she could not immediately comprehend. A few 
moments’ reflection, however, produced a very happy idea, 
and she exclaimed;—
‘Oh, ho!—I understand you. Mr. Ferrars is to be the man. 
Well, so much the better for him. Ay, to be sure, he must be 
ordained in readiness; and I am very glad to find things are 
so forward between you. But, my dear, is not this rather out 
of character? Should not the Colonel write himself?—sure, 
he is the proper person.’
Elinor did not quite understand the beginning of Mrs. 
Jennings’s speech, neither did she think it worth inquiring 
into; and therefore only replied to its conclusion.
‘Colonel Brandon is so delicate a man, that he rather 
wished any one to announce his intentions to Mr. Ferrars 
than himself.’
‘And so YOU are forced to do it. Well THAT is an odd 
kind of delicacy! However, I will not disturb you (seeing her 
preparing to write.) You know your own concerns best. So 
goodby, my dear. I have not heard of any thing to please me 
so well since Charlotte was brought to bed.’
And away she went; but returning again in a moment,
‘I have just been thinking of Betty’s sister, my dear. I 
should be very glad to get her so good a mistress. But wheth-
er she would do for a lady’s maid, I am sure I can’t tell. She is 
an excellent housemaid, and works very well at her needle. 
However, you will think of all that at your leisure.’


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‘Certainly, ma’am,’ replied Elinor, not hearing much of 
what she said, and more anxious to be alone, than to be mis-
tress of the subject.
How she should begin—how she should express herself 
in her note to Edward, was now all her concern. The par-
ticular circumstances between them made a difficulty of 
that which to any other person would have been the easiest 
thing in the world; but she equally feared to say too much 
or too little, and sat deliberating over her paper, with the 
pen in her band, till broken in on by the entrance of Ed-
ward himself.
He had met Mrs. Jennings at the door in her way to the 
carriage, as he came to leave his farewell card; and she, af-
ter apologising for not returning herself, had obliged him to 
enter, by saying that Miss Dashwood was above, and want-
ed to speak with him on very particular business.
Elinor had just been congratulating herself, in the midst 
of her perplexity, that however difficult it might be to ex-
press herself properly by letter, it was at least preferable to 
giving the information by word of mouth, when her visi-
tor entered, to force her upon this greatest exertion of all. 
Her astonishment and confusion were very great on his 
so sudden appearance. She had not seen him before since 
his engagement became public, and therefore not since his 
knowing her to be acquainted with it; which, with the con-
sciousness of what she had been thinking of, and what she 
had to tell him, made her feel particularly uncomfortable 
for some minutes. He too was much distressed; and they 
sat down together in a most promising state of embarrass-


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ment.—Whether he had asked her pardon for his intrusion 
on first coming into the room, he could not recollect; but 
determining to be on the safe side, he made his apology in 
form as soon as he could say any thing, after taking a chair.
‘Mrs. Jennings told me,’ said he, ‘that you wished to speak 
with me, at least I understood her so—or I certainly should 
not have intruded on you in such a manner; though at the 
same time, I should have been extremely sorry to leave Lon-
don without seeing you and your sister; especially as it will 
most likely be some time—it is not probable that I should 
soon have the pleasure of meeting you again. I go to Oxford 
tomorrow.’
‘You would not have gone, however,’ said Elinor, recov-
ering herself, and determined to get over what she so much 
dreaded as soon as possible, ‘without receiving our good 
wishes, even if we had not been able to give them in person. 
Mrs. Jennings was quite right in what she said. I have some-
thing of consequence to inform you of, which I was on the 
point of communicating by paper. I am charged with a most 
agreeable office (breathing rather faster than usual as she 
spoke.) Colonel Brandon, who was here only ten minutes 
ago, has desired me to say, that understanding you mean 
to take orders, he has great pleasure in offering you the liv-
ing of Delaford now just vacant, and only wishes it were 
more valuable. Allow me to congratulate you on having 
so respectable and well-judging a friend, and to join in his 
wish that the living—it is about two hundred a-year—were 
much more considerable, and such as might better enable 
you to—as might be more than a temporary accommoda-


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tion to yourself—such, in short, as might establish all your 
views of happiness.’
What Edward felt, as he could not say it himself, it can-
not be expected that any one else should say for him. He 
LOOKED all the astonishment which such unexpected, 
such unthought-of information could not fail of exciting; 
but he said only these two words,
‘Colonel Brandon!’
‘Yes,’ continued Elinor, gathering more resolution, as 
some of the worst was over, ‘Colonel Brandon means it as a 
testimony of his concern for what has lately passed—for the 
cruel situation in which the unjustifiable conduct of your 
family has placed you—a concern which I am sure Mari-
anne, myself, and all your friends, must share; and likewise 
as a proof of his high esteem for your general character, and 
his particular approbation of your behaviour on the pres-
ent occasion.’
‘Colonel Brandon give ME a living!—Can it be possi-
ble?’
‘The unkindness of your own relations has made you as-
tonished to find friendship any where.’
‘No,’ replied be, with sudden consciousness, ‘not to find it 
in YOU; for I cannot be ignorant that to you, to your good-
ness, I owe it all.—I feel it—I would express it if I could—but, 
as you well know, I am no orator.’
‘You are very much mistaken. I do assure you that you 
owe it entirely, at least almost entirely, to your own mer-
it, and Colonel Brandon’s discernment of it. I have had no 
hand in it. I did not even know, till I understood his design, 


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that the living was vacant; nor had it ever occurred to me 
that he might have had such a living in his gift. As a friend 
of mine, of my family, he may, perhaps—indeed I know he 
HAS, still greater pleasure in bestowing it; but, upon my 
word, you owe nothing to my solicitation.’
Truth obliged her to acknowledge some small share in 
the action, but she was at the same time so unwilling to ap-
pear as the benefactress of Edward, that she acknowledged 
it with hesitation; which probably contributed to fix that 
suspicion in his mind which had recently entered it. For a 
short time he sat deep in thought, after Elinor had ceased to 
speak;—at last, and as if it were rather an effort, he said,
‘Colonel Brandon seems a man of great worth and re-
spectability. I have always heard him spoken of as such, and 
your brother I know esteems him highly. He is undoubtedly 
a sensible man, and in his manners perfectly the gentle-
man.’
‘Indeed,’ replied Elinor, ‘I believe that you will find him, 
on farther acquaintance, all that you have heard him to be, 
and as you will be such very near neighbours (for I under-
stand the parsonage is almost close to the mansion-house,) 
it is particularly important that he SHOULD be all this.’
Edward made no answer; but when she had turned away 
her head, gave her a look so serious, so earnest, so un-
cheerful, as seemed to say, that he might hereafter wish the 
distance between the parsonage and the mansion-house 
much greater.
‘Colonel Brandon, I think, lodges in St. James Street,’ 
said he, soon afterwards, rising from his chair.


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Elinor told him the number of the house.
‘I must hurry away then, to give him those thanks which 
you will not allow me to give YOU; to assure him that he has 
made me a very—an exceedingly happy man.’
Elinor did not offer to detain him; and they parted, with 
a very earnest assurance on HER side of her unceasing good 
wishes for his happiness in every change of situation that 
might befall him; on HIS, with rather an attempt to return 
the same good will, than the power of expressing it.
‘When I see him again,’ said Elinor to herself, as the door 
shut him out, ‘I shall see him the husband of Lucy.’
And with this pleasing anticipation, she sat down to 
reconsider the past, recall the words and endeavour to com-
prehend all the feelings of Edward; and, of course, to reflect 
on her own with discontent.
When Mrs. Jennings came home, though she returned 
from seeing people whom she had never seen before, and 
of whom therefore she must have a great deal to say, her 
mind was so much more occupied by the important secret 
in her possession, than by anything else, that she reverted 
to it again as soon as Elinor appeared.
‘Well, my dear,’ she cried, ‘I sent you up to the young 
man. Did not I do right?—And I suppose you had no great 
difficulty—You did not find him very unwilling to accept 
your proposal?’
‘No, ma’am; THAT was not very likely.’
‘Well, and how soon will he be ready?—For it seems all 
to depend upon that.’
‘Really,’ said Elinor, ‘I know so little of these kind of 


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348
forms, that I can hardly even conjecture as to the time, 
or the preparation necessary; but I suppose two or three 
months will complete his ordination.’
‘Two or three months!’ cried Mrs. Jennings; ‘Lord! my 
dear, how calmly you talk of it; and can the Colonel wait 
two or three months! Lord bless me!—I am sure it would 
put ME quite out of patience!—And though one would be 
very glad to do a kindness by poor Mr. Ferrars, I do think 
it is not worth while to wait two or three months for him. 
Sure somebody else might be found that would do as well; 
somebody that is in orders already.’
‘My dear ma’am,’ said Elinor, ‘what can you be thinking 
of?— Why, Colonel Brandon’s only object is to be of use to 
Mr. Ferrars.’
‘Lord bless you, my dear!—Sure you do not mean to per-
suade me that the Colonel only marries you for the sake of 
giving ten guineas to Mr. Ferrars!’
The deception could not continue after this; and an ex-
planation immediately took place, by which both gained 
considerable amusement for the moment, without any ma-
terial loss of happiness to either, for Mrs. Jennings only 
exchanged one form of delight for another, and still without 
forfeiting her expectation of the first.
‘Aye, aye, the parsonage is but a small one,’ said she, af-
ter the first ebullition of surprise and satisfaction was over, 
‘and very likely MAY be out of repair; but to hear a man 
apologising, as I thought, for a house that to my knowledge 
has five sitting rooms on the ground-floor, and I think the 
housekeeper told me could make up fifteen beds!— and to 


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you too, that had been used to live in Barton cottage!—It 
seems quite ridiculous. But, my dear, we must touch up the 
Colonel to do some thing to the parsonage, and make it 
comfortable for them, before Lucy goes to it.’
‘But Colonel Brandon does not seem to have any idea of 
the living’s being enough to allow them to marry.’
‘The Colonel is a ninny, my dear; because he has two 
thousand a-year himself, he thinks that nobody else can 
marry on less. Take my word for it, that, if I am alive, I shall 
be paying a visit at Delaford Parsonage before Michaelmas; 
and I am sure I sha’nt go if Lucy an’t there.’
Elinor was quite of her opinion, as to the probability of 
their not waiting for any thing more.


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E
dward, having carried his thanks to Colonel Brandon, 
proceeded with his happiness to Lucy; and such was 
the excess of it by the time he reached Bartlett’s Buildings, 
that she was able to assure Mrs. Jennings, who called on her 
again the next day with her congratulations, that she had 
never seen him in such spirits before in her life.
Her own happiness, and her own spirits, were at least 
very certain; and she joined Mrs. Jennings most heartily in 
her expectation of their being all comfortably together in 
Delaford Parsonage before Michaelmas. So far was she, at 
the same time, from any backwardness to give Elinor that 
credit which Edward WOULD give her, that she spoke of her 
friendship for them both with the most grateful warmth, 
was ready to own all their obligation to her, and openly de-
clared that no exertion for their good on Miss Dashwood’s 
part, either present or future, would ever surprise her, for 
she believed her capable of doing any thing in the world for 
those she really valued. As for Colonel Brandon, she was 
not only ready to worship him as a saint, but was moreover 
truly anxious that he should be treated as one in all worldly 
concerns; anxious that his tithes should be raised to the ut-
most; and scarcely resolved to avail herself, at Delaford, as 
far as she possibly could, of his servants, his carriage, his 
cows, and his poultry.


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It was now above a week since John Dashwood had called 
in Berkeley Street, and as since that time no notice had been 
taken by them of his wife’s indisposition, beyond one verbal 
enquiry, Elinor began to feel it necessary to pay her a visit.—
This was an obligation, however, which not only opposed 
her own inclination, but which had not the assistance of 
any encouragement from her companions. Marianne, not 
contented with absolutely refusing to go herself, was very 
urgent to prevent her sister’s going at all; and Mrs. Jennings, 
though her carriage was always at Elinor’s service, so very 
much disliked Mrs. John Dashwood, that not even her curi-
osity to see how she looked after the late discovery, nor her 
strong desire to affront her by taking Edward’s part, could 
overcome her unwillingness to be in her company again. 
The consequence was, that Elinor set out by herself to pay 
a visit, for which no one could really have less inclination, 
and to run the risk of a tete-a-tete with a woman, whom nei-
ther of the others had so much reason to dislike.
Mrs. Dashwood was denied; but before the carriage 
could turn from the house, her husband accidentally came 
out. He expressed great pleasure in meeting Elinor, told her 
that he had been just going to call in Berkeley Street, and, 
assuring her that Fanny would be very glad to see her, in-
vited her to come in.
They walked up stairs in to the drawing-room.—Nobody 
was there.
‘Fanny is in her own room, I suppose,’ said he:—‘I will 
go to her presently, for I am sure she will not have the least 
objection in the world to seeing YOU.— Very far from it, 


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352
indeed. NOW especially there cannot be—but however, you 
and Marianne were always great favourites.—Why would 
not Marianne come?’—
Elinor made what excuse she could for her.
‘I am not sorry to see you alone,’ he replied, ‘for I have a 
good deal to say to you. This living of Colonel Brandon’s—
can it be true?—has he really given it to Edward?—I heard it 
yesterday by chance, and was coming to you on purpose to 
enquire farther about it.’
‘It is perfectly true.—Colonel Brandon has given the liv-
ing of Delaford to Edward.’
‘Really!—Well, this is very astonishing!—no relation-
ship!—no connection between them!—and now that livings 
fetch such a price!—what was the value of this?’
‘About two hundred a year.’
‘Very well—and for the next presentation to a living of 
that value—supposing the late incumbent to have been old 
and sickly, and likely to vacate it soon—he might have got I 
dare say—fourteen hundred pounds. And how came he not 
to have settled that matter before this person’s death?—NOW 
indeed it would be too late to sell it, but a man of Colonel 
Brandon’s sense!—I wonder he should be so improvident in 
a point of such common, such natural, concern!—Well, I 
am convinced that there is a vast deal of inconsistency in 
almost every human character. I suppose, however—on 
recollection—that the case may probably be THIS. Edward 
is only to hold the living till the person to whom the Colo-
nel has really sold the presentation, is old enough to take 
it.—Aye, aye, that is the fact, depend upon it.’


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Elinor contradicted it, however, very positively; and by 
relating that she had herself been employed in conveying 
the offer from Colonel Brandon to Edward, and, therefore, 
must understand the terms on which it was given, obliged 
him to submit to her authority.
‘It is truly astonishing!’—he cried, after hearing what she 
said—‘what could be the Colonel’s motive?’
‘A very simple one—to be of use to Mr. Ferrars.’
‘Well, well; whatever Colonel Brandon may be, Edward 
is a very lucky man.—You will not mention the matter to 
Fanny, however, for though I have broke it to her, and she 
bears it vastly well,—she will not like to hear it much talked 
of.’
Elinor had some difficulty here to refrain from observing, 
that she thought Fanny might have borne with composure, 
an acquisition of wealth to her brother, by which neither she 
nor her child could be possibly impoverished.
‘Mrs. Ferrars,’ added he, lowering his voice to the tone 
becoming so important a subject, ‘knows nothing about it 
at present, and I believe it will be best to keep it entirely con-
cealed from her as long as may be.— When the marriage 
takes place, I fear she must hear of it all.’
‘But why should such precaution be used?—Though it is 
not to be supposed that Mrs. Ferrars can have the smallest 
satisfaction in knowing that her son has money enough to 
live upon,—for THAT must be quite out of the question; 
yet why, upon her late behaviour, is she supposed to feel at 
all?—She has done with her son, she cast him off for ever, 
and has made all those over whom she had any influence, 


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354
cast him off likewise. Surely, after doing so, she cannot be 
imagined liable to any impression of sorrow or of joy on his 
account— she cannot be interested in any thing that befalls 
him.— She would not be so weak as to throw away the com-
fort of a child, and yet retain the anxiety of a parent!’
‘Ah! Elinor,’ said John, ‘your reasoning is very good, but it 
is founded on ignorance of human nature. When Edward’s 
unhappy match takes place, depend upon it his mother will 
feel as much as if she had never discarded him; and, there-
fore every circumstance that may accelerate that dreadful 
event, must be concealed from her as much as possible. Mrs. 
Ferrars can never forget that Edward is her son.’
‘You surprise me; I should think it must nearly have es-
caped her memory by THIS time.’
‘You wrong her exceedingly. Mrs. Ferrars is one of the 
most affectionate mothers in the world.’
Elinor was silent.
‘We think NOW,’—said Mr. Dashwood, after a short 
pause, ‘of ROBERT’S marrying Miss Morton.’
Elinor, smiling at the grave and decisive importance of 
her brother’s tone, calmly replied,
‘The lady, I suppose, has no choice in the affair.’
‘Choice!—how do you mean?’
‘I only mean that I suppose, from your manner of speak-
ing, it must be the same to Miss Morton whether she marry 
Edward or Robert.’
‘Certainly, there can be no difference; for Robert will 
now to all intents and purposes be considered as the eldest 
son;—and as to any thing else, they are both very agree-


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able young men: I do not know that one is superior to the 
other.’
Elinor said no more, and John was also for a short time 
silent.—His reflections ended thus.
‘Of ONE thing, my dear sister,’ kindly taking her hand, 
and speaking in an awful whisper,—‘I may assure you;— 
and I WILL do it, because I know it must gratify you. I have 
good reason to think—indeed I have it from the best au-
thority, or I should not repeat it, for otherwise it would be 
very wrong to say any thing about it—but I have it from 
the very best authority—not that I ever precisely heard Mrs. 
Ferrars say it herself—but her daughter DID, and I have it 
from her—That in short, whatever objections there might be 
against a certain—a certain connection—you understand 
me—it would have been far preferable to her, it would not 
have given her half the vexation that THIS does. I was ex-
ceedingly pleased to hear that Mrs. Ferrars considered it in 
that light— a very gratifying circumstance you know to us 
all. ‘It would have been beyond comparison,’ she said, ‘the 
least evil of the two, and she would be glad to compound 
NOW for nothing worse.’ But however, all that is quite out 
of the question—not to be thought of or mentioned— as to 
any attachment you know—it never could be—all that is 
gone by. But I thought I would just tell you of this, because 
I knew how much it must please you. Not that you have any 
reason to regret, my dear Elinor. There is no doubt of your 
doing exceedingly well—quite as well, or better, perhaps, 
all things considered. Has Colonel Brandon been with you 
lately?’


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Elinor had heard enough, if not to gratify her vanity, 
and raise her self-importance, to agitate her nerves and fill 
her mind;—and she was therefore glad to be spared from 
the necessity of saying much in reply herself, and from the 
danger of hearing any thing more from her brother, by the 
entrance of Mr. Robert Ferrars. After a few moments’ chat, 
John Dashwood, recollecting that Fanny was yet unin-
formed of her sister’s being there, quitted the room in quest 
of her; and Elinor was left to improve her acquaintance with 
Robert, who, by the gay unconcern, the happy self-compla-
cency of his manner while enjoying so unfair a division of 
his mother’s love and liberality, to the prejudice of his ban-
ished brother, earned only by his own dissipated course of 
life, and that brother’s integrity, was confirming her most 
unfavourable opinion of his head and heart.
They had scarcely been two minutes by themselves, be-
fore he began to speak of Edward; for he, too, had heard 
of the living, and was very inquisitive on the subject. Eli-
nor repeated the particulars of it, as she had given them 
to John; and their effect on Robert, though very different, 
was not less striking than it had been on HIM. He laughed 
most immoderately. The idea of Edward’s being a clergy-
man, and living in a small parsonage-house, diverted him 
beyond measure;—and when to that was added the fanciful 
imagery of Edward reading prayers in a white surplice, and 
publishing the banns of marriage between John Smith and 
Mary Brown, he could conceive nothing more ridiculous.
Elinor, while she waited in silence and immovable grav-
ity, the conclusion of such folly, could not restrain her eyes 


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from being fixed on him with a look that spoke all the con-
tempt it excited. It was a look, however, very well bestowed, 
for it relieved her own feelings, and gave no intelligence to 
him. He was recalled from wit to wisdom, not by any re-
proof of her’s, but by his own sensibility.
‘We may treat it as a joke,’ said he, at last, recovering 
from the affected laugh which had considerably length-
ened out the genuine gaiety of the moment—‘but, upon my 
soul, it is a most serious business. Poor Edward! he is ru-
ined for ever. I am extremely sorry for it— for I know him 
to be a very good-hearted creature; as well-meaning a fellow 
perhaps, as any in the world. You must not judge of him, 
Miss Dashwood, from YOUR slight acquaintance.—Poor 
Edward!—His manners are certainly not the happiest in 
nature.—But we are not all born, you know, with the same 
powers,—the same address.— Poor fellow!—to see him in a 
circle of strangers!— to be sure it was pitiable enough!—but 
upon my soul, I believe he has as good a heart as any in the 
kingdom; and I declare and protest to you I never was so 
shocked in my life, as when it all burst forth. I could not 
believe it.— My mother was the first person who told me of 
it; and I, feeling myself called on to act with resolution, im-
mediately said to her, ‘My dear madam, I do not know what 
you may intend to do on the occasion, but as for myself, 
I must say, that if Edward does marry this young woman, 
I never will see him again.’ That was what I said immedi-
ately.— I was most uncommonly shocked, indeed!—Poor 
Edward!—he has done for himself completely—shut him-
self out for ever from all decent society!—but, as I directly 


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said to my mother, I am not in the least surprised at it; from 
his style of education, it was always to be expected. My poor 
mother was half frantic.’
‘Have you ever seen the lady?’
‘Yes; once, while she was staying in this house, I hap-
pened to drop in for ten minutes; and I saw quite enough 
of her. The merest awkward country girl, without style, or 
elegance, and almost without beauty.— I remember her 
perfectly. Just the kind of girl I should suppose likely to cap-
tivate poor Edward. I offered immediately, as soon as my 
mother related the affair to me, to talk to him myself, and 
dissuade him from the match; but it was too late THEN, I 
found, to do any thing, for unluckily, I was not in the way 
at first, and knew nothing of it till after the breach had tak-
en place, when it was not for me, you know, to interfere. 
But had I been informed of it a few hours earlier—I think it 
is most probable—that something might have been hit on. 
I certainly should have represented it to Edward in a very 
strong light. ‘My dear fellow,’ I should have said, ‘consider 
what you are doing. You are making a most disgraceful con-
nection, and such a one as your family are unanimous in 
disapproving.’ I cannot help thinking, in short, that means 
might have been found. But now it is all too late. He must be 
starved, you know;— that is certain; absolutely starved.’
He had just settled this point with great composure, 
when the entrance of Mrs. John Dashwood put an end to 
the subject. But though SHE never spoke of it out of her 
own family, Elinor could see its influence on her mind, in 
the something like confusion of countenance with which 


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she entered, and an attempt at cordiality in her behaviour to 
herself. She even proceeded so far as to be concerned to find 
that Elinor and her sister were so soon to leave town, as she 
had hoped to see more of them;—an exertion in which her 
husband, who attended her into the room, and hung enam-
oured over her accents, seemed to distinguish every thing 
that was most affectionate and graceful.


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O
ne other short call in Harley Street, in which Elinor 
received her brother’s congratulations on their trav-
elling so far towards Barton without any expense, and on 
Colonel Brandon’s being to follow them to Cleveland in a 
day or two, completed the intercourse of the brother and 
sisters in town;—and a faint invitation from Fanny, to come 
to Norland whenever it should happen to be in their way, 
which of all things was the most unlikely to occur, with a 
more warm, though less public, assurance, from John to 
Elinor, of the promptitude with which he should come to 
see her at Delaford, was all that foretold any meeting in the 
country.
It amused her to observe that all her friends seemed de-
termined to send her to Delaford;—a place, in which, of all 
others, she would now least chuse to visit, or wish to reside; 
for not only was it considered as her future home by her 
brother and Mrs. Jennings, but even Lucy, when they part-
ed, gave her a pressing invitation to visit her there.
Very early in April, and tolerably early in the day, the 
two parties from Hanover Square and Berkeley Street set 
out from their respective homes, to meet, by appointment, 
on the road. For the convenience of Charlotte and her child, 
they were to be more than two days on their journey, and 
Mr. Palmer, travelling more expeditiously with Colonel 


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Brandon, was to join them at Cleveland soon after their ar-
rival.
Marianne, few as had been her hours of comfort in Lon-
don, and eager as she had long been to quit it, could not, 
when it came to the point, bid adieu to the house in which 
she had for the last time enjoyed those hopes, and that con-
fidence, in Willoughby, which were now extinguished for 
ever, without great pain. Nor could she leave the place in 
which Willoughby remained, busy in new engagements, 
and new schemes, in which SHE could have no share, with-
out shedding many tears.
Elinor’s satisfaction, at the moment of removal, was more 
positive. She had no such object for her lingering thoughts to 
fix on, she left no creature behind, from whom it would give 
her a moment’s regret to be divided for ever, she was pleased 
to be free herself from the persecution of Lucy’s friendship, 
she was grateful for bringing her sister away unseen by Wil-
loughby since his marriage, and she looked forward with 
hope to what a few months of tranquility at Barton might 
do towards restoring Marianne’s peace of mind, and con-
firming her own.
Their journey was safely performed. The second day 
brought them into the cherished, or the prohibited, county 
of Somerset, for as such was it dwelt on by turns in Mari-
anne’s imagination; and in the forenoon of the third they 
drove up to Cleveland.
Cleveland was a spacious, modern-built house, situated 
on a sloping lawn. It had no park, but the pleasure-grounds 
were tolerably extensive; and like every other place of the 


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same degree of importance, it had its open shrubbery, and 
closer wood walk, a road of smooth gravel winding round 
a plantation, led to the front, the lawn was dotted over with 
timber, the house itself was under the guardianship of the 
fir, the mountain-ash, and the acacia, and a thick screen of 
them altogether, interspersed with tall Lombardy poplars, 
shut out the offices.
Marianne entered the house with a heart swelling with 
emotion from the consciousness of being only eighty miles 
from Barton, and not thirty from Combe Magna; and be-
fore she had been five minutes within its walls, while the 
others were busily helping Charlotte to show her child to the 
housekeeper, she quitted it again, stealing away through the 
winding shrubberies, now just beginning to be in beauty, 
to gain a distant eminence; where, from its Grecian tem-
ple, her eye, wandering over a wide tract of country to the 
south-east, could fondly rest on the farthest ridge of hills 
in the horizon, and fancy that from their summits Combe 
Magna might be seen.
In such moments of precious, invaluable misery, she 
rejoiced in tears of agony to be at Cleveland; and as she 
returned by a different circuit to the house, feeling all the 
happy privilege of country liberty, of wandering from place 
to place in free and luxurious solitude, she resolved to spend 
almost every hour of every day while she remained with the 
Palmers, in the indulgence of such solitary rambles.
She returned just in time to join the others as they quit-
ted the house, on an excursion through its more immediate 
premises; and the rest of the morning was easily whiled 


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away, in lounging round the kitchen garden, examining the 
bloom upon its walls, and listening to the gardener’s lamen-
tations upon blights, in dawdling through the green-house, 
where the loss of her favourite plants, unwarily exposed, 
and nipped by the lingering frost, raised the laughter of 
Charlotte,—and in visiting her poultry-yard, where, in the 
disappointed hopes of her dairy-maid, by hens forsaking 
their nests, or being stolen by a fox, or in the rapid decrease 
of a promising young brood, she found fresh sources of 
merriment.
The morning was fine and dry, and Marianne, in her plan 
of employment abroad, had not calculated for any change of 
weather during their stay at Cleveland. With great surprise 
therefore, did she find herself prevented by a settled rain 
from going out again after dinner. She had depended on a 
twilight walk to the Grecian temple, and perhaps all over 
the grounds, and an evening merely cold or damp would 
not have deterred her from it; but a heavy and settled rain 
even SHE could not fancy dry or pleasant weather for walk-
ing.
Their party was small, and the hours passed quiet-
ly away. Mrs. Palmer had her child, and Mrs. Jennings 
her carpet-work; they talked of the friends they had left
 
behind, arranged Lady Middleton’s engagements, and won-
dered whether Mr. Palmer and Colonel Brandon would get 
farther than Reading that night. Elinor, however little con-
cerned in it, joined in their discourse; and Marianne, who 
had the knack of finding her way in every house to the li-
brary, however it might be avoided by the family in general, 


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soon procured herself a book.
Nothing was wanting on Mrs. Palmer’s side that con-
stant and friendly good humour could do, to make them 
feel themselves welcome. The openness and heartiness of 
her manner more than atoned for that want of recollection 
and elegance which made her often deficient in the forms of 
politeness; her kindness, recommended by so pretty a face, 
was engaging; her folly, though evident was not disgusting, 
because it was not conceited; and Elinor could have forgiv-
en every thing but her laugh.
The two gentlemen arrived the next day to a very late 
dinner, affording a pleasant enlargement of the party, and 
a very welcome variety to their conversation, which a long 
morning of the same continued rain had reduced very low.
Elinor had seen so little of Mr. Palmer, and in that lit-
tle had seen so much variety in his address to her sister 
and herself, that she knew not what to expect to find him 
in his own family. She found him, however, perfectly the 
gentleman in his behaviour to all his visitors, and only oc-
casionally rude to his wife and her mother; she found him 
very capable of being a pleasant companion, and only pre-
vented from being so always, by too great an aptitude to 
fancy himself as much superior to people in general, as he 
must feel himself to be to Mrs. Jennings and Charlotte. For 
the rest of his character and habits, they were marked, as far 
as Elinor could perceive, with no traits at all unusual in his 
sex and time of life. He was nice in his eating, uncertain in 
his hours; fond of his child, though affecting to slight it; and 
idled away the mornings at billiards, which ought to have 


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been devoted to business. She liked him, however, upon the 
whole, much better than she had expected, and in her heart 
was not sorry that she could like him no more;— not sorry 
to be driven by the observation of his Epicurism, his self-
ishness, and his conceit, to rest with complacency on the 
remembrance of Edward’s generous temper, simple taste, 
and diffident feelings.
Of Edward, or at least of some of his concerns, she now 
received intelligence from Colonel Brandon, who had been 
into Dorsetshire lately; and who, treating her at once as the 
disinterested friend of Mr. Ferrars, and the kind of confi-
dant of himself, talked to her a great deal of the parsonage 
at Delaford, described its deficiencies, and told her what he 
meant to do himself towards removing them.—His behav-
iour to her in this, as well as in every other particular, his 
open pleasure in meeting her after an absence of only ten 
days, his readiness to converse with her, and his deference 
for her opinion, might very well justify Mrs. Jennings’s per-
suasion of his attachment, and would have been enough, 
perhaps, had not Elinor still, as from the first, believed Mar-
ianne his real favourite, to make her suspect it herself. But 
as it was, such a notion had scarcely ever entered her head, 
except by Mrs. Jennings’s suggestion; and she could not 
help believing herself the nicest observer of the two;—she 
watched his eyes, while Mrs. Jennings thought only of his 
behaviour;—and while his looks of anxious solicitude on 
Marianne’s feeling, in her head and throat, the beginning 
of a heavy cold, because unexpressed by words, entirely es-
caped the latter lady’s observation;—SHE could discover in 


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them the quick feelings, and needless alarm of a lover.
Two delighful twilight walks on the third and fourth 
evenings of her being there, not merely on the dry gravel 
of the shrubbery, but all over the grounds, and especially in 
the most distant parts of them, where there was something 
more of wildness than in the rest, where the trees were the 
oldest, and the grass was the longest and wettest, had—as-
sisted by the still greater imprudence of sitting in her wet 
shoes and stockings—given Marianne a cold so violent as, 
though for a day or two trifled with or denied, would force 
itself by increasing ailments on the concern of every body, 
and the notice of herself. Prescriptions poured in from all 
quarters, and as usual, were all declined. Though heavy and 
feverish, with a pain in her limbs, and a cough, and a sore 
throat, a good night’s rest was to cure her entirely; and it 
was with difficulty that Elinor prevailed on her, when she 
went to bed, to try one or two of the simplest of the rem-
edies.


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Chapter 43
M
arianne got up the next morning at her usual time; to 
every inquiry replied that she was better, and tried to 
prove herself so, by engaging in her accustomary employ-
ments. But a day spent in sitting shivering over the fire with 
a book in her hand, which she was unable to read, or in ly-
ing, weary and languid, on a sofa, did not speak much in 
favour of her amendment; and when, at last, she went early 
to bed, more and more indisposed, Colonel Brandon was 
only astonished at her sister’s composure, who, though at-
tending and nursing her the whole day, against Marianne 
inclination, and forcing proper medicines on her at night, 
trusted, like Marianne, to the certainty and efficacy of sleep, 
and felt no real alarm.
A very restless and feverish night, however, disappointed 
the expectation of both; and when Marianne, after persist-
ing in rising, confessed herself unable to sit up, and returned 
voluntarily to her bed, Elinor was very ready to adopt Mrs. 
Jennings’s advice, of sending for the Palmers’ apothecary.
He came, examined his patient, and though encouraging 
Miss Dashwood to expect that a very few days would restore 
her sister to health, yet, by pronouncing her disorder to have 
a putrid tendency, and allowing the word ‘infection’ to pass 
his lips, gave instant alarm to Mrs. Palmer, on her baby’s ac-
count. Mrs. Jennings, who had been inclined from the first 


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to think Marianne’s complaint more serious than Elinor, 
now looked very grave on Mr. Harris’s report, and con-
firming Charlotte’s fears and caution, urged the necessity 
of her immediate removal with her infant; and Mr. Palmer, 
though treating their apprehensions as idle, found the anxi-
ety and importunity of his wife too great to be withstood. 
Her departure, therefore, was fixed on; and within an hour 
after Mr. Harris’s arrival, she set off, with her little boy and 
his nurse, for the house of a near relation of Mr. Palmer’s, 
who lived a few miles on the other side of Bath; whither her 
husband promised, at her earnest entreaty, to join her in a 
day or two; and whither she was almost equally urgent with 
her mother to accompany her. Mrs. Jennings, however, with 
a kindness of heart which made Elinor really love her, de-
clared her resolution of not stirring from Cleveland as long 
as Marianne remained ill, and of endeavouring, by her own 
attentive care, to supply to her the place of the mother she 
had taken her from; and Elinor found her on every occasion 
a most willing and active helpmate, desirous to share in all 
her fatigues, and often by her better experience in nursing, 
of material use.
Poor Marianne, languid and low from the nature of her 
malady, and feeling herself universally ill, could no longer 
hope that tomorrow would find her recovered; and the idea 
of what tomorrow would have produced, but for this un-
lucky illness, made every ailment severe; for on that day 
they were to have begun their journey home; and, attended 
the whole way by a servant of Mrs. Jennings, were to have 
taken their mother by surprise on the following forenoon. 


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The little she said was all in lamentation of this inevitable 
delay; though Elinor tried to raise her spirits, and make her 
believe, as she THEN really believed herself, that it would 
be a very short one.
The next day produced little or no alteration in the state 
of the patient; she certainly was not better, and, except that 
there was no amendment, did not appear worse. Their party 
was now farther reduced; for Mr. Palmer, though very un-
willing to go as well from real humanity and good-nature, 
as from a dislike of appearing to be frightened away by his 
wife, was persuaded at last by Colonel Brandon to perform 
his promise of following her; and while he was preparing to 
go, Colonel Brandon himself, with a much greater exertion, 
began to talk of going likewise.—Here, however, the kind-
ness of Mrs. Jennings interposed most acceptably; for to 
send the Colonel away while his love was in so much uneas-
iness on her sister’s account, would be to deprive them both, 
she thought, of every comfort; and therefore telling him at 
once that his stay at Cleveland was necessary to herself, that 
she should want him to play at piquet of an evening, while 
Miss Dashwood was above with her sister, &c. she urged 
him so strongly to remain, that he, who was gratifying the 
first wish of his own heart by a compliance, could not long 
even affect to demur; especially as Mrs. Jennings’s entreaty 
was warmly seconded by Mr. Palmer, who seemed to feel a 
relief to himself, in leaving behind him a person so well able 
to assist or advise Miss Dashwood in any emergence.
Marianne was, of course, kept in ignorance of all these 
arrangements. She knew not that she had been the means of 


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sending the owners of Cleveland away, in about seven days 
from the time of their arrival. It gave her no surprise that 
she saw nothing of Mrs. Palmer; and as it gave her likewise 
no concern, she never mentioned her name.
Two days passed away from the time of Mr. Palmer’s de-
parture, and her situation continued, with little variation, 
the same. Mr. Harris, who attended her every day, still talk-
ed boldly of a speedy recovery, and Miss Dashwood was 
equally sanguine; but the expectation of the others was by 
no means so cheerful. Mrs. Jennings had determined very 
early in the seizure that Marianne would never get over it, 
and Colonel Brandon, who was chiefly of use in listening to 
Mrs. Jennings’s forebodings, was not in a state of 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 the many hours of each day in which he 
was left entirely alone, were but too favourable for the ad-
mission of every melancholy idea, and he could not expel 
from his mind the persuasion that he should see Marianne 
no more.
On the morning of the third day however, the gloomy 
anticipations of both were almost done away; for when Mr. 
Harris arrived, he declared his patient materially better. 
Her pulse was much stronger, and every symptom more fa-
vourable 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 her own judg-
ment rather than her friend’s, in making very light of the 
indisposition which delayed them at Cleveland; and almost 


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fixing on the time when Marianne would be able to travel.
But the day did not close so auspiciously as it began.— 
Towards the evening Marianne became ill again, growing 
more heavy, restless, and uncomfortable than before. Her 
sister, however, still sanguine, was willing to attribute the 
change to nothing more than the fatigue of having sat up 
to have her bed made; and carefully administering the cor-
dials prescribed, saw her, with satisfaction, sink at last into 
a slumber, from which she expected the most beneficial ef-
fects. Her sleep, though not so quiet as Elinor wished to see 
it, lasted a considerable time; and anxious to observe the 
result of it herself, she resolved to sit with her during the 
whole of it. Mrs. Jennings, knowing nothing of any change 
in the patient, went unusually early to bed; her maid, who 
was one of the principal nurses, was recreating herself in 
the housekeeper’s room, and Elinor remained alone with 
Marianne.
The repose of the latter became more and more dis-
turbed; and her sister, who watched, with unremitting 
attention her continual change of posture, and heard the 
frequent but inarticulate sounds of complaint which passed 
her lips, was almost wishing to rouse her from so painful 
a slumber, when Marianne, suddenly awakened by some 
accidental noise in the house, started hastily up, and, with 
feverish wildness, cried out,—
‘Is mama coming?—‘
‘Not yet,’ cried the other, concealing her terror, and as-
sisting Marianne to lie down again, ‘but she will be here, 
I hope, before it is long. It is a great way, you know, from 


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hence to Barton.’
‘But she must not go round by London,’ cried Marianne, 
in the same hurried manner. ‘I shall never see her, if she 
goes by London.’
Elinor perceived with alarm that she was not quite her-
self, and, while attempting to soothe her, eagerly felt her 
pulse. It was lower and quicker than ever! and Marianne, 
still talking wildly of mama, her alarm increased so rapidly, 
as to determine her on sending instantly for Mr. Harris, and 
despatching a messenger to Barton for her mother. To con-
sult with Colonel Brandon on the best means of effecting 
the latter, was a thought which immediately followed the 
resolution of its performance; and as soon she had rung up 
the maid to take her place by her sister, she hastened down 
to the drawing-room, where she knew he was generally to 
be found at a much later hour than the present.
It was no time for hesitation. Her fears and her diffi-
culties were immediately before him. Her fears, he had no 
courage, no confidence to attempt the removal of:— he lis-
tened to them in silent despondence;—but her difficulties 
were instantly obviated, for with a readiness that seemed 
to speak the occasion, and the service pre-arranged in his 
mind, he offered himself as the messenger who should fetch 
Mrs. Dashwood. Elinor made no resistance that was not 
easily overcome. She thanked him with brief, though fer-
vent gratitude, and while he went to hurry off his servant 
with a message to Mr. Harris, and an order for post-horses 
directly, she wrote a few lines to her mother.
The comfort of such a friend at that moment as Colo-


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nel Brandon—or such a companion for her mother,—how 
gratefully was it felt!—a companion whose judgment would 
guide, whose attendance must relieve, and whose friendship 
might soothe her!—as far as the shock of such a summons 
COULD be lessened to her, his presence, his manners, his 
assistance, would lessen it.
HE, meanwhile, whatever he might feel, acted with all 
the firmness of a collected mind, made every necessary ar-
rangement with the utmost despatch, and calculated with 
exactness the time in which she might look for his return. 
Not a moment was lost in delay of any kind. The horses ar-
rived, even before they were expected, and Colonel Brandon 
only pressing her hand with a look of solemnity, and a few 
words spoken too low to reach her ear, hurried into the car-
riage. It was then about twelve o’clock, and she returned to 
her sister’s apartment to wait for the arrival of the apothe-
cary, and to watch by her the rest of the night. It was a night 
of almost equal suffering to both. Hour after hour passed 
away in sleepless pain and delirium on Marianne’s side, and 
in the most cruel anxiety on Elinor’s, before Mr. Harris ap-
peared. Her apprehensions once raised, paid by their excess 
for all her former security; and the servant who sat up with 
her, for she would not allow Mrs. Jennings to be called, only 
tortured her more, by hints of what her mistress had always 
thought.
Marianne’s ideas were still, at intervals, fixed incoherent-
ly on her mother, and whenever she mentioned her name, 
it gave a pang to the heart of poor Elinor, who, reproaching 
herself for having trifled with so many days of illness, and 


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wretched for some immediate relief, fancied that all relief 
might soon be in vain, that every thing had been delayed 
too long, and pictured to herself her suffering mother arriv-
ing too late to see this darling child, or to see her rational.
She was on the point of sending again for Mr. Harris, 
or if HE could not come, for some other advice, when the 
former—but not till after five o’clock—arrived. His opin-
ion, however, made some little amends for his delay, for 
though acknowledging a very unexpected and unpleasant 
alteration in his patient, he would not allow the danger to 
be material, and talked of the relief which a fresh mode of 
treatment must procure, with a confidence which, in a less-
er degree, was communicated to Elinor. He promised to call 
again in the course of three or four hours, and left both the 
patient and her anxious attendant more composed than he 
had found them.
With strong concern, and with many reproaches for not 
being called to their aid, did Mrs. Jennings hear in the morn-
ing of what had passed. Her former apprehensions, now 
with greater reason restored, left her no doubt of the event; 
and though trying to speak comfort to Elinor, her convic-
tion of her sister’s danger would not allow her to offer the 
comfort of hope. Her heart was really grieved. The rapid de-
cay, the early death of a girl so young, so lovely as Marianne, 
must have struck a less interested person with concern. On 
Mrs. Jennings’s compassion she had other claims. She had 
been for three months her companion, was still under her 
care, and she was known to have been greatly injured, and 
long unhappy. The distress of her sister too, particularly a 


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favourite, was before her;—and as for their mother, when 
Mrs. Jennings considered that Marianne might probably be 
to HER what Charlotte was to herself, her sympathy in HER 
sufferings was very sincere.
Mr. Harris was punctual in his second visit;— but he 
came to be disappointed in his hopes of what the last would 
produce. His medicines had failed;—the fever was unabated; 
and Marianne only more quiet—not more herself—re-
mained 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 still something 
more to try, some more fresh application, of whose success 
he was as confident as the last, and his visit concluded with 
encouraging assurances which reached the ear, but could 
not enter the heart of Miss Dashwood. She was calm, ex-
cept when she thought of her mother; but she was almost 
hopeless; and in this state she continued till noon, scarcely 
stirring from her sister’s bed, her thoughts wandering from 
one image of grief, one suffering friend to another, and 
her spirits oppressed to the utmost by the conversation of 
Mrs. Jennings, who scrupled not to attribute the severity 
and danger of this attack to the many weeks of previous in-
disposition which Marianne’s disappointment had brought 
on. Elinor felt all the reasonableness of the idea, and it gave 
fresh misery to her reflections.
About noon, however, she began—but with a caution—
a dread of disappointment which for some time kept her 
silent, even to her friend—to fancy, to hope she could per-
ceive a slight amendment in her sister’s pulse;—she waited, 


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watched, and examined it again and again;—and at last, 
with an agitation more difficult to bury under exterior 
calmness, than all her foregoing distress, ventured to com-
municate her hopes. Mrs. Jennings, though forced, on 
examination, to acknowledge a temporary revival, tried to 
keep her young friend from indulging a thought of its con-
tinuance;— and Elinor, conning over every injunction of 
distrust, told herself likewise not to hope. But it was too late. 
Hope had already entered; and feeling all its anxious flutter, 
she bent over her sister to watch—she hardly knew for what. 
Half an hour passed away, and the favourable symptom yet 
blessed her. Others even arose to confirm it. Her breath, 
her skin, her lips, all flattered Elinor with signs of amend-
ment; and Marianne fixed her eyes on her with a rational, 
though languid, gaze. Anxiety and hope now oppressed 
her in equal degrees, and left her no moment of tranquil-
lity till the arrival of Mr. Harris at four o’clock;—when his 
assurances, his felicitations on a recovery in her sister even 
surpassing his expectation, gave her confidence, comfort, 
and tears of joy.
Marianne was in every respect materially better, and he 
declared her entirely out of danger. Mrs. Jennings, perhaps 
satisfied with the partial justification of her forebodings 
which had been found in their late alarm, allowed herself 
to trust in his judgment, and admitted, with unfeigned joy, 
and soon with unequivocal cheerfulness, the probability of 
an entire recovery.
Elinor could not be cheerful. Her joy was of a different 
kind, and led to any thing rather than to gaiety. Marianne 


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restored to life, health, friends, and to her doting mother, 
was an idea to fill her heart with sensations of exquisite 
comfort, and expand it in fervent gratitude;— but it lead to 
no outward demonstrations of joy, no words, no smiles. All 
within Elinor’s breast was satisfaction, silent and strong.
She continued by the side of her sister, with little inter-
mission the whole afternoon, calming every fear, satisfying 
every inquiry of her enfeebled spirits, supplying every suc-
cour, and watching almost every look and every breath. The 
possibility of a relapse would of course, in some moments, 
occur to remind her of what anxiety was— but when she 
saw, on her frequent and minute examination, that every 
symptom of recovery continued, and saw Marianne at six 
o’clock sink into a quiet, steady, and to all appearance com-
fortable, sleep, she silenced every doubt.
The time was now drawing on, when Colonel Brandon 
might be expected back. At ten o’clock, she trusted, or at 
least not much later her mother would be relieved from the 
dreadful suspense in which she must now be travelling to-
wards them. The Colonel, too!—perhaps scarcely less an 
object of pity!—Oh!—how slow was the progress of time 
which yet kept them in ignorance!
At seven o’clock, leaving Marianne still sweetly asleep, 
she joined Mrs. Jennings in the drawing-room to tea. Of 
breakfast she had been kept by her fears, and of dinner by 
their sudden reverse, from eating much;— and the pres-
ent refreshment, therefore, with such feelings of content as 
she brought to it, was particularly welcome. Mrs. Jennings 
would have persuaded her, at its conclusion, to take some 


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rest before her mother’s arrival, and allow HER to take her 
place by Marianne; but Elinor had no sense of fatigue, no 
capability of sleep at that moment about her, and she was 
not to be kept away from her sister an unnecessary instant. 
Mrs. Jennings therefore attending her up stairs into the sick 
chamber, to satisfy herself that all continued right, left her 
there again to her charge and her thoughts, and retired to 
her own room to write letters and sleep.
The night was cold and stormy. The wind roared round 
the house, and the rain beat against the windows; but Eli-
nor, all happiness within, regarded it not. Marianne slept 
through every blast; and the travellers— they had a rich re-
ward in store, for every present inconvenience.
The clock struck eight. Had it been ten, Elinor would 
have been convinced that at that moment she heard a 
carriage driving up to the house; and so strong was the per-
suasion that she DID, in spite of the ALMOST impossibility 
of their being already come, that she moved into the ad-
joining dressing-closet and opened a window shutter, to be 
satisfied of the truth. She instantly saw that her ears had not 
deceived her. The flaring lamps of a carriage were immedi-
ately in view. By their uncertain light she thought she could 
discern it to be drawn by four horses; and this, while it told 
the excess of her poor mother’s alarm, gave some explana-
tion to such unexpected rapidity.
Never in her life had Elinor found it so difficult to be 
calm, as at that moment. The knowledge of what her moth-
er must be feeling as the carriage stopt at the door— of her 
doubt—her dread—perhaps her despair!—and of what SHE 


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had to tell!—with such knowledge it was impossible to be 
calm. All that remained to be done was to be speedy; and, 
therefore staying only till she could leave Mrs. Jennings’s 
maid with her sister, she hurried down stairs.
The bustle in the vestibule, as she passed along an in-
ner lobby, assured her that they were already in the house. 
She rushed to the drawing-room,—she entered it,—and saw 
only Willoughby.


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Chapter 44
E
linor, starting back with a look of horror at the sight 
of him, obeyed the first impulse of her heart in turn-
ing instantly to quit the room, and her hand was already 
on the lock, when its action was suspended by his hastily 
advancing, and saying, in a voice rather of command than 
supplication,
‘Miss Dashwood, for half an hour—for ten minutes— I 
entreat you to stay.’
‘No, sir,’ she replied with firmness, ‘I shall NOT stay. 
Your business cannot be with ME. The servants, I suppose, 
forgot to tell you that Mr. Palmer was not in the house.’
‘Had they told me,’ he cried with vehemence, ‘that Mr. 
Palmer and all his relations were at the devil, it would not 
have turned me from the door. My business is with you, and 
only you.’
‘With me!’—in the utmost amazement—‘well, sir,— be 
quick—and if you can—less violent.’
‘Sit down, and I will be both.’
She hesitated; she knew not what to do. The possibility 
of Colonel Brandon’s arriving and finding her there, came 
across her. But she had promised to hear him, and her curi-
osity no less than her honor was engaged. After a moment’s 
recollection, therefore, concluding that prudence required 
dispatch, and that her acquiescence would best promote it, 


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she walked silently towards the table, and sat down. He took 
the opposite chair, and for half a minute not a word was said 
by either.
‘Pray be quick, sir,’—said Elinor, impatiently;— ‘I have 
no time to spare.’
He was sitting in an attitude of deep meditation, and 
seemed not to hear her.
‘Your sister,’ said he, with abruptness, a moment after-
wards—‘is out of danger. I heard it from the servant. God 
be praised!—But is it true? is it really true?’
Elinor would not speak. He repeated the inquiry with yet 
greater eagerness.
‘For God’s sake tell me, is she out of danger, or is she 
not?’
‘We hope she is.’
He rose up, and walked across the room.
‘Had I known as much half an hour ago—But since I AM 
here,’—speaking with a forced vivacity as he returned to his 
seat—‘what does it signify?—For once, Miss Dashwood—it 
will be the last time, perhaps—let us be cheerful togeth-
er.—I am in a fine mood for gaiety.— Tell me honestly’—a 
deeper glow overspreading his cheeks— ‘do you think me 
most a knave or a fool?’
Elinor looked at him with greater astonishment than 
ever. She began to think that be must be in liquor;—the 
strangeness of such a visit, and of such manners, seemed no 
otherwise intelligible; and with this impression she imme-
diately rose, saying,
‘Mr. Willoughby, I advise you at present to return to 


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Combe—I am not at leisure to remain with you longer.— 
Whatever your business may be with me, will it be better 
recollected and explained to-morrow.’
‘I understand you,’ he replied, with an expressive smile, 
and a voice perfectly calm; ‘yes, I am very drunk.— A pint 
of porter with my cold beef at Marlborough was enough to 
over-set me.’
‘At Marlborough!’—cried Elinor, more and more at a loss 
to understand what he would be at.
‘Yes,—I left London this morning at eight o’clock, and 
the only ten minutes I have spent out of my chaise since that 
time procured me a nuncheon at Marlborough.’
The steadiness of his manner, and the intelligence of his 
eye as he spoke, convincing Elinor, that whatever other un-
pardonable folly might bring him to Cleveland, he was not 
brought there by intoxication, she said, after a moment’s 
recollection,
‘Mr. Willoughby, you OUGHT to feel, and I certainly 
DO—that after what has passed—your coming here in this 
manner, and forcing yourself upon my notice, requires a 
very particular excuse.—What is it, that you mean by it?’—
‘I mean,’—said he, with serious energy—‘if I can, to make 
you hate me one degree less than you do NOW. I mean to 
offer some kind of explanation, some kind of apology, for 
the past; to open my whole heart to you, and by convincing 
you, that though I have been always a blockhead, I have not 
been always a rascal, to obtain something like forgiveness 
from Ma—from your sister.’
‘Is this the real reason of your coming?’


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‘Upon my soul it is,’—was his answer, with a warmth 
which brought all the former Willoughby to her remem-
brance, and in spite of herself made her think him sincere.
‘If that is all, you may be satisfied already,— for Mari-
anne DOES—she has LONG forgiven you.’
‘Has she?’—he cried, in the same eager tone.— ‘Then she 
has forgiven me before she ought to have done it. But she 
shall forgive me again, and on more reasonable grounds.—
NOW will you listen to me?’
Elinor bowed her assent.
‘I do not know,’ said he, after a pause of expectation on 
her side, and thoughtfulness on his own,—‘how YOU may 
have accounted for my behaviour to your sister, or what dia-
bolical motive you may have imputed to me.— Perhaps you 
will hardly think the better of me,—it is worth the trial how-
ever, and you shall hear every thing. When I first became 
intimate in your family, I had no other intention, no other 
view in the acquaintance than to pass my time pleasantly 
while I was obliged to remain in Devonshire, more pleas-
antly than I had ever done before. Your sister’s lovely person 
and interesting manners could not but please me; and her 
behaviour to me almost from the first, was of a kind—It is 
astonishing, when I reflect on what it was, and what SHE 
was, that my heart should have been so insensible! But at 
first I must confess, my vanity only was elevated by it. Care-
less of her happiness, thinking only of my own amusement, 
giving way to feelings which I had always been too much in 
the habit of indulging, I endeavoured, by every means in my 
power, to make myself pleasing to her, without any design 


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of returning her affection.’
Miss Dashwood, at this point, turning her eyes on him 
with the most angry contempt, stopped him, by saying,
‘It is hardly worth while, Mr. Willoughby, for you to re-
late, or for me to listen any longer. Such a beginning as this 
cannot be followed by 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 in the habit of associating with people of better in-
come than myself. Every year since my coming of age, or 
even before, I believe, had added to my debts; and though 
the death of my old cousin, Mrs. Smith, was to set me free; 
yet that event being uncertain, and possibly far distant, it 
had been for some time my intention to re-establish my 
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 
no indignant, 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 may be said for me: even in 
that horrid state of selfish vanity, I did not know the extent 
of the injury I meditated, because I did not THEN know 
what it was to love. But have I ever known it?—Well may it 
be doubted; for, had I really loved, could I have sacrificed 
my feelings to vanity, to avarice?—or, what is more, could I 
have sacrificed hers?— But I have done it. To avoid a com-
parative poverty, which her affection and her society would 


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have deprived of all its horrors, I have, by raising myself to 
affluence, lost every thing that could make it a blessing.’
‘You did then,’ said Elinor, a little softened, ‘believe your-
self at one time attached to her?’
‘To have resisted such attractions, to have withstood 
such tenderness!—Is there a man on earth who could have 
done it?—Yes, I found myself, by insensible degrees, sin-
cerely fond of her; and the happiest hours of my life were 
what I spent with her when I felt my intentions were strict-
ly honourable, and my feelings blameless. Even THEN, 
however, when fully determined on paying my addresses 
to her, I allowed myself most improperly to put off, from 
day to day, the moment of doing it, from an unwillingness 
to enter into an engagement while my circumstances were 
so greatly embarrassed. I will not reason here—nor will I 
stop for YOU to expatiate on the absurdity, and the worse 
than absurdity, of scrupling to engage my faith where my 
honour was already bound. The event has proved, that I 
was a cunning fool, providing with great circumspection 
for a possible opportunity of making myself contemptible 
and wretched for ever. At last, however, my resolution was 
taken, and I had determined, as soon as I could engage her 
alone, to justify the attentions I had so invariably paid her, 
and openly assure her of an affection which I had already 
taken such pains to display. But in the interim—in the in-
terim of the very few hours that were to pass, before I could 
have an opportunity of speaking with her in private— a cir-
cumstance occurred—an unlucky circumstance, to ruin all 
my resolution, and with it all my comfort. A discovery took 


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place,’—here he hesitated and looked down.—‘Mrs. Smith 
had somehow or other been informed, I imagine by some 
distant relation, whose interest it was to deprive me of her 
favour, of an affair, a connection—but I need not explain 
myself farther,’ 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, colouring likewise, and harden-
ing her heart anew against any compassion for him, ‘I have 
heard it all. And how you will explain away any part of your 
guilt in that dreadful business, I confess is beyond my com-
prehension.’
‘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 re-
spected by me. I do not mean to justify myself, but at the 
same time cannot leave you to suppose that I have nothing 
to urge—that because she was injured she was irreproach-
able, and because I was a libertine, SHE must be a saint. 
If the violence of her passions, the weakness of her under-
standing—I do not mean, however, to defend myself. Her 
affection for me deserved better treatment, and I often, with 
great self-reproach, recall the tenderness which, for a very 
short time, had the power of creating any return. I wish—
I heartily wish it had never been. But I have injured more 
than herself; and I have injured one, whose affection for 
me—(may I say it?) was scarcely less warm than hers; and 
whose mind—Oh! how infinitely superior!’—
‘Your indifference, however, towards that unfortunate 


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girl—I must say it, unpleasant to me as the discussion of 
such a subject may well be—your indifference is no apology 
for your cruel neglect of her. Do not think yourself excused 
by any weakness, any natural defect of understanding on 
her side, in the wanton cruelty so evident on yours. You 
must have known, that while you were enjoying yourself 
in Devonshire pursuing fresh schemes, always gay, always 
happy, she was reduced to the extremest indigence.’
‘But, upon my soul, I did NOT know it,’ he warmly re-
plied; ‘I did not recollect that I had omitted to give her my 
direction; and common sense might have told her how to 
find it out.’
‘Well, sir, and what said Mrs. Smith?’
‘She taxed me with the offence at once, and my confu-
sion may be guessed. The purity of her life, the formality of 
her 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, to doubt the morality of my conduct in general, and 
was moreover discontented with the very little attention, 
the very little portion of my time that I had bestowed on 
her, in my present visit. In short, it ended in a total breach. 
By one measure I might have saved myself. In the height of 
her morality, good woman! she offered to forgive the past, if 
I would marry Eliza. That could not be—and I was formally 
dismissed from her favour and her house. The night follow-
ing this affair—I was to go the next morning— was spent by 
me in deliberating on what my future conduct should be. 
The struggle was great—but it ended too soon. My affection 


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for Marianne, my thorough conviction of her attachment 
to me—it was all insufficient to outweigh that dread of pov-
erty, or get the better of those false ideas of the necessity of 
riches, which I was naturally inclined to feel, and expensive 
society had increased. I had reason to believe myself secure 
of my present wife, if I chose to address her, and I persuad-
ed myself to think that nothing else in common prudence 
remained for me to do. A heavy scene however awaited me, 
before I could leave Devonshire;—I was engaged to dine 
with you on that very day; some apology was therefore 
necessary for my breaking this engagement. But whether I 
should write this apology, or deliver it in person, was a point 
of long debate. To see Marianne, I felt, would be dreadful, 
and I even doubted whether I could see her again, and keep 
to my resolution. In that point, however, I undervalued my 
own 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?’ said Elinor, 
reproachfully; ‘a note would have answered every pur-
pose.— Why was it necessary to call?’
‘It was necessary to my own pride. I could not bear to 
leave the country in a manner that might lead you, or the 
rest of the neighbourhood, to suspect any part of what had 
really passed between Mrs. Smith and myself— and I re-
solved therefore on calling at the cottage, in my way to 
Honiton. The sight of your dear sister, however, was real-
ly dreadful; and, to heighten the matter, I found her alone. 
You were all gone I do not know where. I had left her only 


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the evening before, so fully, so firmly resolved within my 
self on doing right! A few hours were to have engaged her to 
me for ever; and I remember how happy, how gay were my 
spirits, as I walked from the cottage to Allenham, satisfied 
with myself, delighted with every body! But in this, our last 
interview of friendship, I approached her with a sense of 
guilt that almost took from me the power of dissembling. 
Her sorrow, her disappointment, her deep regret, when I 
told her that I was obliged to leave Devonshire so immedi-
ately—I never shall 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 soon return?’
‘I do not know what I told her,’ he replied, impatient-
ly; ‘less than was due to the past, beyond a doubt, and in 
all likelihood much more than was justified by the future. 
I cannot think of it.—It won’t do.—Then came your dear 
mother to torture me farther, with all her kindness and con-
fidence. Thank Heaven! it DID torture me. I was miserable. 
Miss Dashwood, you cannot have an idea of the comfort 
it gives me to look back on my own misery. I owe such a 
grudge to myself for the stupid, rascally folly of my own 
heart, that all my past sufferings under it are only triumph 
and exultation to me now. Well, I went, left all that I loved, 
and went to those to whom, at best, I was only indifferent. 
My journey to town—travelling with my own horses, and 
therefore so tediously—no creature to speak to—my own 


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reflections so cheerful—when I looked forward every thing 
so inviting!—when I looked back at Barton, the picture so 
soothing!—oh, it was a blessed journey!’
He stopped.
‘Well, sir,’ said Elinor, who, though pitying him, grew 
impatient for his departure, ‘and this is all?’
‘Ah!—no,—have you forgot what passed in town?— That 
infamous letter—Did she shew it you?’
‘Yes, I saw every note that passed.’
‘When the first of hers reached me (as it immediately 
did, for I was in town the whole time,) what I felt is— in 
the common phrase, not to be expressed; in a more sim-
ple one—perhaps too simple to raise any emotion— my 
feelings were very, very painful.—Every line, every word 
was—in the hackneyed metaphor which their dear writer, 
were she here, would forbid—a dagger to my heart. To know 
that Marianne was in town was—in the same language— a 
thunderbolt.—Thunderbolts and daggers!—what a reproof 
would she have given me!—her taste, her opinions—I be-
lieve they are better known to me than my own,—and I am 
sure they are dearer.’
Elinor’s heart, which had undergone many changes in 
the course of this extraordinary conversation, was now soft-
ened again;—yet she 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 you think 
necessary for me to hear.’
‘Marianne’s note, by assuring me that I was still as dear 


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to her as in former days, that in spite of the many, many 
weeks we had been separated, she was as constant in her 
own feelings, and as full of faith in the constancy of mine 
as ever, awakened all my remorse. I say awakened, because 
time and London, business and dissipation, had in some 
measure quieted it, and I had been growing a fine hard-
ened villain, fancying myself indifferent to her, and chusing 
to fancy that she too must have become indifferent to me; 
talking to myself of our past attachment as a mere idle, tri-
fling business, shrugging up my shoulders in proof of its 
being so, and silencing every reproach, overcoming every 
scruple, by secretly saying now and then, ‘I shall be heart-
ily glad to hear she is well married.’— But this note made 
me know myself better. I felt that she was infinitely dearer 
to me than any other woman in the world, and that I was 
using her infamously. But 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 by that to preserve myself from her 
farther notice; and for some time I was even determined not 
to call in Berkeley Street;—but at last, judging it wiser to af-
fect the air of a cool, common acquaintance than anything 
else, I watched you all safely out of the house one morning, 
and left my name.’
‘Watched us out of the house!’
‘Even so. You would be surprised to hear how often I 
watched you, how often I was on the point of falling in with 
you. I have entered many a shop to avoid your sight, as the 
carriage drove by. Lodging as I did in Bond Street, there was 


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392
hardly a day in which I did not catch a glimpse of one or 
other of you; and nothing but the most constant watchful-
ness on my side, a most invariably prevailing desire to keep 
out of your sight, could have separated us so long. I avoided 
the Middletons as much as possible, as well as everybody 
else who was likely to prove an acquaintance in common. 
Not aware of their being in town, however, I blundered on 
Sir John, I believe, the first day of his coming, and the day 
after I had called at Mrs. Jennings’s. He asked me to a party, 
a dance at his house in the evening.—Had he NOT told me 
as an inducement that you and your sister were to be there, 
I should have felt it too certain a thing, to trust myself near 
him. The next morning brought another short note from 
Marianne— still affectionate, open, artless, confiding—ev-
erything that could make 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 weeks were worse than all. Well, at last, as I 
need not tell you, you were forced on me; and what a sweet 
figure I cut!—what an evening of agony it was!— Marianne, 
beautiful as an angel on one side, calling me Willoughby 
in such a tone!—Oh, God!—holding out her hand to me, 
asking me for an explanation, with those bewitching eyes 
fixed in such speaking solicitude on my face!—and So-
phia, jealous as the devil on the other hand, looking all 
that was—Well, it does not signify; it is over now.— Such 


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an evening!—I ran away from you all as soon as I could; 
but not before I had seen Marianne’s sweet face as white as 
death.—THAT was the last, last look I ever had of her;— the 
last manner in which she appeared to me. It was a horrid 
sight!—yet when I thought of her to-day as really dying, it 
was a kind of comfort to me to imagine that I knew exact-
ly how she would appear to those, who saw her last in this 
world. She was before me, constantly before me, as I trav-
elled, in the same look and hue.’
A short pause of mutual thoughtfulness succeeded. Wil-
loughby first rousing himself, broke it thus:
‘Well, let me make haste and be gone. Your sister is cer-
tainly better, certainly out of danger?’
‘We are assured of it.’
‘Your poor mother, too!—doting on Marianne.’
‘But the letter, Mr. Willoughby, your own letter; 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,—and her letter, with 
some others, was brought to me there from my lodgings. It 
happened to catch Sophia’s eye before it caught mine—and 
its size, the elegance of the paper, the hand-writing altogeth-
er, immediately gave her a suspicion. Some vague report had 
reached her before of my attachment to some young lady 
in Devonshire, and what had passed within her observa-
tion the preceding evening had marked who the young lady 
was, and made her more jealous than ever. Affecting that 
air of playfulness, therefore, which is delightful in a woman 


Sense and Sensibility
394
one loves, she opened the letter directly, and read its con-
tents. 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 it must be ap-
peased. And, in short—what do you think of my wife’s style 
of letter-writing?—delicate—tender— truly feminine—was 
it not?’
‘Your wife!—The letter was in your own hand-writing.’
‘Yes, but I had only the credit of servilely copying such 
sentences as I was ashamed to put my name to. The original 
was all her own—her own happy thoughts and gentle dic-
tion. 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, her money 
was necessary to me, and in a situation like mine, any thing 
was to be done to prevent a rupture. And after all, what did 
it signify to my character in the opinion of Marianne and 
her friends, in what language my answer was couched?—It 
must have been only to one end. My business was to de-
clare myself a scoundrel, and whether I did it with a bow 
or a bluster was of little importance.— ‘I am ruined for 
ever in their opinion—‘ said I to myself—‘I am shut out for 
ever from their society, they already think me an unprin-
cipled fellow, this letter will only make them think me a 
blackguard one.’ Such were my reasonings, as, in a sort of 
desperate carelessness, I copied my wife’s words, and parted 
with the last relics of Marianne. Her three notes—unluck-
ily they were all in my pocketbook, or I should have denied 
their existence, and hoarded them for ever—I was forced to 


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put them up, and could not even kiss them. And the lock of 
hair—that too I had always carried about me in the same 
pocket-book, which was now searched by Madam with the 
most ingratiating virulence,—the dear lock—all, every me-
mento was torn from me.’
‘You are very wrong, Mr. Willoughby, very blamable,’ 
said Elinor, while her voice, in spite of herself, betrayed her 
compassionate emotion; ‘you ought not to speak in this way, 
either of Mrs. Willoughby or my sister. You 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 at-
tached to you, or she would not have married you. To treat 
her with unkindness, to speak of her slightingly is no atone-
ment to Marianne—nor can I suppose it a relief to your own 
conscience.’
‘Do not talk to me of my wife,’ said he with a heavy 
sigh.— ‘She does not deserve your compassion.—She knew 
I had no regard for her when we married.—Well, married 
we were, and came down to Combe Magna to be happy, and 
afterwards returned to town to be gay.—And now do you 
pity me, Miss Dashwood?—or have I said all this to no pur-
pose?— Am I—be it only one degree—am I less guilty in 
your opinion than I was before?—My intentions were not 
always wrong. Have I explained away any part of my guilt?’
‘Yes, you have certainly removed something—a little.— 
You have proved yourself, on the whole, less faulty than I 
had believed you. You have proved your heart less wick-
ed, much less wicked. But I hardly know—the misery that 
you have inflicted—I hardly know what could have made it 


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worse.’
‘Will you repeat to your sister when she is recovered, 
what I have been telling you?—Let me be a little lightened 
too in her opinion as well as in yours. You tell me that she 
has forgiven me already. Let me be able to fancy that a bet-
ter knowledge of my heart, and of my present feelings, will 
draw from her a more spontaneous, 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 this moment she is dearer to 
me than ever.’
‘I will tell her all that is necessary to what may com-
paratively be called, your justification. But you have not 
explained to me the particular reason of your coming now, 
nor how you heard of her illness.’
‘Last night, in Drury Lane lobby, I ran against Sir John 
Middleton, and when he saw who I was—for the first time 
these two months—he spoke to me.—That he had cut me 
ever since my marriage, I had seen without surprise or re-
sentment. Now, however, his good-natured, honest, stupid 
soul, full of indignation against me, and concern for your 
sister, could not resist the temptation of telling me what 
he knew ought to—though probably he did not think it 
WOULD—vex me horridly. As bluntly as he could speak 
it, therefore, he told me that Marianne Dashwood was dy-
ing of a putrid fever at Cleveland—a letter that morning 
received from Mrs. Jennings declared her danger most im-
minent—the Palmers are all gone off in a fright, &c.—I was 
too much shocked to be able to pass myself off as insensible 


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even to the undiscerning Sir John. His heart was softened 
in seeing mine suffer; and so much of his ill-will was done 
away, that when we parted, he almost shook me by the hand 
while he reminded me of an old promise about a pointer 
puppy. What I felt on hearing that your sister was dying—
and dying too, believing me the greatest villain upon earth, 
scorning, hating me in her latest moments—for how could 
I tell what horrid projects might not have been imputed? 
ONE person I was sure would represent me as capable of 
any thing— What I felt was dreadful!—My resolution was 
soon made, and at eight o’clock this morning I was in my 
carriage. Now you know all.’
Elinor made no answer. Her thoughts were silently fixed 
on the irreparable injury which too early an independence 
and its consequent habits of idleness, dissipation, and luxu-
ry, had made in the mind, the character, the happiness, of a 
man who, to every advantage of person and talents, united a 
disposition naturally open and honest, and a feeling, affec-
tionate temper. The world had made him extravagant and 
vain—Extravagance and vanity had made him cold-heart-
ed and selfish. Vanity, while seeking its own guilty triumph 
at the expense of another, had involved him in a real attach-
ment, which extravagance, or at least its offspring, necessity, 
had required to be sacrificed. Each faulty propensity in lead-
ing him to evil, had led him likewise to punishment. The 
attachment, from which against honour, against feeling, 
against every better interest he had outwardly torn himself, 
now, when no longer allowable, governed every thought; 
and the connection, for the sake of which he had, with little 


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398
scruple, left her sister to misery, was likely to prove a source 
of unhappiness to himself of a far more incurable nature. 
From a reverie of this kind she was recalled at the end of 
some minutes by Willoughby, who, rousing himself from a 
reverie at least equally painful, started up in preparation for 
going, and said—
‘There is no use in staying here; I must be off.’
‘Are you going back to town?’
‘No—to Combe Magna. I have business there; from 
thence to town in a day or two. Good bye.’
He held out his hand. She could not refuse to give him 
hers’s;—he pressed it with affection.
‘And you DO think something better of me than you 
did?’—said he, letting it fall, and leaning against the man-
tel-piece as if forgetting he was to go.
Elinor assured him that she did;—that she forgave, 
pitied, wished him well—was even interested in his happi-
ness—and added some gentle counsel as to the behaviour 
most likely to promote it. His answer was not very encour-
aging.
‘As to that,’ said he, ‘I must rub through the world as 
well as I can. Domestic happiness is out of the question. If, 
however, I am allowed to think that you and yours feel an 
interest in my fate and actions, it may be the means—it may 
put me on my guard—at least, it may be something to live 
for. Marianne to be sure is lost to me for ever. Were I even 
by any blessed chance at liberty again—‘
Elinor stopped him with a reproof.
‘Well,’—he replied—‘once more good bye. I shall now go 


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away and live in dread of one event.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Your sister’s marriage.’
‘You are very wrong. She can never be more lost to you 
than she is now.’
‘But she will be gained by some one else. And if that some 
one should be the very he whom, of all others, I could least 
bear—but I will not stay to rob myself of all your compas-
sionate goodwill, by shewing that where I have most injured 
I can least forgive. Good bye,—God bless you!’
And with these words, he almost ran out of the room.


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Chapter 45
E
linor, for some time after he left her, for some time even 
after the sound of his carriage had died away, remained 
too much oppressed by a crowd of ideas, widely differing in 
themselves, but of which sadness was the general result, to 
think even of her sister.
Willoughby, he, whom only half an hour ago she had ab-
horred as the most worthless of men, Willoughby, in spite of 
all his faults, excited a degree of commiseration for the suf-
ferings produced by them, which made her think of him as 
now separated for ever from her family, with a tenderness, 
a regret, rather in proportion, as she soon acknowledged 
within herself—to his wishes than to his merits. She felt 
that his influence over her mind was heightened by circum-
stances which ought not in reason to have weight; by that 
person of uncommon attraction, that open, affectionate, 
and lively manner which it was no merit to possess; and by 
that still ardent love for Marianne, which it was not even 
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 the unconscious Marianne, 
she found her just awaking, refreshed by so long and sweet 
a sleep to the extent of her hopes. Elinor’s heart was full. The 
past, the present, the future, Willoughby’s visit, Marianne’s 
safety, and her mother’s expected arrival, threw her altogeth-


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er into an agitation of spirits which kept off every indication 
of fatigue, and made her only fearful of betraying herself to 
her sister. Short was the time, however, in which that fear 
could affect her, for within half an hour after Willoughby’s 
leaving the house, she was again called down stairs by the 
sound of another carriage.—Eager to save her mother from 
every unnecessary moment’s horrible suspense, she ran im-
mediately into the hall, and reached the outward door just 
in time to receive and support her as she entered it.
Mrs. Dashwood, whose terror as they drew near the 
house had produced almost the conviction of Marianne’s 
being no more, had no voice to inquire after her, no voice 
even for Elinor; but SHE, waiting neither for salutation nor 
inquiry, instantly gave the joyful relief;— and her mother, 
catching it with all her usual warmth, was in a moment as 
much overcome by her happiness, as she had been before 
by her fears. She was supported into the drawing-room be-
tween her daughter and her friend;— and there, shedding 
tears of joy, though still unable to speak, embraced Elinor 
again and again, turning from her at intervals to press Col-
onel Brandon’s hand, with a look which spoke at once her 
gratitude, and her conviction of his sharing with herself in 
the bliss of the moment. He shared it, however, in a silence 
even greater than her own.
As soon as Mrs. Dashwood had recovered herself, to see 
Marianne was her first desire; and in two minutes she was 
with her beloved child, rendered dearer to her than ever by 
absence, unhappiness, and danger. Elinor’s delight, as she 
saw what each felt in the meeting, was only checked by an 


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apprehension of its robbing Marianne of farther sleep;— 
but Mrs. Dashwood could be calm, could be even prudent, 
when the life of a child was at stake, and Marianne, satis-
fied in knowing her mother was near her, and conscious of 
being too weak for conversation, submitted readily to the si-
lence and quiet prescribed by every nurse around her. Mrs. 
Dashwood WOULD sit up with her all night; and Elinor, 
in compliance with her mother’s entreaty, went to bed. But 
the rest, which one night entirely sleepless, and many hours 
of the most wearing anxiety seemed to make requisite, was 
kept off by irritation of spirits. Willoughby, ‘poor Willough-
by,’ as she now allowed herself to call him, was constantly 
in her thoughts; she would not but have heard his vindica-
tion for the world, and now blamed, now acquitted herself 
for having judged him so harshly before. But her promise of 
relating it to her sister was invariably painful. She dreaded 
the performance of it, dreaded what its effect on Mari-
anne might be; doubted whether after such an explanation 
she could ever be happy with another; and for a moment 
wished Willoughby a widower. Then, remembering Colonel 
Brandon, reproved herself, felt that to HIS sufferings and 
his constancy far more than to his rival’s, the reward of her 
sister was due, and wished any thing rather than Mrs. Wil-
loughby’s death.
The shock of Colonel Brandon’s errand at Barton had 
been much softened to Mrs. Dashwood by her own previ-
ous alarm; for so great was her uneasiness about Marianne, 
that she had already determined to set out for Cleveland on 
that very day, without waiting for any further intelligence, 


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and had so far settled her journey before his arrival, that the 
Careys were then expected every moment to fetch Margaret 
away, as her mother was unwilling to take her where there 
might be infection.
Marianne continued to mend every day, and the bril-
liant cheerfulness of Mrs. Dashwood’s looks and spirits 
proved her to be, as she repeatedly declared herself, one 
of the happiest women in the world. Elinor could not hear 
the declaration, nor witness its proofs without sometimes 
wondering whether her mother ever recollected Edward. 
But Mrs. Dashwood, trusting to the temperate account of 
her own disappointment which Elinor had sent her, was 
led away by the exuberance of her joy to think only of what 
would increase it. Marianne was restored to her from a dan-
ger in which, as she now began to feel, her own mistaken 
judgment in encouraging the unfortunate attachment to 
Willoughby, had contributed to place her;— and in her re-
covery she had yet another source of joy unthought of by 
Elinor. It was thus imparted to her, as soon as any opportu-
nity of private conference between them occurred.
‘At last we are alone. My Elinor, you do not yet know all 
my happiness. Colonel Brandon loves Marianne. He has 
told me so himself.’
Her daughter, feeling by turns both pleased and pained, 
surprised and not surprised, was all silent attention.
‘You are never like me, dear Elinor, or I should wonder 
at your composure now. Had I sat down to wish for any 
possible good to my family, I should have fixed on Colonel 
Brandon’s marrying one of you as the object most desirable. 


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And I believe Marianne will be the most happy with him 
of the two.’
Elinor was half inclined to ask her reason for thinking 
so, because satisfied that none founded on an impartial 
consideration of their age, characters, or feelings, could be 
given;—but her mother must always be carried away by her 
imagination on any interesting subject, and therefore in-
stead of an inquiry, she passed it off with a smile.
‘He opened his whole heart to me yesterday as we trav-
elled. It came out quite unawares, quite undesignedly. I, you 
may well believe, could talk of nothing but my child;—he 
could not conceal his distress; I saw that it equalled my own, 
and he perhaps, thinking that mere friendship, as the world 
now goes, would not justify so warm a sympathy—or rath-
er, not thinking at all, I suppose—giving way to irresistible 
feelings, made me acquainted with his earnest, tender, con-
stant, affection for Marianne. He has loved her, my Elinor, 
ever since the first moment of seeing her.’
Here, however, Elinor perceived,—not the language, not 
the professions of Colonel Brandon, but the natural em-
bellishments of her mother’s active fancy, which fashioned 
every thing delightful to her as it chose.
‘His regard for her, infinitely surpassing anything that 
Willoughby ever felt or feigned, as much more warm, as 
more sincere or constant—which ever we are to call it— has 
subsisted through all the knowledge of dear Marianne’s un-
happy prepossession for that worthless young man!—and 
without selfishness—without encouraging a hope!—could 
he have seen her happy with another—Such a noble mind!— 


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such openness, such sincerity!—no one can be deceived in 
HIM.’
‘Colonel Brandon’s character,’ said Elinor, ‘as an excel-
lent man, is well established.’
‘I know it is’—replied her mother seriously, ‘or after such 
a warning, I should be the last to encourage such affection, 
or even to be pleased by it. But his coming for me as he did, 
with such active, such ready friendship, is enough to prove 
him one of the worthiest of men.’
‘His character, however,’ answered Elinor, ‘does not rest 
on ONE act of kindness, to which his affection for Mari-
anne, were humanity out of the case, would have prompted 
him. To Mrs. Jennings, to the Middletons, he has been long 
and intimately known; they equally love and respect him; 
and even my own knowledge of him, though lately acquired, 
is very considerable; and so highly do I value and esteem 
him, that if Marianne can be happy with him, I shall be as 
ready as yourself to think our connection the greatest bless-
ing to us in the world. What answer did you give him?—Did 
you allow him to hope?’
‘Oh! my love, I could not then talk of hope to him or to 
myself. Marianne might at that moment be dying. But he 
did not ask for hope or encouragement. His was an invol-
untary confidence, an irrepressible effusion to a soothing 
friend—not an application to a parent. Yet after a time I 
DID say, for at first I was quite overcome—that if she lived, 
as I trusted she might, my greatest happiness would lie in 
promoting their marriage; and since our arrival, since our 
delightful security, I have repeated it to him more fully, have 


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given him every encouragement in my power. Time, a very 
little time, I tell him, will do everything;—Marianne’s heart 
is not to be wasted for ever on such a man as Willoughby.— 
His own merits must soon secure it.’
‘To judge from the Colonel’s spirits, however, you have 
not yet made him equally sanguine.’
‘No.—He thinks Marianne’s affection too deeply rooted 
for any change in it under a great length of time, and even 
supposing her heart again free, is too diffident of himself 
to believe, that with such a difference of age and disposi-
tion he could ever attach her. There, however, he is quite 
mistaken. His age is only so much beyond hers as to be an 
advantage, as to make his 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 man-
ners too, are all in his favour. My partiality does not blind 
me; he certainly is not so handsome as Willoughby—but at 
the same time, there is something much 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 her mother, with-
out waiting for her assent, continued,
‘And his manners, the Colonel’s manners are not only 
more pleasing to me than Willoughby’s ever were, but they 
are of a kind I well know to be more solidly attaching to 
Marianne. Their gentleness, their genuine attention to oth-
er people, and their manly unstudied simplicity is much 
more accordant with her real disposition, than the liveli-


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ness—often artificial, and often ill-timed of the other. I am 
very sure myself, that had Willoughby turned out as really 
amiable, as he has proved himself the contrary, Marianne 
would yet never have been so happy with HIM, as she will 
be with Colonel Brandon.’
She paused.—Her daughter could not quite agree with 
her, but her dissent was not heard, and therefore gave no 
offence.
‘At Delaford, she will be within an easy distance of me,’ 
added Mrs. Dashwood, ‘even if I remain at Barton; and in 
all probability,—for I hear it is a large village,—indeed there 
certainly MUST be some small house or cottage close by, 
that would suit us quite as well as our present situation.’
Poor Elinor!—here was a new scheme for getting her to 
Delaford!—but her spirit was stubborn.
‘His fortune too!—for at my time of life you know, ev-
erybody cares about THAT;—and though I neither know 
nor desire to know, what it really is, I am sure it must be a 
good one.’
Here they were interrupted by the entrance of a third 
person, and Elinor withdrew to think it all over in private, 
to wish success to her friend, and yet in wishing it, to feel a 
pang for Willoughby.


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Chapter 46
M
arianne’s illness, though weakening in its kind, had 
not been long enough to make her recovery slow; and 
with youth, natural strength, and her mother’s presence in 
aid, it proceeded so smoothly as to enable her to remove, 
within four days after the arrival of the latter, into Mrs. 
Palmer’s dressing-room. When there, at her own particular 
request, for she was impatient to pour forth her thanks to 
him for fetching her mother, Colonel Brandon was invited 
to visit her.
His emotion on entering the room, in seeing her altered 
looks, and in receiving the pale hand which she immediate-
ly held out to him, was such, as, in Elinor’s conjecture, must 
arise from something more than his affection for Marianne, 
or the consciousness of its being known to others; and she 
soon discovered in his melancholy eye and varying com-
plexion as he looked at her sister, the probable recurrence 
of many past scenes of misery to his mind, brought back 
by that resemblance between Marianne and Eliza already 
acknowledged, and now strengthened by the hollow eye, 
the sickly skin, the posture of reclining weakness, and the 
warm acknowledgment of peculiar obligation.
Mrs. Dashwood, not less watchful of what passed than 
her daughter, but with a mind very differently influenced, 
and therefore watching to very different effect, saw nothing 


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in the Colonel’s behaviour but what arose from the most 
simple and self-evident sensations, while in the actions 
and words of Marianne she persuaded herself to think that 
something more than gratitude already dawned.
At the end of another day or two, Marianne growing vis-
ibly stronger every twelve hours, Mrs. Dashwood, urged 
equally by her own and her daughter’s wishes, began to talk 
of removing to Barton. On HER measures depended those 
of her two friends; Mrs. Jennings could not quit Cleveland 
during the Dashwoods’ stay; and Colonel Brandon was soon 
brought, by their united request, to consider his own abode 
there as equally determinate, if not equally indispensable. 
At his and Mrs. Jennings’s united request in return, Mrs. 
Dashwood was prevailed on to accept the use of his carriage 
on her journey back, for the better accommodation of her 
sick child; and the Colonel, at the joint invitation of Mrs. 
Dashwood and Mrs. Jennings, whose active good-nature 
made her friendly and hospitable for other people as well as 
herself, engaged with pleasure to redeem it by a visit at the 
cottage, in the course of a few weeks.
The day of separation and departure arrived; and Mari-
anne, after taking so particular and lengthened a leave of 
Mrs. Jennings, one so earnestly grateful, so full of respect 
and kind wishes as seemed due to her own heart from a 
secret acknowledgment of past inattention, and bidding 
Colonel Brandon farewell with a cordiality of a friend, was 
carefully assisted by him into the carriage, of which he 
seemed anxious that she should engross at least half. Mrs. 
Dashwood and Elinor then followed, and the others were 


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left by themselves, to talk of the travellers, and feel their own 
dullness, till Mrs. Jennings was summoned to her chaise to 
take comfort in the gossip of her maid for the loss of her two 
young companions; and Colonel Brandon immediately af-
terwards took his solitary way to Delaford.
The Dashwoods were two days on the road, and Mari-
anne bore her journey on both, without essential fatigue. 
Every thing that the most zealous affection, the most solici-
tous care could do to render her comfortable, was the office 
of each watchful companion, and each found their reward 
in her bodily ease, and her calmness of spirits. To Elinor, 
the observation of the latter was particularly grateful. She, 
who had seen her week after week so constantly suffering, 
oppressed by anguish of heart which she had neither cour-
age to speak of, nor fortitude to conceal, now saw with a 
joy, which no other could equally share, an apparent com-
posure of mind, which, in being the result as she trusted of 
serious reflection, must eventually lead her to contentment 
and cheerfulness.
As they approached Barton, indeed, and entered on 
scenes of which every field and every tree brought some 
peculiar, some painful recollection, she grew silent and 
thoughtful, and turning away her face from their notice, 
sat earnestly gazing through the window. But here, Elinor 
could neither wonder nor blame; and when she saw, as she 
assisted Marianne from the carriage, that she had been cry-
ing, she saw only an emotion too natural in itself to raise 
any thing less tender than pity, and in its unobtrusiveness 
entitled to praise. In the whole of her subsequent manner, 


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she traced the direction of a mind awakened to reasonable 
exertion; for no sooner had they entered their common sit-
ting-room, than Marianne turned her eyes around it with 
a look of resolute firmness, as if determined at once to ac-
custom herself to the sight of every object with which the 
remembrance of Willoughby could be connected.—She said 
little, but every sentence aimed at cheerfulness, and though 
a sigh sometimes escaped her, it never passed away without 
the atonement of a smile. After dinner she would try her 
piano-forte. She went to it; but the music on which her eye 
first rested was an opera, procured for her by Willoughby, 
containing some of their favourite duets, and bearing on 
its outward leaf her own name in his hand-writing.—That 
would not do.—She shook her head, put the music aside, 
and after running over the keys for a minute, complained of 
feebleness in her fingers, and closed the instrument again; 
declaring however with firmness as she did so, that she 
should in future practice much.
The next morning produced no abatement in these hap-
py symptoms. On the contrary, with a mind and body alike 
strengthened by rest, she looked and spoke with more gen-
uine spirit, anticipating the pleasure of Margaret’s return, 
and talking of the dear family party which would then be 
restored, of their mutual pursuits and cheerful society, as 
the only happiness worth a wish.
‘When the weather is settled, and I have recovered my 
strength,’ said she, ‘we will take long walks together every 
day. We will walk to the farm at the edge of the down, and 
see how the children go on; we will walk to Sir John’s new 


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412
plantations at Barton Cross, and the Abbeyland; and we 
will often go the old ruins of the Priory, and try to trace 
its foundations as far as we are told they once reached. I 
know we shall be happy. I know the summer will pass hap-
pily away. I mean never to be later in rising than six, and 
from that time till dinner I shall divide every moment be-
tween music and reading. I have formed my plan, and am 
determined to enter on a course of serious study. Our own 
library is too well known to me, to be resorted to for any 
thing beyond mere amusement. But there are many works 
well worth reading at the Park; and there are others of more 
modern production which I know I can borrow of Colonel 
Brandon. By reading only six hours a-day, I shall gain in the 
course of a twelve-month a great deal of instruction which I 
now feel myself to want.’
Elinor honoured her for a plan which originated so no-
bly as this; though smiling to see the same eager fancy 
which had been leading her to the extreme of languid in-
dolence and selfish repining, now at work in introducing 
excess into a scheme of such rational employment and vir-
tuous self-control. Her smile however changed to a sigh 
when she remembered that promise to Willoughby was yet 
unfulfilled, and feared she had that to communicate which 
might again unsettle the mind of Marianne, and ruin at 
least for a time this fair prospect of busy tranquillity. Will-
ing therefore to delay the evil hour, she resolved to wait till 
her sister’s health were more secure, before she appointed it. 
But the resolution was made only to be broken.
Marianne had been two or three days at home, before 


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the weather was fine enough for an invalid like herself to 
venture out. But at last a soft, genial morning appeared; 
such as might tempt the daughter’s wishes and the mother’s 
confidence; and Marianne, leaning on Elinor’s arm, was au-
thorised to walk as long as she could without fatigue, in the 
lane before the house.
The sisters set out at a pace, slow as the feebleness of 
Marianne in an exercise hitherto untried since her illness 
required;—and they had advanced only so far beyond the 
house as to admit a full view of the hill, the important hill 
behind, when pausing with her eyes turned towards it, Mar-
ianne calmly said,
‘There, exactly there,’—pointing with one hand, ‘on that 
projecting mound,—there I fell; and there I first saw Wil-
loughby.’
Her voice sunk with the word, but presently reviving she 
added,
‘I am thankful to find that I can look with so little pain 
on the spot!—shall we ever talk on that subject, Elinor?’— 
hesitatingly it was said.—‘Or will it be wrong?—I can talk of 
it now, I hope, as I ought to do.’—
Elinor tenderly invited her to be open.
‘As for regret,’ said Marianne, ‘I have done with that, as 
far as HE is concerned. I do not mean to talk to you of what 
my feelings have been for him, but what they are NOW.—At 
present, if I could be satisfied on one point, if I could be 
allowed to think that he was not ALWAYS acting a part, 
not ALWAYS deceiving me;—but above all, if I could be as-
sured that he never was so VERY wicked as my fears have 


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sometimes fancied him, since the story of that unfortunate 
girl’—
She stopt. Elinor joyfully treasured her words as she an-
swered,
‘If you could be assured of that, you think you should 
be easy.’
‘Yes. My peace of mind is doubly involved in it;— for not 
only is it horrible to suspect a person, who has been what 
HE has been to ME, of such designs,—but what must it 
make me appear to myself?—What in a situation like mine, 
but a most shamefully unguarded affection could expose 
me to’—
‘How then,’ asked her sister, ‘would you account for his 
behaviour?’
‘I would suppose him,—Oh, how gladly would I suppose 
him, only fickle, very, very fickle.’
Elinor said no more. She was debating within herself on 
the eligibility of beginning her story directly, or postponing 
it till Marianne were in stronger health;— and they crept on 
for a few minutes in silence.
‘I am not wishing him too much good,’ said Marianne at 
last with a sigh, ‘when I wish his secret reflections may be 
no more unpleasant than my own. He will suffer enough in 
them.’
‘Do you compare your conduct with his?’
‘No. I compare it with what it ought to have been; I com-
pare it with yours.’
‘Our situations have borne little resemblance.’
‘They have borne more than our conduct.—Do not, my 


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dearest Elinor, let your kindness defend what I know your 
judgment must censure. My illness has made me think— It 
has given me leisure and calmness for serious recollection. 
Long before I was enough recovered to talk, I was perfectly 
able to reflect. I considered the past: I saw in my own be-
haviour, since the beginning of our acquaintance with him 
last autumn, nothing but a series of imprudence towards 
myself, and want of kindness to others. I saw that my own 
feelings had prepared my sufferings, and that my want of 
fortitude under them had almost led me to the grave. My 
illness, I well knew, had been entirely brought on by myself 
by such negligence of my own health, as I had felt even at 
the time to be wrong. Had I died,—it would have been self-
destruction. I did not know my danger till the danger was 
removed; but with such feelings as these reflections gave me, 
I wonder at my recovery,—wonder that the very eagerness 
of my desire to live, to have time for atonement to my God, 
and to you all, did not kill me at once. Had I died,— in what 
peculiar misery should I have left you, my nurse, my friend, 
my sister!—You, who had seen all the fretful selfishness of 
my latter days; who had known all the murmurings of my 
heart!—How should I have lived in YOUR remembrance!—
My mother too! How could you have consoled her!—I 
cannot express my own abhorrence of myself. Whenever 
I looked towards the past, I saw some duty neglected, or 
some failing indulged. Every body seemed injured by me. 
The kindness, the unceasing kindness of Mrs. Jennings, I 
had repaid with ungrateful contempt. To the Middletons, 
to the Palmers, the Steeles, to every common acquaintance 


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416
even, I had been insolent and unjust; with a heart hardened 
against their merits, and a temper irritated by their very at-
tention.—To John, to Fanny,—yes, even to them, little as 
they deserve, I had given less than their due. But you,—you 
above all, above my mother, had been wronged by me. I, 
and only I, knew your heart and its sorrows; yet to what did 
it influence me?—not to any compassion that could benefit 
you or myself.—Your example was before me; but to what 
avail?—Was I more considerate of you and your comfort? 
Did I imitate your forbearance, or lessen your restraints, 
by taking any part in those offices of general complaisance 
or particular gratitude which you had hitherto been left to 
discharge alone?—No;— not less when I knew you to be un-
happy, than when I had believed you at ease, did I turn away 
from every exertion of duty or friendship; scarcely allowing 
sorrow to exist but with me, regretting only THAT heart 
which had deserted and wronged me, and leaving you, for 
or I professed an unbounded affection, to be miserable for 
my sake.’
Here ceased the rapid flow of her self-reproving spirit; 
and Elinor, impatient to soothe, though too honest to flat-
ter, gave her instantly that praise and support which her 
frankness and her contrition so well deserved. Marianne 
pressed her hand and replied,
‘You are very good.—The future must be my proof. I 
have laid down my plan, and if I am capable of adhering to 
it—my feelings shall be governed and my temper improved. 
They shall no longer worry others, nor torture myself. I 
shall now live solely for my family. You, my mother, and 


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Margaret, must henceforth be all the world to me; you will 
share my affections entirely between you. >From you, from 
my home, I shall never again have the smallest incitement 
to move; and if I do mix in other society, it will be only 
to shew that my spirit is humbled, my heart amended, and 
that I can practise the civilities, the lesser duties of life, with 
gentleness and forbearance. As for Willoughby—to say that 
I shall soon or that I shall ever forget him, would be idle. 
His remembrance can be overcome by no change of cir-
cumstances or opinions. But it shall be regulated, it shall be 
checked by religion, by reason, by constant employment.’
She paused—and added in a low voice, ‘If I could but 
know HIS heart, everything would become easy.’
Elinor, who had now been for some time reflecting on 
the propriety or impropriety of speedily hazarding her nar-
ration, without feeling at all nearer decision than at first, 
heard this; and perceiving that as reflection did nothing, 
resolution must do all, soon found herself leading to the 
fact.
She managed the recital, as she hoped, with address; pre-
pared her anxious listener with caution; related simply and 
honestly the chief points on which Willoughby grounded 
his apology; did justice to his repentance, and softened only 
his protestations of present regard. Marianne said not a 
word.—She trembled, her eyes were fixed on the ground, 
and her lips became whiter than even sickness had left
 
them. A thousand inquiries sprung up from her heart, but 
she dared not urge one. She caught every syllable with pant-
ing eagerness; her hand, unknowingly to herself, closely 


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418
pressed her sister’s, and tears covered her cheeks.
Elinor, dreading her being tired, led her towards home; 
and till they reached the door of the cottage, easily con-
jecturing what her curiosity must be though no question 
was suffered to speak it, talked of nothing but Willoughby, 
and their conversation together; and was carefully minute 
in every particular of speech and look, where minuteness 
could be safely indulged. As soon as they entered the house, 
Marianne with a kiss of gratitude and these two words just 
articulate through her tears, ‘Tell mama,’ withdrew from 
her sister and walked slowly up stairs. Elinor would not at-
tempt to disturb a solitude so reasonable as what she now 
sought; and with a mind anxiously pre-arranging its result, 
and a resolution of reviving the subject again, should Mari-
anne fail to do it, she turned into the parlour to fulfill her 
parting injunction.


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M
rs. Dashwood did not hear unmoved the vindica-
tion of her former favourite. She rejoiced in his being 
cleared from some part of his imputed guilt;—she was sor-
ry for him;—she wished him happy. But the feelings of the 
past could not be recalled.—Nothing could restore him 
with a faith unbroken—a character unblemished, to Mari-
anne. Nothing could do away the knowledge of what the 
latter had suffered through his means, nor remove the guilt 
of his conduct towards Eliza. Nothing could replace him, 
therefore, in her former esteem, nor injure the interests of 
Colonel Brandon.
Had Mrs. Dashwood, like her daughter, heard Willough-
by’s story from himself—had she witnessed his distress, and 
been under the influence of his countenance and his man-
ner, it is probable that her compassion would have been 
greater. But it was neither in Elinor’s power, nor in her wish, 
to rouse such feelings in another, by her retailed explana-
tion, as had at first been called forth in herself. Reflection 
had given calmness to her judgment, and sobered her own 
opinion of Willoughby’s deserts;— she wished, therefore, 
to declare only the simple truth, and lay open such facts as 
were really due to his character, without any embellishment 
of tenderness to lead the fancy astray.
In the evening, when they were all three together, Mari-


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anne began voluntarily to speak of him again;— but that 
it was not without an effort, the restless, unquiet thought-
fulness in which she had been for some time previously 
sitting—her rising colour, as she spoke,— and her unsteady 
voice, plainly shewed.
‘I wish to assure you both,’ said she, ‘that I see every 
thing—as you can desire me to do.’
Mrs. Dashwood would have interrupted her instant-
ly with soothing tenderness, had not Elinor, who really 
wished to hear her sister’s unbiased opinion, by an eager 
sign, engaged her silence. Marianne slowly continued—
‘It is a great relief to me—what Elinor told me this morn-
ing—I have now heard exactly what I wished to hear.’—For 
some moments her voice was lost; but recovering herself, 
she added, and with greater calmness than before—‘I am 
now perfectly satisfied, I wish for no change. I never could 
have been happy with him, after knowing, as sooner or later 
I must have known, all this.—I should have had no confi-
dence, no esteem. Nothing could have done it away to my 
feelings.’
‘I know it—I know it,’ cried her mother. ‘Happy with a 
man of libertine practices!—With one who so injured the 
peace of the dearest of our friends, and the best of men!—
No—my Marianne has not a heart to be made happy with 
such a man!—Her conscience, her sensitive counscience, 
would have felt all that the conscience of her husband ought 
to have felt.’
Marianne sighed, and repeated, ‘I wish for no change.’
‘You consider the matter,’ said Elinor, ‘exactly as a good 


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mind and a sound understanding must consider it; and I 
dare say you perceive, as well as myself, not only in this, 
but in many other circumstances, reason enough to be con-
vinced that your marriage must have involved you in many 
certain troubles and disappointments, in which you would 
have been poorly supported by an affection, on his side, 
much less certain. Had you married, you must have been 
always poor. His expensiveness is acknowledged even by 
himself, and his whole conduct declares that self-denial is 
a word hardly understood by him. His demands and your 
inexperience together, on a small, very small income, must 
have brought on distresses which would not be the LESS 
grievous to you, from having been entirely unknown and 
unthought of before. YOUR sense of honour and honesty 
would have led you, I know, when aware of your situation, 
to attempt all the economy that would appear to you pos-
sible: and, perhaps, as long as your frugality retrenched only 
on your own comfort, you might have been suffered to prac-
tice it, but beyond that— and how little could the utmost 
of your single management do to stop the ruin which had 
begun before your marriage?— Beyond THAT, had you en-
deavoured, however reasonably, to abridge HIS enjoyments, 
is it not to be feared, that instead of prevailing on feelings so 
selfish to consent to it, you would have lessened your own 
influence on his heart, and made him regret the connection 
which had involved him in such difficulties?’
Marianne’s lips quivered, and she repeated the word 
‘Selfish?’ in a tone that implied—‘do you really think him 
selfish?’


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‘The whole of his behaviour,’ replied Elinor, ‘from the 
beginning to the end of the affair, has been grounded on 
selfishness. It was selfishness which first made him sport 
with your affections; which afterwards, when his own were 
engaged, made him delay the confession of it, and which fi-
nally carried him from Barton. His own enjoyment, or his 
own ease, was, in every particular, his ruling principle.’
‘It is very true. MY happiness never was his object.’
‘At present,’ continued Elinor, ‘he regrets what he has 
done. And why does he regret it?—Because he finds it has 
not answered towards himself. It has not made him hap-
py. His circumstances are now unembarrassed—he suffers 
from no evil of that kind; and he thinks only that he has 
married a woman of a less amiable temper than yourself. 
But does it follow that had he married you, he would have 
been happy?—The inconveniences would have been dif-
ferent. He would then have suffered under the pecuniary 
distresses which, because they are removed, he now reckons 
as nothing. He would have had a wife of whose temper he 
could make no complaint, but he would have been always 
necessitous—always poor; and probably would soon have 
learned to rank the innumerable comforts of a clear estate 
and good income as of far more importance, even to domes-
tic happiness, than the mere temper of a wife.’
‘I have not a doubt of it,’ said Marianne; ‘and I have noth-
ing to regret—nothing but my own folly.’
‘Rather say your mother’s imprudence, my child,’ said 
Mrs. Dashwood; ‘SHE must be answerable.’
Marianne would not let her proceed;—and Elinor, sat-


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isfied that each felt their own error, wished to avoid any 
survey of the past that might weaken her sister’s spirits; she, 
therefore, pursuing the first subject, immediately contin-
ued,
‘One observation may, I think, be fairly drawn from the 
whole of the story—that all Willoughby’s difficulties have 
arisen from the first offence against virtue, in his behaviour 
to Eliza Williams. That crime has been the origin of every 
lesser one, and of all his present discontents.’
Marianne assented most feelingly to the remark; and her 
mother was led by it to an enumeration of Colonel Bran-
don’s injuries and merits, warm as friendship and design 
could unitedly dictate. Her daughter did not look, however, 
as if much of it were heard by her.
Elinor, according to her expectation, saw on the two or 
three following days, that Marianne did not continue to 
gain strength as she had done; but while her resolution was 
unsubdued, and she still tried to appear cheerful and easy, 
her sister could safely trust to the effect of time upon her 
health.
Margaret returned, and the family were again all re-
stored to each other, again quietly settled at the cottage; and 
if not pursuing their usual studies with quite so much vi-
gour as when they first came to Barton, at least planning a 
vigorous prosecution of them in future.
Elinor grew impatient for some tidings of Edward. She 
had heard nothing of him since her leaving London, noth-
ing new of his plans, nothing certain even of his present 
abode. Some letters had passed between her and her broth-


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er, in consequence of Marianne’s illness; and in the first of 
John’s, there had been this sentence:— ‘We know nothing of 
our unfortunate Edward, and can make no enquiries on so 
prohibited a subject, but conclude him to be still at Oxford;’ 
which was all the intelligence of Edward afforded her by the 
correspondence, for his name was not even mentioned in 
any of the succeeding letters. She was not doomed, however, 
to be long in ignorance of his measures.
Their man-servant had been sent one morning to Exeter 
on business; and when, as he waited at table, he had satisfied 
the inquiries of his mistress as to the event of his errand, 
this was his voluntary communication—
‘I suppose you know, ma’am, that Mr. Ferrars is mar-
ried.’
Marianne gave a violent start, fixed her eyes upon Elinor, 
saw her turning pale, and fell back in her chair in hysterics. 
Mrs. Dashwood, whose eyes, as she answered the servant’s 
inquiry, had intuitively taken the same direction, was 
shocked to perceive by Elinor’s countenance how much she 
really suffered, and a moment afterwards, alike distressed 
by Marianne’s situation, knew not on which child to bestow 
her principal attention.
The servant, who saw only that Miss Marianne was tak-
en 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 


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just beginning an inquiry of Thomas, as to the source of 
his intelligence. Mrs. Dashwood immediately took all that 
trouble on herself; and Elinor had the benefit of the infor-
mation without the exertion of seeking it.
‘Who told you that Mr. Ferrars was married, Thomas?’
‘I see Mr. Ferrars myself, ma’am, this morning in Exeter, 
and his lady too, Miss Steele as was. They was stopping in a 
chaise at the door of the New London Inn, as I went there 
with a message from Sally at the Park to her brother, who is 
one of the post-boys. I happened to look up as I went by the 
chaise, and so I see directly it was the youngest Miss Steele; 
so I took off my hat, and she knew me and called to me, and 
inquired after you, ma’am, and the young ladies, especially 
Miss Marianne, and bid me I should give her compliments 
and Mr. Ferrars’s, their best compliments and service, and 
how sorry they was they had not time to come on and see 
you, but they was in a great hurry to go forwards, for they 
was going further down for a little while, but 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 in it, but he did 
not look up;—he never was a gentleman much for talking.’
Elinor’s heart could easily account for his not putting 


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426
himself forward; and Mrs. Dashwood probably found the 
same explanation.
‘Was there no one else in the carriage?’
‘No, ma’am, only they two.’
‘Do you know where they came from?’
‘They come straight from town, as Miss Lucy— Mrs. Fer-
rars 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 the message, and was very confident that Edward 
would never come near them. She observed in a low voice, 
to her mother, that they were probably going down to Mr. 
Pratt’s, near Plymouth.
Thomas’s intelligence seemed over. Elinor looked as if 
she wished to hear more.
‘Did you see them off, before you came away?’
‘No, ma’am—the horses were just coming out, but I could 
not bide any longer; I was afraid of being late.’
‘Did Mrs. Ferrars look well?’
‘Yes, ma’am, she said how she was very well; and to my 
mind she was always a very handsome young lady—and she 
seemed vastly contented.’
Mrs. Dashwood could think of no other question, and 
Thomas and the tablecloth, now alike needless, were soon 
afterwards dismissed. Marianne had already sent to say, that 
she should eat nothing more. Mrs. Dashwood’s and Elinor’s 


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appetites were equally lost, and Margaret might think her-
self very well off, that with so much uneasiness as both her 
sisters had lately experienced, so much reason as they had 
often had to be careless of their meals, she had never been 
obliged to go without her dinner before.
When the dessert and the wine were arranged, and Mrs. 
Dashwood and Elinor were left by themselves, they re-
mained long together 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 relying on Elinor’s representation of herself; 
and justly concluded that every thing had been expressly 
softened at the time, to spare her from an increase of un-
happiness, suffering as she then had suffered for Marianne. 
She found that she had been misled by the careful, the con-
siderate attention of her daughter, to think the attachment, 
which once she had so well understood, much slighter in 
reality, than she had been wont to believe, or than it was 
now proved to be. She feared that under this persuasion 
she had been unjust, inattentive, nay, almost unkind, to 
her Elinor;— that Marianne’s affliction, because more ac-
knowledged, more immediately before her, had too much 
engrossed her tenderness, and led her away to forget that in 
Elinor she might have a daughter suffering almost as much, 
certainly with less self-provocation, and greater fortitude.


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Chapter 48
E
linor now found the difference between the expectation 
of an unpleasant event, however certain the mind may 
be told to consider it, and certainty itself. She now found, 
that in spite of herself, she had always admitted a hope, 
while Edward remained single, that something would occur 
to prevent his marrying Lucy; that some resolution of his 
own, some mediation of friends, or some more eligible op-
portunity of establishment for the lady, would arise to assist 
the happiness of all. But he was now married; and she con-
demned her heart for the lurking flattery, which so much 
heightened the pain of the intelligence.
That he should be married soon, before (as she imagined) 
he could be in orders, and consequently before he could be 
in possession of the living, surprised her a little at first. But 
she soon saw how likely it was that Lucy, in her self-provi-
dent care, in her haste to secure him, should overlook every 
thing but the risk of delay. They were married, married in 
town, and now hastening down to her uncle’s. What had 
Edward felt on being within four miles from Barton, on see-
ing her mother’s servant, on hearing Lucy’s message!
They would soon, she supposed, be settled at Delaford.—
Delaford,—that place in which so much conspired to give 
her an interest; which she wished to be acquainted with, 
and yet desired to avoid. She saw them in an instant in their 


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parsonage-house; saw in Lucy, the active, contriving man-
ager, uniting at once a desire of smart appearance with the 
utmost frugality, and ashamed to be suspected of half her 
economical practices;— pursuing her own interest in every 
thought, courting the favour of Colonel Brandon, of Mrs. 
Jennings, and of every wealthy friend. In Edward—she 
knew not what she saw, nor what she wished to see;—hap-
py or unhappy,—nothing pleased her; she turned away her 
head from every sketch of him.
Elinor flattered herself that some one of their connec-
tions in London would write to them to announce the event, 
and give farther particulars,—but day after day passed off, 
and brought no letter, no tidings. Though uncertain that 
any one were to blame, 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 from the impatience of her mind to 
have something going on.
‘I wrote to him, my love, last week, and rather expect to 
see, than to hear from him again. I earnestly pressed his 
coming to us, and should not be surprised to see him walk 
in today or tomorrow, or any day.’
This was gaining something, something to look forward 
to. Colonel Brandon must have some information to give.
Scarcely had she so determined it, when the figure of a 
man on horseback drew her eyes to the window. He stopt 
at their gate. It was a gentleman, it was Colonel Brandon 
himself. Now she could hear more; and she trembled in ex-
pectation of it. But—it was NOT Colonel Brandon—neither 


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his air—nor his height. Were it possible, she must say it must 
be Edward. She looked again. He had just dismounted;—she 
could not be mistaken,—it WAS Edward. She moved away 
and sat down. ‘He comes from Mr. Pratt’s purposely to see 
us. I WILL be calm; I WILL be mistress of myself.’
In a moment she perceived that the others were likewise 
aware of the mistake. She saw her mother and Marianne 
change colour; saw them look at herself, and whisper a few 
sentences to each other. She would have given the world to 
be able to speak—and to make them understand that she 
hoped no coolness, no slight, would appear in their behav-
iour to him;—but she had no utterance, and was obliged to 
leave all to their own discretion.
Not a syllable passed aloud. They all waited in silence 
for the appearance of their visitor. His footsteps were heard 
along the gravel path; in a moment he was in the passage, 
and in another he was before them.
His countenance, as he entered the room, was not too 
happy, even for Elinor. His complexion was white with 
agitation, and he looked as if fearful of his reception, and 
conscious that he merited no kind one. Mrs. Dashwood, 
however, conforming, as she trusted, to the wishes of that 
daughter, by whom she then meant in the warmth of her 
heart to be guided in every thing, met with a look of forced 
complacency, gave him her hand, and wished him joy.
He coloured, and stammered out an unintelligible reply. 
Elinor’s lips had moved with her mother’s, and, when the 
moment of action was over, she wished that she had shaken 
hands with him too. But it was then too late, and with a 


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countenance meaning to be open, she sat down again and 
talked of the weather.
Marianne had retreated as much as possible out of sight, 
to conceal her distress; and Margaret, understanding some 
part, but not the whole of the case, thought it incumbent on 
her to be dignified, and therefore took a seat as far from him 
as she could, and maintained a strict silence.
When Elinor had ceased to rejoice in the dryness of the 
season, a very awful pause took place. It was put an end to 
by Mrs. Dashwood, who felt 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, now said,
‘Is Mrs. Ferrars at Longstaple?’
‘At Longstaple!’ he replied, with an air of surprise.— ‘No, 
my mother is in town.’
‘I meant,’ said Elinor, taking up some work from the ta-
ble, ‘to inquire for Mrs. EDWARD Ferrars.’
She dared not look up;—but her mother and Marianne 
both turned their eyes on him. He coloured, seemed per-
plexed, looked doubtingly, and, after some hesitation, 
said,—
‘Perhaps you mean—my brother—you mean Mrs.—Mrs. 
ROBERT Ferrars.’
‘Mrs. Robert Ferrars!’—was repeated by Marianne and 
her mother in an accent of the utmost amazement;—and 
though Elinor could not speak, even HER eyes were fixed 


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432
on him with the same impatient wonder. He rose from his 
seat, and walked to the window, apparently from not know-
ing what to do; took up a pair of scissors that lay there, and 
while spoiling both them and their sheath by cutting the 
latter to pieces as he spoke, said, in a hurried voice,
‘Perhaps you do not know—you may not have heard that 
my brother is lately married to—to the youngest—to Miss 
Lucy Steele.’
His words were echoed with unspeakable astonishment 
by all but Elinor, who sat with her head leaning over her 
work, in a state of such agitation as made her hardly know 
where she was.
‘Yes,’ said he, ‘they were married last week, and are now 
at Dawlish.’
Elinor could sit it no longer. She almost ran out of the 
room, and as soon as the door was closed, burst into tears of 
joy, which at first she thought would never cease. Edward, 
who had till then looked any where, rather than at her, saw 
her hurry away, and perhaps saw— or even heard, her emo-
tion; for immediately afterwards he fell into a reverie, which 
no remarks, no inquiries, no affectionate address of Mrs. 
Dashwood could penetrate, and at last, without saying a 
word, quitted the room, and walked out towards the vil-
lage—leaving the others in the greatest astonishment and 
perplexity on a change in his situation, so wonderful and so 
sudden;—a perplexity which they had no means of lessen-
ing but by their own conjectures.


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Chapter 49
U
naccountable, however, as the circumstances of his re-
lease might appear to the whole family, it was certain 
that Edward was free; and to what purpose that freedom 
would be employed was easily pre-determined by all;—for 
after experiencing the blessings of ONE imprudent engage-
ment, contracted without his mother’s consent, as he had 
already done for more than four years, nothing less could be 
expected of him in the failure of THAT, than the immediate 
contraction of another.
His errand at Barton, in fact, was a simple one. It was 
only to ask Elinor to marry him;—and considering that 
he was not altogether inexperienced in such a question, it 
might be strange that he should feel so uncomfortable in the 
present case as he really did, so much in need of encourage-
ment and fresh air.
How soon he had walked himself into the proper reso-
lution, however, how soon an opportunity of exercising it 
occurred, in what manner he expressed himself, and how 
he was received, need not be particularly told. This only 
need be said;—that when they all sat down to table at four 
o’clock, about three hours after his arrival, he had secured 
his lady, engaged her mother’s consent, and was not only in 
the rapturous profession of the lover, but, in the reality of 
reason and truth, one of the happiest of men. His situation 


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434
indeed was more than commonly joyful. He had more than 
the ordinary triumph of accepted love to swell his heart, and 
raise his spirits. He was released without any reproach to 
himself, from an entanglement which had long formed his 
misery, from a woman whom he had long ceased to love;— 
and elevated at once to that security with another, which he 
must have thought of almost with despair, as soon as he had 
learnt to consider it with desire. He was brought, not from 
doubt or suspense, but from misery to happiness;—and 
the change was openly spoken in such a genuine, flowing, 
grateful cheerfulness, as his friends had never witnessed in 
him before.
His heart was now open to Elinor, all its weaknesses, all 
its errors confessed, and his first boyish attachment to Lucy 
treated with all the philosophic dignity of twenty-four.
‘It was a foolish, idle inclination on my side,’ said he, ‘the 
consequence of ignorance of the world— and want of em-
ployment. Had my brother given me some active profession 
when I was removed at eighteen from the care of Mr. Pratt, 
I think—nay, I am sure, it would never have happened; for 
though I left Longstaple with what I thought, at the time, a 
most unconquerable preference for his niece, yet had I then 
had any pursuit, any object to engage my time and keep me 
at a distance from her for a few months, I should very soon 
have outgrown the fancied attachment, especially by mix-
ing 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, I returned home to be completely idle; and for the 


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first twelvemonth afterwards I had not even the nominal 
employment, which belonging to the university would have 
given me; for I was not entered at Oxford till I was nineteen. 
I had therefore nothing in the world to do, but to fancy my-
self in love; and as my mother did not make my home in 
every respect comfortable, as I had no friend, no compan-
ion in my brother, and disliked new acquaintance, it was 
not unnatural for me to be very often at Longstaple, where 
I always felt myself at home, and was always sure of a wel-
come; and accordingly I spent the greatest part of my time 
there from eighteen to nineteen: Lucy appeared everything 
that was amiable and obliging. She was pretty too—at least 
I thought so THEN; and I had seen so little of other wom-
en, 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, it was not at the time an unnatural or an inexcus-
able piece of folly.’
The change which a few hours had wrought in the minds 
and the happiness of the Dashwoods, was such—so great—
as promised them all, the 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 thankful for his release without wounding his deli-
cacy, nor how at once to give them leisure for unrestrained 
conversation together, and yet enjoy, as she wished, the sight 
and society of both.
Marianne could speak HER happiness only by tears. 
Comparisons would occur—regrets would arise;—and her 


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436
joy, though sincere as her love for her sister, was of a kind to 
give her neither spirits nor language.
But Elinor—how are HER feelings to be described?—
From the moment of learning that Lucy was married to 
another, that Edward was free, to the moment of his justify-
ing the hopes which had so instantly followed, she was every 
thing by turns but tranquil. But when the second moment 
had passed, when she found every doubt, every solicitude 
removed, compared her situation with what so lately it had 
been,—saw him honourably released from his former en-
gagement, saw him instantly profiting by the release, to 
address herself and declare an affection as tender, as con-
stant as she had ever supposed it to be,—she was oppressed, 
she was overcome by her own felicity;— and happily dis-
posed as is the human mind to be easily familiarized with 
any change for the better, it required several hours to give 
sedateness to her spirits, or any degree of tranquillity to her 
heart.
Edward was now fixed at the cottage at least for a week;—
for whatever other claims might be made on him, it was 
impossible that less than a week should be given up to the 
enjoyment of Elinor’s company, or suffice to say half that 
was to be said of the past, the present, and the future;—for 
though a very few hours spent in the hard labor of incessant 
talking will despatch more subjects than can really be in 
common between any two rational creatures, yet with lov-
ers it is different. Between THEM no subject is finished, no 
communication is even made, till it has been made at least 
twenty times over.


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Lucy’s marriage, the unceasing and reasonable wonder 
among them all, formed of course one of the earliest discus-
sions of the lovers;—and Elinor’s particular knowledge of 
each party made it appear to her in every view, as one of the 
most extraordinary and unaccountable circumstances she 
had ever heard. How they could be thrown together, and by 
what attraction Robert could be drawn on to marry a girl, of 
whose beauty she had herself heard him speak without any 
admiration,—a girl too already engaged to his brother, and 
on whose account that brother had been thrown off by his 
family—it was beyond her comprehension to make out. To 
her own heart it was a delightful affair, to her imagination it 
was even a ridiculous one, but to her reason, her judgment, 
it was completely a puzzle.
Edward could only attempt an explanation by suppos-
ing, that, perhaps, at first accidentally meeting, the vanity 
of the one had been so worked on by the flattery of the other, 
as to lead by degrees to all the rest. Elinor remembered what 
Robert had told her in Harley Street, of his opinion of what 
his own mediation in his brother’s affairs might have done, 
if applied to in time. She repeated it to Edward.
‘THAT was exactly like Robert,’—was his immediate 
observation.—‘And THAT,’ he presently added, ‘might per-
haps be in HIS head when the acquaintance between them 
first began. And Lucy perhaps at first might think only 
of procuring his good offices in my favour. Other designs 
might afterward arise.’
How long it had been carrying on between them, how-
ever, he was equally at a loss with herself to make out; for 


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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 her letters to the very last were neither less 
frequent, nor less affectionate than usual. Not the smallest 
suspicion, therefore, had ever occurred to prepare him for 
what followed;—and when at last it burst on him in a letter 
from Lucy herself, he had been for some time, he believed, 
half stupified between the wonder, the horror, and the joy of 
such a deliverance. He put the letter into Elinor’s hands.
‘DEAR SIR,
‘Being very sure I have long lost your affections, I have 
thought myself at liberty to bestow my own on another, and 
have no doubt of being as happy with him as I once used 
to think I might be with you; but I scorn to accept a hand 
while the heart was another’s. Sincerely wish you happy in 
your choice, and it shall not be my fault if we are not always 
good friends, as our near relationship now makes proper. I 
can safely say I owe you no ill-will, and am sure you will be 
too generous to do us any ill offices. Your brother has gained 
my affections entirely, and as we could not live without one 
another, we are just returned from the altar, and are now on 
our way to Dawlish for a few weeks, which place your dear 
brother has great curiosity to see, but thought I would first 
trouble you with these few lines, and shall always remain,
‘Your 
sincere 
well-wisher, 
friend, 
and 
sister, 
 
 


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‘LUCY FERRARS.
‘I have burnt all your letters, and will return your picture 
the first opportunity. Please to destroy my scrawls—but the 
ring with my hair you are very welcome to keep.’
Elinor read and returned it without any comment.
‘I will not ask your opinion of it as a composition,’ said 
Edward.—‘For worlds would not I have had a letter of hers 
seen by YOU in former days.—In a sister it is bad enough, 
but in a wife!—how I have blushed over the pages of her 
writing!—and I believe I may say that since the first half 
year of our foolish—business—this is the only letter I ever 
received from her, of which the substance made me any 
amends for the defect of the style.’
‘However it may have come about,’ said Elinor, after a 
pause,—‘they are certainly married. And your mother has 
brought on herself a most appropriate punishment. The 
independence she settled on Robert, through resentment 
against you, has put it in his power to make his own choice; 
and she has actually been bribing one son with a thousand 
a-year, to do the very deed which she disinherited the other 
for intending to do. She will hardly be less hurt, I suppose, 
by Robert’s marrying Lucy, than she would have been by 
your marrying her.’
‘She will be more hurt by it, for Robert always was her 
favourite.—She will be more hurt by it, and on the same 
principle will forgive him much sooner.’
In what state the affair stood at present between them, 
Edward knew not, for no communication with any of his 
family had yet been attempted by him. He had quitted 


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440
Oxford within four and twenty hours after Lucy’s letter ar-
rived, and with only one object before him, the nearest road 
to Barton, had had no leisure to form any scheme of con-
duct, with which that road did not hold the most intimate 
connection. He could do nothing till he were assured of his 
fate with Miss Dashwood; and by his rapidity in seeking 
THAT fate, it is to be supposed, in spite of the jealousy with 
which he had once thought of Colonel Brandon, in spite of 
the modesty with which he rated his own deserts, and the 
politeness with which he talked of his doubts, he did not, 
upon the whole, expect a very cruel reception. It was his 
business, however, to say that he DID, and he said it very 
prettily. What he might say on the subject a twelvemonth 
after, must be referred to the imagination of husbands and 
wives.
That Lucy had certainly meant to deceive, to go off with 
a flourish of malice against him in her message by Thom-
as, was perfectly clear to Elinor; and Edward himself, now 
thoroughly enlightened on her character, had no scruple in 
believing her capable of the utmost meanness of wanton ill-
nature. Though his eyes had been long opened, even before 
his acquaintance with Elinor began, to her ignorance and a 
want of liberality in some of her opinions— they had been 
equally imputed, by him, to her want of education; and till 
her last letter reached him, he had always believed her to 
be a well-disposed, good-hearted girl, and thoroughly at-
tached to himself. Nothing but such a persuasion could 
have prevented his putting an end to an engagement, which, 
long before the discovery of it laid him open to his mother’s 


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anger, had been a continual source of disquiet and regret 
to him.
‘I thought it my duty,’ said he, ‘independent of my feel-
ings, to give her the option of continuing the engagement 
or not, when I was renounced by my mother, and stood to 
all appearance without a friend in the world to assist me. 
In such a situation as that, where there seemed nothing to 
tempt the avarice or the vanity of any living creature, how 
could I suppose, when she so earnestly, so warmly insisted 
on sharing my fate, whatever it might be, that any thing but 
the most disinterested affection was her inducement? And 
even now, I cannot comprehend on what motive she acted, 
or what fancied advantage it could be to her, to be fettered 
to a man for whom she had not the smallest regard, and who 
had only two thousand pounds in the world. She could not 
foresee that Colonel Brandon would give me a living.’
‘No; but she might suppose that something would oc-
cur in your favour; that your own family might in time 
relent. And at any rate, she lost nothing by continuing the 
engagement, for she has proved that it fettered neither her 
inclination nor her actions. The connection was certainly 
a respectable one, and probably gained her consideration 
among her friends; and, if nothing more advantageous oc-
curred, it would be better for her to marry YOU than be 
single.’
Edward was, of course, immediately convinced that 
nothing could have been more natural than Lucy’s conduct, 
nor more self-evident than the motive of it.
Elinor scolded him, harshly as ladies always scold the 


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442
imprudence which compliments themselves, for having 
spent so much time with them at Norland, when he must 
have felt his own inconstancy.
‘Your behaviour was certainly very wrong,’ said she; ‘be-
cause—to say nothing of my own conviction, our relations 
were all led away by it to fancy and expect WHAT, as you 
were THEN situated, could never be.’
He could only plead an ignorance of his own heart, and a 
mistaken confidence in the force of his engagement.
‘I was simple enough to think, that because my FAITH 
was plighted to another, there could be no danger in my be-
ing with you; and that the consciousness of my engagement 
was to keep my heart as safe and sacred as my honour. I felt 
that I admired you, but I told myself it was only friendship; 
and till I began to make comparisons between yourself and 
Lucy, I did not know how far I was got. After that, I suppose, 
I WAS wrong in remaining so much in Sussex, and the ar-
guments with which I reconciled myself to the expediency 
of it, were no better than these:—The danger is my own; I 
am doing no injury to anybody but myself.’
Elinor smiled, and shook her head.
Edward heard with pleasure of Colonel Brandon’s being 
expected at the Cottage, as he really wished not only to be 
better acquainted with him, but to have an opportunity of 
convincing him that he no longer resented his giving him 
the living of Delaford—‘Which, at present,’ said he, ‘after 
thanks so ungraciously delivered as mine were on the occa-
sion, he must think I have never forgiven him for offering.’
NOW he felt astonished himself that he had never yet 


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been to the place. But so little interest had be taken in the 
matter, that he owed all his knowledge of the house, garden, 
and glebe, extent of the parish, condition of the land, and 
rate of the tithes, to Elinor herself, who had heard so much 
of it from Colonel Brandon, and heard it with so much at-
tention, as to be entirely mistress of the subject.
One question after this only remained undecided, be-
tween them, one difficulty only was to be overcome. They 
were brought together by mutual affection, with the warmest 
approbation of their real friends; their intimate knowledge 
of each other seemed to make their happiness certain—and 
they only wanted something to live upon. Edward had two 
thousand pounds, and Elinor one, which, with Delaford 
living, was all that they could call their own; for it was im-
possible that Mrs. Dashwood should advance anything; and 
they were neither of them quite enough in love to think that 
three hundred and fifty pounds a-year would supply them 
with the comforts of life.
Edward was not entirely without hopes of some favour-
able change in his mother towards him; and on THAT he 
rested for the residue of their income. But Elinor had no 
such dependence; for since Edward would still be unable to 
marry Miss Morton, and his chusing herself had been spo-
ken of in Mrs. Ferrars’s flattering language as only a lesser 
evil than his chusing Lucy Steele, she feared that Robert’s 
offence would serve no other purpose than to enrich Fan-
ny.
About four days after Edward’s arrival Colonel Brandon 
appeared, to complete Mrs. Dashwood’s satisfaction, and to 


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444
give her the dignity of having, for the first time since her 
living at Barton, more company with her than her house 
would hold. Edward was allowed to retain the privilege of 
first comer, and Colonel Brandon therefore walked every 
night to his old quarters at the Park; from whence he usu-
ally 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 eve-
ning hours at least, he had little to do but to calculate the 
disproportion between thirty-six and seventeen, brought 
him to Barton in a temper of mind which needed all the 
improvement in Marianne’s looks, all the kindness of her 
welcome, and all the encouragement of her mother’s lan-
guage, to make it cheerful. Among such friends, however, 
and such flattery, he did revive. No rumour of Lucy’s mar-
riage had yet reached him:—he knew nothing of what had 
passed; and the first hours of his visit were consequently 
spent in hearing and in wondering. Every thing was ex-
plained 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 the gentlemen advanced 
in the good opinion of each other, as they advanced in each 
other’s acquaintance, for it could not be otherwise. Their 
resemblance in good principles and good sense, in dispo-
sition and manner of thinking, would probably have been 
sufficient to unite them in friendship, without any other at-
traction; but their being in love with two sisters, and two 
sisters fond of each other, made that mutual regard inevi-


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table and immediate, which might otherwise have waited 
the effect of time and judgment.
The letters from town, which a few days before would 
have made every nerve in Elinor’s body thrill with trans-
port, now arrived to be read with less emotion that mirth. 
Mrs. Jennings wrote to tell the wonderful tale, to vent her 
honest indignation against the jilting girl, and pour forth 
her compassion towards poor Mr. Edward, who, she was 
sure, had quite doted upon the worthless hussy, and was 
now, by all accounts, 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 sat a couple of 
hours with me. Not a soul suspected anything of the mat-
ter, not even Nancy, who, poor soul! came crying to me the 
day after, in a great fright for fear of Mrs. Ferrars, as well as 
not knowing how to get to Plymouth; for Lucy it seems bor-
rowed all her money before she went off to be married, on 
purpose we suppose to make a show with, and poor Nancy 
had not seven shillings in the world;—so I was very glad to 
give her five guineas to take her down to Exeter, where she 
thinks of staying three or four weeks with Mrs. Burgess, in 
hopes, as I tell her, to fall in with the Doctor again. And I 
must say that Lucy’s crossness not to take them along with 
them in the chaise is worse than all. Poor Mr. Edward! I 
cannot get him out of my head, but you must send for him 
to Barton, and Miss Marianne must try to comfort him.’
Mr. Dashwood’s strains were more solemn. Mrs. Fer-
rars was the most unfortunate of women—poor Fanny had 
suffered agonies of sensibility—and he considered the ex-


Sense and Sensibility
446
istence of each, under such a blow, with grateful wonder. 
Robert’s offence was unpardonable, but Lucy’s was infinite-
ly worse. Neither of them were ever again to be mentioned 
to Mrs. Ferrars; and even, if she might hereafter be induced 
to forgive her son, his wife should never be acknowledged 
as her daughter, nor be permitted to appear in her presence. 
The secrecy with which everything had been carried on 
between them, was rationally treated as enormously height-
ening the crime, because, had any suspicion of it occurred 
to the others, proper measures would have been taken to 
prevent the marriage; and he called on Elinor to join with 
him in regretting that Lucy’s engagement with Edward had 
not rather been fulfilled, than that she should thus be the 
means of spreading misery farther in the family.— He thus 
continued:
‘Mrs. Ferrars has never yet mentioned Edward’s name, 
which does not surprise us; but, to our great astonishment, 
not a line has been received from him on the occasion. Per-
haps, however, he is kept silent by his fear of offending, and 
I shall, therefore, give him a hint, by a line to Oxford, that 
his sister and I both think a letter of proper submission 
from him, addressed perhaps to Fanny, and by her shewn to 
her mother, might not be taken amiss; for we all know the 
tenderness of Mrs. Ferrars’s heart, and that she wishes for 
nothing so much as to be on good terms with her children.’
This paragraph was of some importance to the prospects 
and conduct of Edward. It determined him to attempt a rec-
onciliation, though not exactly in the manner pointed out 
by their brother and sister.


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‘A letter of proper submission!’ repeated he; ‘would they 
have me beg my mother’s pardon for Robert’s ingratitude 
to HER, and breach of honour to ME?—I can make no sub-
mission—I am grown neither humble nor penitent by what 
has passed.—I am grown very happy; but that would not 
interest.—I know of no submission that IS proper for me 
to make.’
‘You may certainly ask to be forgiven,’ said Elinor, ‘be-
cause you have offended;—and I should think you might 
NOW venture so far as to profess some concern for hav-
ing ever formed the engagement which drew on you your 
mother’s anger.’
He agreed that he might.
‘And when she has forgiven you, perhaps a little humility 
may be convenient while acknowledging a second engage-
ment, almost as imprudent in HER eyes as the first.’
He had nothing to urge against it, but still resisted the 
idea of a letter of proper submission; and therefore, to make 
it easier to him, as he declared a much greater willingness 
to make mean concessions by word of mouth than on paper, 
it was resolved that, instead of writing to Fanny, he should 
go to London, and personally intreat her good offices in his 
favour.— ‘And if they really DO interest themselves,’ said 
Marianne, in her new character of candour, ‘in bringing 
about a reconciliation, I shall think that even John and Fan-
ny are not entirely without merit.’
After a visit on Colonel Brandon’s side of only three or 
four days, the two gentlemen quitted Barton together.— 
They were to go immediately to Delaford, that Edward 


Sense and Sensibility
448
might have some personal knowledge of his future home, 
and assist his patron and friend in deciding on what im-
provements were needed to it; and from thence, after staying 
there a couple of nights, he was to proceed on his journey 
to town.


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Chapter 50
A
fter a proper resistance on the part of Mrs. Ferrars, just 
so violent and so steady as to preserve her from that 
reproach which she always seemed fearful of incurring, the 
reproach of being too amiable, Edward was admitted to her 
presence, and pronounced to be again her son.
Her family had of late been exceedingly fluctuating. For 
many years of her life she had had two sons; but the crime 
and annihilation of Edward a few weeks ago, had robbed 
her of one; the similar annihilation of Robert had left her 
for a fortnight without any; and now, by the resuscitation of 
Edward, she had one again.
In spite of his being allowed once more to live, however, 
he did not feel the continuance of his existence secure, till 
he had revealed his present engagement; for the publication 
of that circumstance, he feared, might give a sudden turn 
to his constitution, and carry him off as rapidly as before. 
With apprehensive caution therefore it was revealed, and he 
was listened to with unexpected calmness. Mrs. Ferrars at 
first reasonably endeavoured to dissuade him from marry-
ing Miss Dashwood, by every argument in her power;—told 
him, that in Miss Morton he would have a woman of higher 
rank and larger fortune;— and enforced the assertion, by 
observing that Miss Morton was the daughter of a noble-
man with thirty thousand pounds, while Miss Dashwood 


Sense and Sensibility
450
was only the daughter of a private gentleman with no more 
than THREE; but when she found that, though perfect-
ly admitting the truth of her representation, he was by no 
means inclined to be guided by it, she judged it wisest, from 
the experience of the past, to submit—and therefore, after 
such an ungracious delay as she owed to her own dignity, 
and as served to prevent every suspicion of good-will, she 
issued her decree of consent to the marriage of Edward and 
Elinor.
What she would engage to do towards augmenting their 
income was next to be considered; and here it plainly ap-
peared, that though Edward was now her only son, he was 
by no means her eldest; for while Robert was inevitably 
endowed with a thousand pounds a-year, not the smallest 
objection was made against Edward’s taking orders for the 
sake of two hundred and fifty at the utmost; nor was any-
thing promised either for the present or in future, beyond 
the ten thousand pounds, which had been given with Fan-
ny.
It was as much, however, as was desired, and more than 
was expected, by Edward and Elinor; and Mrs. Ferrars 
herself, by her shuffling excuses, seemed the only person 
surprised at her not giving more.
With an income quite sufficient to their wants thus se-
cured to them, they had nothing to wait for after Edward 
was in possession of the living, but the readiness of the 
house, to which Colonel Brandon, with an eager desire 
for the accommodation of Elinor, was making consider-
able improvements; and after waiting some time for their 


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completion, after experiencing, as usual, a thousand disap-
pointments and delays from the unaccountable dilatoriness 
of the workmen, Elinor, as usual, broke through the first 
positive resolution of not marrying till every thing was 
ready, and the ceremony took place in Barton church early 
in the autumn.
The first month after their marriage was spent with 
their friend at the Mansion-house; from whence they could 
superintend the progress of the Parsonage, and direct ev-
ery thing as they liked on the spot;— could chuse papers, 
project shrubberies, and invent a sweep. Mrs. Jennings’s 
prophecies, though rather jumbled together, were chiefly 
fulfilled; for she was able to visit Edward and his wife in 
their Parsonage by Michaelmas, and she found in Elinor 
and her husband, as she really believed, one of the happiest 
couples in the world. They had in fact nothing to wish for, 
but the marriage of Colonel Brandon and Marianne, and 
rather better pasturage for their cows.
They were visited on their first settling by almost all their 
relations and friends. Mrs. Ferrars came to inspect the hap-
piness which she was almost ashamed of having authorised; 
and even the Dashwoods were at the expense of a journey 
from Sussex to do them honour.
‘I will not say that I am disappointed, my dear sister,’ said 
John, as they were walking together one morning before the 
gates of Delaford House, ‘THAT would be saying too much, 
for certainly you have been one of the most fortunate young 
women in the world, as it is. But, I confess, it would give me 
great pleasure to call Colonel Brandon brother. His property 


Sense and Sensibility
452
here, his place, his house, every thing is in such respect-
able and excellent condition!—and his woods!—I have not 
seen such timber any where in Dorsetshire, as there is now 
standing in Delaford Hanger!—And though, perhaps, Mar-
ianne may not seem exactly the person to attract him— yet 
I think it would altogether be advisable for you to have them 
now frequently staying with you, for as Colonel Brandon 
seems a great deal at home, nobody can tell what may hap-
pen—for, when people are much thrown together, and see 
little of anybody else—and it will always be in your power 
to set her off to advantage, and so forth;— in short, you may 
as well give her a chance—You understand me.’—
But though Mrs. Ferrars DID come to see them, and al-
ways treated them with the make-believe of decent affection, 
they were never insulted by her real favour and preference. 
THAT was due to the folly of Robert, and the cunning of his 
wife; and it was earned by them before many months had 
passed away. The selfish sagacity of the latter, which had at 
first drawn Robert into the scrape, was the principal instru-
ment of his deliverance from it; for her respectful humility, 
assiduous attentions, and endless flatteries, as soon as the 
smallest opening was given for their exercise, reconciled 
Mrs. Ferrars to his choice, and re-established him com-
pletely in her favour.
The whole of Lucy’s behaviour in the affair, and the pros-
perity which crowned it, therefore, may be held forth as a 
most encouraging instance of what an earnest, an unceas-
ing attention to self-interest, however its progress may be 
apparently obstructed, will do in securing every advan-


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tage of fortune, with no other sacrifice than that of time 
and conscience. When Robert first sought her acquain-
tance, and privately visited her in Bartlett’s Buildings, it 
was only with the view imputed to him by his brother. He 
merely meant to persuade her to give up the engagement; 
and as there could be nothing to overcome but the affection 
of both, he naturally expected that one or two interviews 
would settle the matter. In that point, however, and that 
only, he erred;—for though Lucy soon gave him hopes that 
his eloquence would convince her in TIME, another visit, 
another conversation, was always wanted to produce this 
conviction. Some doubts always lingered in her mind when 
they parted, which could only be removed by another half 
hour’s discourse with himself. His attendance was by this 
means secured, and the rest followed in course. Instead of 
talking of Edward, they came gradually to talk only of Rob-
ert,—a subject on which he had always more to say than on 
any other, and in which she soon betrayed an interest even 
equal to his own; and in short, it became speedily evident 
to both, that he had entirely supplanted his brother. He was 
proud of his conquest, proud of tricking Edward, and very 
proud of marrying privately without his mother’s consent. 
What immediately followed is known. They passed some 
months in great happiness at Dawlish; for she had many re-
lations and old acquaintances to cut—and he drew several 
plans for magnificent cottages;— and from thence return-
ing to town, procured the forgiveness of Mrs. Ferrars, by the 
simple expedient of asking it, which, at Lucy’s instigation, 
was adopted. The forgiveness, at first, indeed, as was reason-


Sense and Sensibility
454
able, comprehended only Robert; and Lucy, who had owed 
his mother no duty and therefore could have transgressed 
none, still remained some weeks longer unpardoned. But 
perseverance in humility of conduct and messages, in self-
condemnation for Robert’s offence, and gratitude for the 
unkindness she was treated with, procured her in time the 
haughty notice which overcame her by its graciousness, and 
led soon afterwards, by rapid degrees, to the highest state of 
affection and influence. Lucy became as necessary to Mrs. 
Ferrars, as either Robert or Fanny; and while Edward was 
never cordially forgiven for having once intended to marry 
her, and Elinor, though superior to her in fortune and birth, 
was spoken of as an intruder, SHE was in every thing con-
sidered, and always openly acknowledged, to be a favourite 
child. They settled in town, received very liberal assistance 
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 course took a part, as well as the frequent 
domestic disagreements between Robert and Lucy them-
selves, nothing could exceed the harmony in which they all 
lived together.
What Edward had done to forfeit the right of eldest son, 
might have puzzled many people to find out; and what Rob-
ert had done to succeed to it, might have puzzled them 
still more. It was an arrangement, however, justified in its 
effects, if not in its cause; for nothing ever appeared in Rob-
ert’s style of living or of talking to give a suspicion of his 
regretting the extent of his income, as either leaving his 


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brother too little, or bringing himself too much;—and if 
Edward might be judged from the ready discharge of his 
duties in every particular, from an increasing attachment to 
his wife and his home, and from the regular cheerfulness of 
his spirits, he might be supposed no less contented with his 
lot, no less free from every wish of an exchange.
Elinor’s marriage divided her as little from her family 
as could well be contrived, without rendering the cottage 
at Barton entirely useless, for her mother and sisters spent 
much more than half their time with her. Mrs. Dashwood 
was acting on motives of policy as well as pleasure in the 
frequency of her visits at Delaford; for her wish of bring-
ing Marianne and Colonel Brandon together was hardly 
less earnest, though rather more liberal than what John had 
expressed. It was now her darling object. Precious as was 
the company of her daughter to her, she desired nothing 
so much as to give up its constant enjoyment to her valued 
friend; and to see Marianne settled at the mansion-house 
was equally the wish of Edward and Elinor. They each felt 
his sorrows, and their own obligations, and Marianne, by 
general consent, was to be the reward of all.
With such a confederacy against her—with a knowledge 
so intimate of his goodness—with a conviction of his fond 
attachment to herself, which at last, though long after it was 
observable to everybody else—burst on her—what could 
she do?
Marianne Dashwood was born to an extraordinary fate. 
She was born to discover the falsehood of her own opin-
ions, and to counteract, by her conduct, her most favourite 


Sense and Sensibility
456
maxims. She was born to overcome an affection formed so 
late in life as at seventeen, and with no sentiment superior 
to strong esteem and lively friendship, voluntarily to give 
her hand to another!—and THAT other, a man who had 
suffered no less than herself under the event of a former at-
tachment, whom, two years before, she had considered too 
old to be married,—and who still sought the constitutional 
safeguard of a flannel waistcoat!
But so it was. Instead of falling a sacrifice to an irresist-
ible 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 her more calm and sober judgment 
she had determined on,— she found herself at nineteen, 
submitting to new attachments, entering on new duties, 
placed in a new home, a wife, the mistress of a family, and 
the patroness of a village.
Colonel Brandon was now as happy, as all those who 
best loved him, believed he deserved to be;—in Marianne 
he was consoled for every past affliction;—her regard and 
her society restored his mind to animation, and his spirits 
to cheerfulness; and that Marianne found her own happi-
ness in forming his, was equally the persuasion and delight 
of each observing friend. Marianne could never love by 
halves; and her whole heart became, in time, as much de-
voted to her husband, as it had once been to Willoughby.
Willoughby could not hear of her marriage without a 
pang; and his punishment was soon afterwards complete 
in the voluntary forgiveness of Mrs. Smith, who, by stat-


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ing his marriage with a woman of character, as the source 
of her clemency, gave him reason for believing that had he 
behaved with honour towards Marianne, he might at once 
have been happy and rich. That his repentance of miscon-
duct, which thus brought its own punishment, was sincere, 
need not be doubted;—nor that he long thought of Colonel 
Brandon with envy, and of Marianne with regret. But that 
he was for ever inconsolable, that he fled from society, or 
contracted an habitual gloom of temper, or died of a bro-
ken heart, must not be depended on—for he did neither. He 
lived to exert, and frequently to enjoy himself. His wife was 
not always out of humour, nor his home always uncomfort-
able; and in his breed of horses and dogs, and in sporting of 
every kind, he found no inconsiderable degree of domestic 
felicity.
For Marianne, however—in spite of his incivility in sur-
viving her loss—he always retained that decided regard 
which interested him in every thing that befell her, and 
made her his secret standard of perfection in woman;— and 
many a rising beauty would be slighted by him in after-days 
as bearing no comparison with Mrs. Brandon.
Mrs. Dashwood was prudent enough to remain at the 
cottage, without attempting a removal to Delaford; and for-
tunately for Sir John and Mrs. Jennings, when Marianne 
was taken from them, Margaret had reached an age highly 
suitable for dancing, and not very ineligible for being sup-
posed to have a lover.
Between Barton and Delaford, there was that constant 
communication which strong family affection would nat-


Sense and Sensibility
458
urally dictate;—and among the merits and the happiness 
of Elinor and Marianne, let it not be ranked as the least 
considerable, that though sisters, and living almost within 
sight of each other, they could live without disagreement 
between themselves, or producing coolness between their 
husbands.
THE END